ArchivedLogs:Happy Medium

Happy Medium
Dramatis Personae Doug, Hive
In Absentia	2014-01-22 '
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Laundry Room - East Village
This laundry room looks as many laundry rooms do. Fluorescent lights a little too-bright, linoleum floor is chipping, lint-dusty and occasionally stained sticky with spilled detergent. A broom and dustpan in one corner encourage its users to contribute to its cleanliness, which they do with intermittent conscientiousness. A bank of quarter-fed washing machines along the wall have clear windows on their doors to watch the laundry spin and turn within. On the wall opposite, a matching row of dryers near-perpetually has at least one out of commission. A rickety folding table and chairs at one side provide a place to sit and wait. There's a dispenser on the wall that will provide single-use sized packets of detergent or fabric softener, but it is hit or miss whether it is ever in stock. The blizzard may have passed, but the city is still more or less pinned down by the snow. Classes cancelled for the day means that Doug managed a bit of extra time at work that streeetched into the mid-evening. Which allowed for a wolfed-down dinner of cold pizza and a couple more hours' work. Break time is being used as laundry time, now, and the teenager is doing just that. Dressed in a pair of snug sweatpants and a bulky-looking black sweatshirt with a Superman shield on the chest, the blonde has pulled a chair close to the tumbling dryers to absorb their welcome warmth. His feet rest on an overturned laundry basket as he stares blankly at the tablet in his hand, his mind only vaguely acknowledging the episode of Game of Thrones that's running there. For the most part, his brain tumbles through other imagery, mostly technical and computer stuff interspersed with curiosity about a certain intern in the Design department who shared a table with him in the cafeteria and has a pretty fantastic smile. On the screen, Starks die unnoticed, although not unheard. Shufflethump, shufflethump, Hive drags his laundry basket in behind him as he makes his way from the elevators over to the laundry room. His slow-trudge way of walking has a habit of not really picking up his /feet/ that wears down the soles of his sneakers and typically grinds the backs of all his pants into ragged fraying shreds and today is no different, pale worn jeans a mess of fringe at the backs where his laundry basket thumps against them. In typical fashion he looks /sleepy/ even when he isn't, hooded half-lidded eyes given him a permanently half-asleep look even when his mind is keenly alert to the mental sounds around him. He shakes dark hair back off his face as he pushes the laundry room door open, thunking his hamper down onto the floor. His sweatshirt -- dark red with the greek letters Theta Tau on the chest to either side of the zipper in gold -- hangs loose on his very much too-thin frame, over a plaid flannel grey-and-black-and-white button-down. "Heh," is his entering comment. "Starks." Doug is distracted enough that it takes a moment after Hive has spoken for recognition to filter through his consciousness. He blinks slowly at the other man, his brow furrowing as he struggles to recall what exactly Hive actually /said/. Something about work? That seems the most likely, and he nods with a weary-looking smile. "Hey. Yeah, I'm just getting some laundry done before I get back to it." He lifts a hand to rub a pinkie along the corner of one eye. "I haven't seen you in a while," he notes, his brain seeking back to a point before Christmas as the last clear memory. His grin goes a bit wy, tilting at one corner. "I think I was talking shop, then, too." Hive's mouth twitches, a small upwards curl at Doug's answer. "I meant -- nevermind. You always look like shit. I mean, every damn time I see you, you know that? Looked like shit back then, too." He drags his hamper over towards the washing machines, opening one up to dig his detergent out from where it's half-buried itself beneath his clothing. "Probably were, yeah." His brow furrows, uncertainly. "Dunno. Was a mess back then." He shrugs a shoulder. "Done with mess now though." "Says the pot to the kettle," Doug says, with a mental eyeroll that's tinged with amusement. "I think I've seen you one time when you looked like an actual person." His grin is as lazy as the roll of his shoulders. "I work on a lot of stuff," he says. "It takes up a lot of time." It's totally /not/ any kind of self-isolation. It's just that his apartment is handy for working. "And I was wearing nice clothes," he says as his brain catches up to the conversation from its detour. "That I do remember. 'Cause I'd just got on at Stark." Suddenly, his brain clicks, and he looks down at his tablet a bit sheepishly. "Ah. Yeah." He swipes his thumb across the tablet's screen, and sets it on his lap. "Getting rid of the mess is good," he agrees with a nod. "I think the people in this building have had more than their fair share of it. Particularly you guys." Hive exhales heavily, teeth baring in a thin smile as he dumps detergent into the washing machine. "I haven't been an actual person in a long-ass time, dude. I don't know what /your/ excuse is, though." He shoves clothing into the washer with little regard for any kind of /sorting/, cramming it in in fistfuls of as much as it can reasonably -- or more than reasonably-- hold. "S'a good episode," he adds, when Doug stops the tablet. He digs quarters out of his pocket, turning the machine on. "Not sure I own nice clothes. -- How /are/ things going at Stark?" "I guess I don't have one," Doug says honestly. "I just lose track when I get in a groove, and go until the system reboots itself." He waggles fingers at his head, remembering many mornings waking on the couch with his laptop still open and code running. "Than I take a shower, rinse and repeat." He frowns. "It's probably not ideal, but I get a lot done." Which probably makes up for it. There's a bit of horror as Hive begins (over)loading the machine, and he nods at the assessment. "It's my favorite," he says. "The Red Wedding is the best moment in both book and series." The question prompts another roll of code and tech and working with Sebastian and the team, followed almost immediately by a flash of that Design intern. "I love it," he says, his grin broadening. "I haven't met the man himself, yet, but just working around all those people and that tech...I've