ArchivedLogs:Deep Fried Miracles

Deep Fried Miracles
Dramatis Personae Flicker, Ryan, Spencer
In Absentia	2017-12-19 "Can we just keep Hanukkah going? /I'll/ make the oil last forever if y'all keep shit frying in it."
Location <NYC> {Workhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
The wide entryway leads into a semicircular sitting area with plush modular chairs, sofas, and huge beanbags arranged around two low tables. The bright, open expanse of the house fans back and out from here, executed in stunning industrial style with extremely conservative usage of rough stone walls. Through a door on the right is a library boasting an eclectic but extensive collection of books, a cozy reading nook, as well as a state-of-the-art computer work station. Opposite this is a media room with a projector mounted overhead and a formidable sound system on all sides, the windows still admitting plenty of light when the blackout curtains are pulled back. Beyond the sitting area, toward the back of the house and separated from adjacent areas only by plentiful black granite counters, are a pair of kitchens, each stocked with their own appliances, cookware, servingware, and utensils. Adjoining the (vegan and kosher) kitchen on the right is a simple dining room with a long oval table and chairs designed to accommodate a range of body shapes. On the other side, tucked between the general-purpose kitchen and the media center, is a guest room and a full bath. At the center of the entire house is a cylindrical elevator shaft of steel and glass with two floating stairways coiled around it like an immense double helix. Both elevator and stairs lead down out of sight and up to a circular landing joined to the second storey wings by walkways that leave the space above the sitting area open. Above the kitchens is a sun-drenched split-level recess, the lower half a conservatory enclosed by glass and the upper half a rooftop garden. The whole is walled with glass and lets in copious quantities of natural light softened by lush greenery. December or not, Flicker is studying out in the garden today. Sprawled across a long patio chair, laptop on his thighs. Khakis, short-sleeved green polo, his golden-painted arm shaded in green and white and red -- pine roping, the tips of the needles touched with white frost, sprigs of holly berries tucked among the greenery. His fingers are tapping rapidly against his keys, at least until Cat meanders over, hopping up beside him and then draping himself right across Flicker's belly. Leaning up against the keyboard. Purring. For a moment Flicker frowns, looks like he might reach to move the large cat. Settles, instead, on petting him under the chin. Spencer materializes with a plate laden with pastries, which he deposits on one of the small decorative side tables. "Salut," is about all he manages before he crams an entire doughnut -- or, as much of it as he can manage, anyway -- into his mouth. He's wearing a black t-shirt adorned Poe Dameron's grinning mug superimposed on an X-Wing above the words 'You need a pilot', gray jeans with dirty knees, and blue sneakers. He starts to say something else, but just switches to signing, 'You want something to drink?' Ryan is entering far more prosaically. The door from the conservatory opens, he saunters in, plops himself down on the foot of Flicker's chair. What hour is it? He looks just headed for or just out of bed regardless, a soft ribbed black tank undershirt and green flannel pajama pants, tousled hair fallen half over his eyes. The flask in his hand -- probably doesn't help any more with telling which side of the mattress he's coming from. "{Oh, excellent.}" A swig from his flask, and he leans forward simultaneously to nab a donut. "Can we just keep Hanukkah going? /I'll/ make the oil last forever if y'all keep shit frying in it." Flicker's eyes lift quickly from the thrumming cat. His smile is quick to follow. He sits up a little straighter -- frowns slightly as his legs shift under the cat. Beckons to Spence for the plate of donuts, just out of his reach (so long as he doesn't dislodge Cat.) "Do we still have any apple soda?" Mildly hopeful. He leans back again when Ryan enters, pulling Cat a little closer against his chest. "I don't think it's a miracle when you do it." Spence picks up the plate and holds it within Flicker's reach, finally settling on biting off just /half/ of the donut he'd tried to eat all at once, holding the rest in his free hand while he chews industriously and swallows. "Oh yeah there's at least two in the fridge." He has copious amounts of maple glaze smeared across his mouth and cheeks. "You know we can fry things even when it's /not/ Hanukkah, right?" Setting the tray down, he vanishes, reappearing only a few moments later with a bottle of Mountain Dew and a can of Apple Sidra that he hands to Flicker. "But tonight we have to party it up /extra/ special." He drifts around the garden restlessly while he whittles his donut away, washed down with gulps of hyper-caffeinated soda. "I hope we have enough stuff, though, maybe I should..." His eyes flick, not toward the door that leads inside, but the general direction of his father's room. "I mean, we have to pick up stuff for game night anyway right?" "Boy, you don't think staying afloat in this capitalist hellscape is a miracle when you're me? I'd like to see you try it, whiteboy." Ryan's eyes narrow suspiciously on Spencer when he returns. "What's in the cards for tonight?" Following the boy's look toward Jax's room. "Is there party stuff we need? I will so drag him out to help prepare for fun." His donut vanishes in three quick bites. Washed down by another gulp from his flask. A smile tugs at the corners of Flicker's mouth. Small. Quick. He nods his thanks, takes the soda, tips it slightly toward Ryan to cracks it open /at/ the other man. "Point." When Spence and Ryan look up, he just fixes his eyes down on the cat. Sips at his apple soda. "Stuff? What, like besides /him/?" Spence's mouth twists to one side, a dubious kind of expression. "Well, we need enough fried snacks so everyone can have some, but we don't have to /drag/ Pa out for that." Though he doesn't actually /say/ 'but', the word seems to hang in the air. He chugs down some Mountain Dew to fill the silence. Then, "I /kinda/ want to invite people to light candles with us, since it's the last night and all." Ryan raises an eyebrow at Spence. He caps his flask, tucks it into the waistband of his PJs. "You all wrangle the candles and company. /We/," a pointed upward glance, as he hoists himself back to his feet, "will wrangle food. And I'll wrangle your fucking dad."