ArchivedLogs:Picky
| Picky | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2016-01-12 "{Perhaps some bedrooms, if we're getting /fancy/.}" |
| Location
<NYC> {Birdhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side | |
This house does not, perhaps, look much like what many people would think when they think of the home of a rock star. Modest and not flashy in a normal sense, it is nevertheless /eye/-catching -- huge tall ceilings, huge tall windows, wide open layout, a balcony from the second floor looking down on the first. Its walls have been studded with a number of long branch-like poles jutting out at angles; from the ceiling hang a few different trapeze-like swings. The furniture is minimalist, low-slung futons and a few overly enormous puffy beanbags, tables set low to the ground. The extravagant entertainment system is the one concession to ostentation. Most of the ground floor is open in layout, foyer opening up into a huge living room, kitchen and dining rooms adjoining it, a small sunny conservatory tucked to the other side of the living room that looks out over the river, a wide full bath off the conservatory. The three bedrooms off the balcony upstairs each have their own bathrooms. There's another full bath and separate smaller kitchen in the basement, together with two spare guest bedrooms and a somewhat cluttered soundproofed room full of musical equipment. The house smells like dinner, crispy battered and fried tofu with very limey-basily sauce, spicy eggplant, fried rice. The bowl in front of Hive is only half-finished, his dinner now forgotten and growing cold in front of him where he is sprawled on his stomach on a beanbag in jeans and an unbuttoned denim shirt open over a plain white undershirt. His laptop is out, holographic display in front of him currently occupied -- scrolling through Tumblr. The blueprints he /was/ working on are also forgotten, squished down into miniature beside him. Spence is tucked into a corner of a futon. Quiet. Kind of exhausted. There's a copy of 'Le Petit Prince' in his lap that he is staring at a little blankly. His bowl is empty, at least! Somewhere off in the basement, only very faintly audible, there's intermittently snatches of music. Violin and guitar interspersed. Singing. The soundproofing makes it muffled and largely quiet. It doesn't do anything for the feelings that come with it, bright and exhilarated (/that/ part is empathy), tangled and complicated and a muddled blend of pain and affection, lust and sorrow, exhaustion -- /that/ part is not, only growing stronger as Jax trots up the stairs from the basement, an armful of dishes in hand. He's just in ribbed sleeveless undershirt, black skinny jeans, mismatched brightly coloured socks. He scoops Spencer's bowl up, too, once he's upstairs. "{-- Noooope.}" Yoink! There's a shimmer-blink. Nab. In a flash the dishes are gone from Jax's hands. "{You helped cook you /don't/ get to clean.}" A clink of stoneware against bionic arm. Blur of motion. Jax's dishes are vanishing off toward the kitchen. Flicker rolls up the sleeves of his long-sleeved henley, running the water briefly before he starts to scrape dishes and load up the washer. The music downstairs has cut off abruptly with a squeal, a jangling /flare/ of excitement that spikes through everyone on the house before it dies away. There's a louder thump of footsteps. ThumpTHUMPthumpTHUMP -- the twins aren't being nearly so helpful as they emerge into the living room. No dishes. No cleaning up. Shane tumbles out of the basement door with a sharp yelp, crashing onto the floor as B tackles him. Hir head has thudded hard into his midsection, teeth closing in sharp nip against his side. He scrabbles against the floor, pushing off hard to turn her onto her back -- though not for long before she slams him down into Hive's beanbag. It's only when she looks /up/ that she glances over at Flicker with a darkening of hir cheeks, scurrying back sooomewhat apologetically (though there's still, kind of, breathless laughter in hir voice): "{-- Oh. Oh, sorry, I should, have brought, my clothes up. He just --}" "{/She/ just,}" Shane cuts in over top of her, "{-- really deserved a biting.}" Hive squeezes his eyes shut as his beanbag skiddddddddds sideways. One hand presses against his face. The other reaches out to -- almost delicately -- push pile-o-sharkpup off his cushion. Perched primly on a beanbag with her tablet balanced in her lap, Isra has a bowl in hand--mostly full, though only because she has refilled it twice already. Her skin looks less vibrant in previous weeks, fluid rippling layers of purple and blue, the darker blue on her wings shot through with wavecrests of gleaming white foam that look especially striking with the white himation she wears. She looks up before the pups make their entrance, ears swiveling to and fro. One wing stretches out and scoooops up the ball of shark as Hive dislodges them, gathering them to her. Clicks her teeth kind of daintily at them. The front door opens, letting in a small flurry with it when it closes again. Dusk shivers, wings pulled tight around him; he's tugging off slushy ice-crusted boots at the front door, brushing a dusting of snow off his cap as he dumps his gear on a side table. "{/Tell/ me there's still food please god.