ArchivedLogs:In Which A Table And Some Experiences Are Shared

In Which A Table And Some Experiences Are Shared
Dramatis Personae Lael, Taylor
In Absentia	2017-09-30 "I'll swim through a lake of /fire/ for a break at this point."
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
Spacious and open, this coffeeshop has a somewhat industrial feel to it, grey resin floors below and exposed-beam ceilings that have been painted up in a dancing swirl of abstract whorls and starbursts, a riot of colour splashed against a white background. The walls alternate between brick and cheerfully lime-green painted wood that extends to the paneling beneath the brushed-steel countertops. There's an abundance of light, though rather than windows (which are scarce) it comes from plentiful hanging steel lamps. The walls here are home to artwork available for sale; though the roster of prints and paintings and drawings and photographs changes on a regular basis it has one thing in common -- all the artists displayed are mutants. The seating spaced around the room is spread out enough to keep the room from feeling cluttered. Black chairs, square black tables that mostly seat two or four though they're frequently pushed around and rearranged to make space for larger parties. In the back corner of the room is more comfortable seating, a few large black-corduroy sofas and armchairs with wide tables between them. There's a shelf of card and board games back here available for customers to sit and play. The chalkboard menus hanging behind the counter change frequently, always home to a wide variety of drinks (with an impressive roster of fair-trade coffees and teas largely featured) though their sandwiches and wraps and soups and snacks of the day change often. An often-changing variety of baked goods sit behind the display case at the counter halfway back in the room, and the opposite side of the counter holds a small selection of homemade ice creams. A pair of single-user bathrooms flanks the stairway in back of the cafe; at night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits up the stairs above the coffeehouse. It's /actually/ feeling like fall today, the first brisk day after a sweltering week. Evolve is doing a brisk business today, a rush of people finally breaking out long sleeves to enjoy hot ciders and hot chocolates and pumpkin spiced everythings. With the bustling crowd the baristas look kind of rushed, kind of overtaxed. One tall onyx-skinned youth (dressed in jeans and a black tee reading "'Try Me' -Malcolm X, 1963") has been keeping extra busy behind the counter, a -- perhaps somewhat nightmarish tangle of cephalopod-limbs turning out drinks and ferrying food orders from the kitchen doors to the counters. It's only when, finally, a brief lull in orders comes that Taylor clocks out -- after a somewhat grateful hug from one of his two compatriots for staying past his regular shift. He disappears into the kitchen for a short time, returns with food of his /own/, a plate of lemongrass chicken over vermicelli and a tall coffee. His shoulders are kind of slumped as he ducks out from behind the counter and scans the room absently for a seat, the longest pairs of his arms winding loosely back around his torso. While Taylor was in the back assembling his lunch, Lael wandered in off the street. He's wearing a heather gray Xavier's School t-shirt and threadbare jeans under an ancient and slightly oversized denim jacket (it bears many handmade patches, the largest one on the back a screenprinted image of a possum curled up and hissing with the caption 'SCREAM AT OWN ASS'). His hair has coiled itself into a tightly squirming nest that only relaxes by slow degrees as he waits in line, his thoughts frazzled and disordered at least in some part due to hunger, but also some recent stress that is not immediately clear on the surface of his mind. When he turn comes, he orders a house coffee and the pay-what-you-can special (at its suggested price, though not before a good deal of inward agonizing over how much he /ought/ to pay for it), his voice pitched low but its thick Appalachian accent still quite plain. He pays Ravenna and thanks, catches himself thanking her, and manages not to apologize for it though he blushes fiercely as he stands aside to wait for his order. His eyes stray to Taylor and stay fixed on him for a moment, at first on the tentacles (<< Dear sweet lord are those /attached/ to him? >>) but then actually lingering on the t-shirt, a smile coming unconscious to his face. As staring goes, this doesn't actually last very long, but his complete failure to actually blink perhaps renders it a bit more uncomfortable, even as he deliberately lifts his gaze to make eye contact, giving a small and unabashed nod. Taylor's eyes drift over