Logs:Missed You

Missed You
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Ryan, Steve	Saturday & Wednesday "Why -- why is there soup?" (Followed some hours later by bailing Ryan out of jail.)
Location text messages & <PRV> Sam and Steve's Apartment - Harlem
It's late Saturday evening, just after the accustomed suppertime at the Tessiers, when Lucien receives a text. (Steve --> Luci): This isn't anything urgent, but would you happen to know when Ryan is most likely to be free? Or least busy? I suppose there's probably not a lot of actual free time, on tour. I'd like to talk to him but don't want to intrude while he's getting ready for a show or somesuch. It takes some time before a reply comes: (Luci --> Steve): It is true, his life at the moment is a bit of a chaos. Have you talked to him recently, at all? (Steve --> Luci): I haven't, no. I thought he wasn't interested in talking to me, but Jax said that he was, so... I don't know that it's time sensitive, exactly, but I'd hate for him to think I didn't want his friendship anymore. (Luci --> Steve): I suppose Jackson would know better than most of us. (Steve --> Luci): That was my thought, as well. I just didn't want to be more disruptive than necessary, and I thought you might be able to help. (Luci --> Steve): I don't doubt he'll be glad to hear from you, if he has not before now. I do not know that there is any non-disruptive time or way to contact him, but perhaps that is preferable to the alternative. Tour is lonely enough without thinking you've been forgotten at home. (Luci --> Steve): He has shows Monday and Tuesday this week, then not again until Saturday. (Steve --> Luci): I'll make sure he knows responding is optional, at least. Thank you, and I'll see you tomorrow. (Luci --> Steve): Very good. There's a considerable delay before the next message: (Luci --> Steve): If you do get in touch with him, please be patient. It isn't until mid-day Wednesday that Steve sends his message: (Steve --> Ryan): Dear Ryan, I hope this message finds you well, and I understand if you do not have the time or energy to reply. I know you're incredibly busy right now, but I'd love to talk when you have a moment, whether it's text or a video call or what-have-you. I've missed you and would love to catch up a bit, and if it has to wait a while that's fine by me. In the meantime, I hope all goes well with your tour, and if I don't talk to you before your next show, break a leg. Yours truly, Steve <PRV> Sam and Steve's Apartment - Harlem This is a third-story walkup in an aging historic building which, while not entirely crumbling, has a certain worn and shabby look, its plumbing and fixtures often in need of repair. The apartment has two small bedrooms, but makes up for it with capacious common areas. A single long space serves as living room and dining room combined, is semi-open to the kitchen, and has a surprisingly large bathroom with an antique claw-footed tub. Tall, drafty windows let out onto the fire escape from the living room and both bedrooms, and let in excellent light from the southern exposure. The sleek art deco motif that runs through the living room furniture, while not strictly matching, has clearly been worked to coordinate. The dining set, coffee and end tables have been crafted with complementary geometric patterning, ebony accents providing a dark contrast to the warmer swirls of maple burl that feature most prominently. The sofa, love seat, and chair fill out the rest of the living room, a matching set upholstered in plush burgundy. The numerous lamps do not all match, some of them clearly temporary supplement for the inadequate overhead lighting. No reply comes to Steve's text. It's not until late in the evening that any answer comes at all -- not a text but a quick knock-knock-knock on Steve's apartment door. Outside, Ryan is looking considerably more polished, less over the top than most of his recent press photos; dark purple windowpane suit jacket with red paisley lining, gold brocade vest with a mesmerizing pattern of interlocking stars over a fine lavender broadcloth shirt, impeccably knotted royal purple tie, pleated trousers to match the jacket, and brown monk shoes polished to a shine. He has a small wooden crate balanced on one arm, a paper bag resting on top of it. A restless bounce in his posture that he quells -- momentarily -- resumes -- stops -- starts again. Steve had started to settle in for the evening, but given the speed with which he comes to the door he must have been clothed still -- in a white ribbed tank and comfortable blue jeans. The expression on his face when he pulls the door open is pure befuddlement, iconic shield on his right arm hanging slack at his side. "Ryan?" comes at a slight delay, pleased beneath the overwhelming perplexity. "Wha -- why --" He struggles for words, then his expression turns to horror. "Are you by yourself?" Fear, concern, and still above all confusion. He sticks his head out into the hallway as if expecting to find Alma pressed against the wall. "My God, get in here." He doesn't wait for Ryan's agreement, but pulls him inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. Ryan's restless bouncing stops when the door opens, and a smile blossoms bright across his face. "Steve." The warmth in his voice is infectious, spilling over in a buoyant buzz. "Well," there's a hint of laughter in his voice, head shaking as Steve pulls him inside, "Now I'm not." He picks up the bag, offering it out to Steve; there's a still-warm tupperware inside filled with soup. "Would have been sooner but the first two stores I went to were out of leeks -- is that weird? Are they out of season? That doesn't usually matter much." Steve blinks. Blinks again. Shakes his head as if to clear it. "Ryan," his voice trembles, disoriented. "What are you --" He breaks off, accepting the tupperware. "Why -- why is there soup?" His confusion returns, stronger than before. He sets the container aside, and his shield, too. "I mean -- thank you! And -- and