learned a /lot/ already." He inhales deeply. "And Stark has the /coolest/ computers to work on." "Sounds kind of nerdy," Hive tells Doug VERY SERIOUSLY. "Nerd." He hoists himself up to sit on the washing machine once it starts running, pulling a phone out of his pocket but not really switching it on yet. "Ideal? Nnn. Doesn't sound ideal. I don't think you can build ideal out of --" His brows furrow and he shakes his head quickly. "/That/. S'no /people/ in it, dude." He lifts his hand, running fingers through his choppy-shaggy hair, nodding when Doug's smile brightens. "Good. Yeah. I hear it's, uh -- I dunno. B says it's a shitshow but he likes it. The shit he brings home is insane. All like --" His hands lift in front of himself. Expanding. Contracting. Waggling in the air. Lord knows what THAT is supposed to mean. "Totally nerdy," Doug admits, eyes crinkling at the corners. "But, that's kind of my thing, so." There's a wash of guilt at Hive's assessment of the the futility of that plan, and the blonde's mouth pulls a bit tight. "I'm not really striving for ideal, at this point," he says, looking down at the tablet and running a finger along the edge. "Right now, I'm just trying to find some kind of happy mid-way point." Not very successfully, but the effort has been sincere. "I probably should get out and do something," he says. "I had a thing the other day, but that was the first time in a long time." About the time his discomfort at this line of discussion gains steam, the subject is back to Stark, and he exhales in mild relief. "Oh, it's a complete freak show," he says. "But the most awesome freak show in the world." He rolls his eyes at the idea of the mentioned computers, and there's a spike of /want/ for constant access to that tech. "I fucking /love/ those computers," he says. "If I had one of those at my disposal...." All sort of opportunity yawns beyond that thought, and the teenager smiles dreamily. "I would do all the things." "Happy'd been in short supply for /hella/ fucking long." Hive admits this with a softening of his usually callous tone, lips twitching to the side as his eyes slant over towards Doug. "Like. Long enough I'd --" His fingers tighten against the edge of the washing machine. "Actually forgotten what it felt like. Not even in me, I mean. In all my friends, you know. Forgot that /anyone/ ever gorram knew how to -- uh but right what I'm saying is even after a whole fucking /ridiculous/ lot of /shitty/ fucking misery, there's been an insane amount of happy again and I didn't really expect that so maybe you'll find that midway point. Maybe you'll find that midway point and /then/ some." His hand rakes through his hair again, fingers scrunching his black hair up into a fist. "Just Jegus if you do, go to someone else's apartment 'cuz I swear to God," he mutters half to himself. Then shakes his head hard, squeezing his eye shut tight. "You'd never fucking sleep," he assesses with an amused snort. "/I'd/ never fucking sleep. B let me play with his projector once. How the hell do you ever even leave work? S'not like you have office hours. I swear I'd live there. B says he's pretty sure some people do." "It's been pretty bleak around here," Doug agrees, screwing his mouth up and to one side. "Happy is much better. And I will find that point," he says. "Maybe soon. It's just a matter of balancing things, and taking a few steps to actually /do/ it." Like actually making an effort that doesn't involve a computer screen. He laughs at Hive's request, and glances up at the ceiling. "Is all the reunioning getting to be a bit much?" he asks, the tease in his voice matching the amusement he takes in this. "I bet it's hard to sleep with someone else's boner." "It takes discipline," Doug says of getting away from the Stark computers. "If I didn't need food and have classes across town, I probably /would/ move in there. The couches in the break room are super comfy." He waggles his fingers at imaginary floating images, picturing part of his day as he does. "They're sirens, though. You just deal with the normal interfacing. You should get into them the way I do. They are..." he shakes his head, unable to find a word that describes the systems. "I can't even describe the artistry involved in them." "You have no idea," Hive says wryly. "Living in the bedroom next to fucking /Dusk/ when you haven't been laid in a goddamn fucking --" Something in Hive's expression twists unhappily, rather abruptly, his fingers clamping in against the washing machine again. "At least not --" But he bites off the end of this sentence so quickly his teeth click audibly together, tipping his head back to the ceiling as his posture stiffens. Relaxes again, when he adds absently: "... he's /loud/. Well, mentally, anyway. Actually surprisingly quiet out loud. Mostly growly I guess. /You'd/ know," he adds with a snort. He pulls one leg up onto the washer underneath him. His mouth hooks up crookedly into a smile. "Oh, shit, man. If I could use those things --" He shakes his head, exhaling an almost wistful sigh. "I'd kill to get my hands on one. The work I do -- Just, shiiiit, man, if I had had that for putting the Clinic together I would have creamed myself. Just constant orgasms. Your office must be a real distracting place." Doug watches Hive's expression with a twist of his eyebrows that aligns with his concern at the sudden shift. "Dude. You should maybe go out and get a happy for yourself," is his sage advice. "You're kind of cute, when you're not all growly, and you have a kick-ass career. Anyone with any sense would be all over you." He wrinkles his nose. "But I bet it doesn't work that way for you, huh? Which sucks." Doug might be rambling, a bit, as he attempts to wrangle his way back. A feat complicated by the telepath's tease, which brings a roll of mortification and a deep blush to the teenager's ears. "Stark's offices are wild," he confirms. "Someone says 'hey check this out', and fifty people drop what they're doing to come and see. It's super cool." There's a quacking noise from his pocket, and he fishes out his phone, glancing at the screen and confirming it's food ordered well earlier. "Oh, hey. The pizza guy made it after all," he says, pulling a couple of bills from his sock before he stands up. "I'm going to go pay for it," he states as he moves towards the door. "And then I'll come back and stuff you with lukewarm pizza while I regale you with tales of my experiences in Wonkaland."