Lael -- the hair, the t-shirt, catching the younger boy's gaze with a distinct and sharply clear pang of -- sympathy? -- that doesn't quite seem to have a clear source. His smile hooks up quick and warm at Lael's nod, the sympathy readily displaced (oddly by the very clear intro melody of 'Summer Nights' playing through his mind) as he returns the nod, chin tipping up. "They're attached to me for the moment," he answers cheerfully, ambling closer to Lael. "You're out at the school now?" Lael's brows wrinkle ever so slightly. << Why/ever/ should I be thinkin' 'bout /that/ ol' flick, I ain't even liked it none. >> And yet, his brain supplies, right on cue, << Summer lovin', had me a blast... >> He's quickly distracted from the unprovoked musical interlude by Taylor's reply to his unvoiced question. << Wait, how did he--did /I/ put that in his mind, oh lord help me, how rude! I /got/ to own up, somehow. >> "Ah...yeah, I'm new." He glances down at his own t-shirt, but then chuckles, his hair relaxing a little, wriggling more freely now. "Reckon it shows. I'm Lael. You alumni? Or just...know a lotta folks what gone there?" << Summer lovin', scream at own ass. >> Maybe that's -- not quite how the song went, in the movie. But it's how Taylor helpfully finishes it, complete with soundtrack background music. << You ain't rude. S'just /loud/ sometimes, y'know? >> A little wry. "We get /mad/ Xavierites up in here, yeah, but nah I done graduate last spring. I'm Taylor. They doin' aright by you there?" Lael's eyes open wide, their slitted pupils narrowing in disturbingly reptilian fashion. /Still/ not blinking. "Whoa now," he says, "what's...how is..." << Is that /me/ or him? /Both?/ >> He shakes his head. "Apologies, it's been--a lot. The /city/, I mean, I been meanderin' all day and it's just mind-boggling huge." He tilts his head, frowning again, hair squirming uncomfortably. "School's...well. Also a lot, I s'pose." << A lot more starin' than I really expected at a school for folks like us. 'Cept it ain't really /for/ folks /like us./ >> "I like my advisor," he allows, at least. Taylor's head cocks slightly at the shift in Lael's eyes. /His/ eyes blink, as if in compensation for Lael's lack. << Yes. You. Me. Shit, I mean, I hear people too. >> "This place is next level," he agrees with a quick smile. "Where you at before this?" One arm uncurls slightly, gestures to the counter as an order -- hasn't actually even emerged, yet; it's a second /later/ that Ravenna is heading over to set it on the countertop. "Think that's you." (A second after /that/ that Lael's name is called.) << The school /means/ well but. >> It's a very weighted 'but', thick with a discomfort that Taylor does not bother to explicate. He rubs at the back of his neck with the tip of one arm, brows a bit pinched. "Who you got?" "Oh. /Ohhh./" Lael's discomfort is quite plain to Taylor, as is his discomfort /at/ his own discomfort. << Downright hypocritical of me, in'it? >> As if taking a cue, he blinks--deliberately. Then looks over at the counter where Taylor indicates, smiling happily as Ravenna emerges with his food and beverage. "Merci," he says as he picks up his order, though his pronunciation suggests he speaks little more French than the survival niceties. << Probably don't help that I'm a hick /and/ a freak, half my teachers talk to me like I'm simple. >> His eyes are scanning the crowded cafe for a place to sit. "My advisor? Jackson Holland, you know 'im? I meant--well, I guess, as small as the school is, you /must/. But he's also right famous, so there's that." << Ain't a easy thing to get used /to/. >> Taylor weaves his way through the tables, moving to snag a table just as its current occupants are vacating it. "Oh, bless, you got lucky. For real, man, he normal /and/ white I /stay/ not knowing how he always come correct. He solid, though. And damn but his cooking do /not/ hurt none." His smile has broadened, here. He takes a swig of his coffee, three arms braced in a deceptively floppy looking puddle against the edge of the table as his chair rocks backward. "Did they at least give you a roommate who's --" One slim arm flicks -- first toward Lael, then himself. "I didn't know the whole first week it was /him/ crankin' out all them cookies and cakes, but they are /delicious./" Lael's hunger stirs again at the recollection of rec room treats. "But yeah, it's not jus'--him bein' a hero, or an endless supply of sweets. He kinda gets where I'm from. Literally! I clean forgot to answer you when you asked, but I came up near Helen, Georgia, up in the mountains--not too far where he's from. It's a big change." << It's a blessing the school ain't in the city proper, or my head would never stop hurtin'. >> "Oh, my roommate's--blue. Canadian--the French kind. We barely