it's wonderful to see you, but what are you doing here? It's dangerous!" A hint of frustration now beneath his worry. "Are you -- alright?" "I made it," Ryan replies lightly, "I mean, maybe you've eaten already, I don't know, but let's be real you're gonna eat again before you sleep." He waves away Steve's concern, slumping back against the wall just inside the door. "Honestly, it's probably ten times safer here than on the road. I knew it would be a lot, the first time I toured for real after -- all that shit but damn it's a Like, don't get me wrong my team is holding it down but -- nevermind," he catches himself hastily, pulling himself back upright with a shake of his head. "I did not come here to tell you how ridiculous things are out there. How are you?" "You made it," Steve echoes, dumbfounded. "But weren't you in Georgia? Did something happen?" The surge of his anxiety is sudden and fierce. "Are you high? It's ok if you're high," he adds hastily, "I just want to know if you're on something." He puts his hands on Ryan's shoulders and looks into his eyes, searching. "Oh!" Ryan's eyes light like he has just remembered Georgia -- he holds the small crate up triumphantly. "It's late season but they're good, still. Smaller than July peaches but still sweet like you wouldn't believe. The Hollands' farm is gorgeous, by the way, if Jax ever invites you you should definitely go." Underneath Steve's hand his shoulder drops -- just a little, something briefly wavering in his expression. "What? No. I'm not -- I just -- I got your text. I've missed you too." Steve takes the box, his eyes wide with disorientation. "Thank you." He runs a hand through his hair. "Gosh, I -- I'm sorry." Guilty and unbalanced, he shakes his head. "I just was not expecting you to come in person. You must be exhausted. Come on, have a seat." He sets the crate of peaches on the counter beside the soup and ushers Ryan to the couch. "I didn't mean to interrupt your tour, if I said something that made you feel it was urgent to...drop everything and come back up." Doubtful, concerned still. "It is good to see you, though. Ah...can I get you something? To drink, to eat?" "No no you're not interrupting," Ryan is quick to reassure, "I mean, I had a couple days of -- whatever. You don't need to feel --" He slips his shoes off by the door and follows Steve to the couch, though he doesn't take a seat. Instead just a restless pacing in front of it, hands animated while he speaks. "You didn't make me drop anything. It's just so good to see again, I --" He skims a hand through his hair, drops it to his side. "Do you want to get out of here? There is this amazing singer down at Mockingbird tonight I think you'd really love her." "I -- yeah, I'd checked with Luci about your schedule but he warned it might be disruptive regardless..." Despite Ryan's reassurance, Steve is not feeling any less guilty. He stands awkwardly beside the couch, watching Ryan pace. "Of course, I didn't make you do anything. I just -- wish you'd have talked to me first, or --" He breaks off, rubbing the back of his head, frustrated and confused. "I don't really want to go anywhere, Ryan, but even if I did, we can't really just do that. The media would have a field day with it. Does your staff even know where you are? Please tell me you had escort, on the way up." "I just -- hadn't heard from you in ages and then you --" Ryan's pacing stops abruptly at one end of the couch. His expression goes still, his shoulders wilting for only a brief moment before he straightens. "Sorry." His smile has returned again when he looks back at Steve -- bright as before. He blinks, nods once, starts back towards the door. "You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. I will -- get out of your hair. Enjoy the soup. And your evening." "I'm sorry I went so long without talking to you --" Steve starts. Breaks off, startled. "Wait --" He intercepts Ryan easily. "Please, don't -- it's not safe. At least let me take you home?" Fear jangling loud in his voice, and a deepening concern knocking around behind it. "I'd rather if you'd talk to me. That's -- what you came here to do, right?" "No -- I -- I don't know." Ryan's cheeks flush when Steve cuts him off, and he bows his head slightly. "You just said you didn't want to go anywhere. I'll be fine. Haven't you seen the news?" His voice is a little tighter than before, but the bright smile has not wavered. "I'm a very dangerous mutant, after all." "I don't want a night on the town," Steve says gently, still fearful -- if more mildly, now that Ryan isn't imminently headed out the door. "I'm awfully thrown, it's true. But I still want to talk to you, and see you safely home." He blushes. "Might be you can defend yourself just fine, but a lot of folks have it out for you and there's been so many hate crimes..." He swallows hard. His disorientation and apprehension fading beneath a swell of protective affection. "Don't want you facing that alone." Ryan's breath catches, his eyes opening momentarily wider. His smile falters. "Right -- but -- that's -- just it." Where Steve's disorientation is fading his only seems to be growing, a wavery uncertainty in his voice. "I don't -- want to face it alone." "Hey. You're not alone," Steve says firmly. "I'm here. And you've got Jax, and all your friends, your whole staff..." He frowns, reaching for Ryan, but stopping short, perplexed again and desperate. "You don't have to face it alone." Ryan's mouth opens, but quickly snaps back shut. For a moment his jaw clenches, a very faint thrumming briefly stirring the air between them. It passes on a sharp breath, and he slips past, stooping to snatch his shoes up en route to the door. "Good night, Steve." Steve doesn't move this time -- doesn't even turn around, it's as if he's rooted in place. "Ryan --" he calls out, anguished now and uncertain. Finally does turn, does follow the other man to the door. "I'm sorry," is quiet, subdued, but he doesn't try to stop Ryan leaving this time. "Good night."