}" Dressed now in corduroys, thick socks, a warm grey sweater, he slips into the room, dropping his messenger bag by Isra's beanbag, kisses both her and Hive atop their heads while stretching out a wing to wrap around Jax's shoulders, touches Spence's shoulder lightly with his other. His thoughts are frazzled, fraying at their edges, a heavy sheen of hunger twined tight around them that -- food /probably/ won't alleviate, really, but it certainly won't hurt. "{Have Ryan and Horus just given up and ceded their house to us this is getting ridiculous.}" Flicker looks up from his dishes -- though just as quickly he looks back down, cheeks burning red and a discomfited twinge pinging in his thoughts as he glances over at the sharkpups. His smile is quick. Bright. "{Who doesn't, every now and then?}" When the door opens he scrubs one bowl clean rather than put in in the dishwasher, snagging a dishtowel to dry it off. "{Hive and Jax cooked.}" This, clearly, suffices for answer as to whether there's /food/ left. He's already filling the bowl. "{Horus collected a toll from us all. He'll probably do you too.}" Though he's glancing over at Hive after this -- the faint furrow of his brow is brief, but the twinge of worry that comes with it less so. << ... really should get a place again, though, he needs -- >> His head shakes. He blips over towards Dusk, offering out the laden bowl. "{Oh, /no/, is it /snowing/?}" Jax does not bother trying to fight Flicker on the question of dishes. He leans for a moment into the curl of Dusk's wing before trudging over to settle down by Spence on the couch. "Shane, B, clothes, please, we ain't at home." Though at this he lifts his hand, scrubs his palm over his cheek. << can't be at home. >> "{Which. We should probably think about fixing.}" Hive glances up at the others. Flicks at his display, minimizing his browser. Opening his design program back up wordlessly, together with a document for notes. A small purring rumble of growl comes from Shane as he is gathered up. He stretches out an arm, snags a blanket off of a nearby chair. Draping this over himself and B, he settles in against Isra's side, wrapping his arm around his twin. "{If we're making a new house I want a landing pad on the roof.}" "{Shooting range for target practice,}" B chimes in. "{Maybe a skate park in the basement --}" "{Test lab for my bots,}" B adds, brighter. "{Maybe a recording studio,}" Shane is starting to tick these things off on his claws, now. Spence glances up only now from his book, eyes a little bit wide. He doesn't quite manage a smile, but he does venture: "{And a chemistry lab for me. Also a library.}" Jax swallows, stifling the urge to /hug/ Spence or choke back a sob when the boy joins in the conversation. Instead he adds, light and cheerful. "{Well, I'll definitely need a studio. An' a conservatory. An' if you could add some kinda indoor stable for Sugar, I mean, it gets so /cold/ come winter --}" "{Observatory,}" Isra adds, nonchalant, not even really looking up from her tablet, though she frees a hand to scritch at each of the twins' heads in turn. The wing not occupied by small blue sharks stretches out to lean on Dusk, warmer than him for now, at least. Dusk curls his wing around Flicker, squeezing gently as he takes the bowl. Meanders off with it to find a seat in the living room, plumping up a beanbag and dragging it over by Isra and the twins. "{A media room we can /trick/ the fuck out. And the biggest goddamn balcony for my room.}" Flicker has gone back to dishes. But he calls from the kitchen: "{Woodshop. And a game room.}" Hive does not look up at the others. His eyes narrow on his display. 'Kitchen', he writes on his list. Before Dusk can actually /sit/ in his seat, an enormous fluffy calico cat has strolled in from the sunroom, absently draping his tail against Isra and the pups and then Dusk in passing before climbing up in Dusk's newly fluffed beanbag to drape himself in a lazy sprawl across the cushion. B peers over at Hive's screen. One webbed hand moves to hir mouth, stifling a giggle. Shane outright snorts. "{Okay, yeah, but you didn't mention that it needs eight ovens and twelve burners how the fuck is Pa going to feed /armies/ when all you wrote is /kitchen/ -- dude.}" Now he's looking at the /cat/ with amusement. B's eyes light up as the cat settles into a pile of fluff in Dusk's beanbag. "... can we name it Ryan." Flicker tucks the last of the dishes into the dishwasher. Rinses off his hands. Still drying them on a dishtowel as he flits back out to the living room. "{Got competition. Barely had even sat down to eat and I had a shoulder full of Cat earlier.}" He's very abruptly behind Hive, peering down at -- can you call that a List? At the List. "{I think we need at least one bathroom, too.}" Hive /huffs/. Exasperated. "{Fucking picky, man.}" "{Perhaps some bedrooms, if we're getting /fancy/.}" It's sometimes quite obvious that Isra not only learned her Spanish accent from Ion, but her vocabulary, too. << I'd settle for a lot less, to live with my house in some semblance of normalcy again. >> She looks over at other beanbag, then up at Dusk with a sliver of a fangy smile. "{I have been calling it} Cat." "{Oh my god this little asshole.}" Dusk says this with wide-eyed /delight/, as the cat drops down into his seat. His smile has brightened, wide and fangy, looking at Isra like: what. Like: Hah! Like: do you see this jerk. One of his wings scoooops under the cat, tucktucktucking it /up/ into its soft expanse so that /he/ can drop down into the beanbag, tumbling the pile-o-cat in along his wing down next to him. "{Honestly,}" It's hard to tell, from his muddled jumble of warm(fierce)fuzzy(happy) thoughts whether he's talking, now, about the cat's name or the plans for the not-yet-house, "{I don't /give/ a fuck so long as it's ours.}" | |