understand each other sometimes, but we get on aright." Taylor's whistle is long and low. "Boy, yeah, you come far from home." A small shake of his head. "Glad there's someone around who gets it, then. Some of it, anyway." He starts in only now on his food, tucking into his plate with a hunger. << Is it new? Hearing all this? Was always so much headache for me too, at first. >> Lael also digs into his harira, though he pauses a few bites in to gulp down some coffee, entirely black. << I got no idea half of what's in this stew but damned if it ain't the best thing I've tasted all day. Which ain't a high bar, I guess. >> He looks up at Taylor, coffee still in hand. Has to remind himself to think his reply instead of speak it. << Started a few months back--thought I was losing my mind for a while. Still ain't got no control when it happens. My head /always/ hurt, though, even before that. >> The slightly intensified wriggling of his hair isn't a /conscious/ response, but it's definitely /related./ << This don't help, though, no. >> << All the extra noise, you done lost your mind /yet/? >> Wryly teasing; there's a faintly pained wince to Taylor's own expression. He lets his chair fall heavily back down to all four feet, washes his food down with a long swallow of coffee. "Man have you seen this -- what was it. Fuck." His limbs flex and relax in sinuous undulation against the table. "/Think of Me/, that was the name. Shitty-ass thriller last year about some telepath who went around eviscerating the minds of men who had hurt her after she manifested. In full control of her powers /obviously/. It was like -- hella sexist /and/ grossly anti-mutant all in one," he says cheerfully. "But I don't know I ain't never seen a movie that just has some kind of realistic mutant experience. I don't think that'd be real sexy honestly like three years of some poor kid with terrible headaches and a high startle reflex trying to do their math homework while the 1812 Overture is stuck in their brother's head." Lael laughs, short and sharp and genuinely amused. "Well, I 'spect I'm heading that way." His eyes go wide at the description of the film. "No, I ain't seen that, but it sure do sound awful. I /did/ see that one with the uh...old man who was in a coma and possessing his granddaughter. Can't remember what it was called." Though little clips of the film are playing in his mind all the same. "They ain't making those movies for us. They're makin' them for humans what like to be scared of us." << God knows there's probably plenty of realistic mutant stuff they could make movies about that would be right scary, if they ever bothered to do any homework. >> He attacks his stew with a bit more force here than really necessary. "You got any tips about the school? Classes to take, classes to avoid? Secret clubhouse the white folks don't know about?" "Oh shiiit that was /awful/. /Innocent Eyes/, wasn't it? Traaash." Taylor's head shakes, though he sounds mostly amused. Despite the Terrible Movie he has a sharp smile on his face, leaning closer to confide: "We do, actually. /No/ fucking wypipo allowed. How good do you swim? Ain't the most best accessible. Classes, man, I gotta get you a /list/. There's mad teachers you want to avoid." Lael's hair wriggles faster. "/Really?/ Do tell! And I'm only a fair /decent/ swimmer, but I'll swim through a lake of /fire/ for a break at this point." He roots around in a pocket and produces a small, beaten-up notepad and a cheap souvenir pen that reads 'Alpine Helen - White County, GA' above a pixelated mountain vista. "You don't need to write me a list this very moment or nothin', but I could give you my ah, email address?" He's already writing said address down, carefully, one letter at a time. "Ain't a lake of /fire/ but. You know Shane? Blue, dresses like /damn/, he run this place? He around school plenty. He can show you how to find it." Taylor doesn't actually look at the address Lael is writing. He pulls out his phone, sending Lael an email before the other teen is even finished writing: 'Yo this me. -T'. His smile is crooked as he sets the phone back down on the table. "There, now I got you. I'll totally make you a list. After we eat." "There's...more'n one blue fella at school, but I think I know the one you mean." Lael's mental image of Shane bears this out, though it is more his dapper outfit than his skin color or name that aided in his recognition. All of his hair stands on end and quivers when the phone in his pocket chimes its default email notification tone. << What in the name of... >> He pulls out the phone and checks it, somewhat clumsily. "Very kind of you. 'N very /fast/." So saying, he tucks both notebook and phone away again and returns his attention to his lunch. "I sure do appreciate the inside scoop!"