ArchivedLogs:All Shapes

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All Shapes
Dramatis Personae

Ryan, Shane




<NYC> Overlook - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side

Upstairs, things have been sectioned off more concretely into well-defined /rooms/; the stairwell leads out into a landing hallway, with balcony areas overlooking the foyer and sunroom. To the left of the stairs is Daiki's bedroom with an adjoining small office-nook; decorated in pale tans and blues the furniture here is all low-built as well. Mattress on a woven mat on the floor, kneeling chair at the small desk, a small altar tucked beneath the window; a large glass door in the windows in one wall leads out onto a small balcony a small table and wicker scoop chairs. Straight ahead of the stairs the hall leads to a full bathroom and a guest bedroom facing off against each other. Another room next to the sunroom-balcony has yet to be purposed, furniture-less but bright and sunny with a small hammock-equipped outdoor balcony of its own.

It's much cooler today than it has been in previous days, mid-sixties with a grey sky overhead threatening rain. It's dry at the moment, though; out in the Commons' courtyard there's music drifting down from a balcony overhead. A violin piece, stormy-turbulent -- perhaps the music is trying to /summon/ the impending thunderstorm. Out on the balcony of his new house, Shane is dressed in his usual neat fashion; green button down, dark slacks, saddle shoes, bow tie. His bright blue-and-black electric violin is tucked beneath his chin, eyes closed as he plays.

Given a brief intermission between tour dates in the general vicinity (think, nearest few states), Ryan has returned home! To his new residence. To avoid the paparazzi and fanfare of blatant arrivals he snuck in over night, announced only to Horus and Clarice by the unlatching of the door and turning of the knob. Now that it’s /day/, however, he is parading himself around the Commons to alert his friends to his presence! Which brings him out onto the balcony, cardboard drink holder in hand with four frothy beverages brought in offering to those he is visiting. Of course, hearing the music, he followed its sound to his source, leaning against the open door fame in silence until the conclusion of Shane’s piece.

Shane’s nose twitches as Ryan appears on his balcony, breath drawn in deeply to catch a scent of the beverages the musician brings in offering. There’s a wide grin on his face, hard to see with his back mostly turned though the slow pleased flutter of his gills is telling. “/Please/ tell me,” he says once he finally lowers his bow, “that you brought me drinks from my own coffeeshop.”

“Nope.” The distinct aroma of coffee grounds wafts in the open air as Ryan ducks his head to put his lips to the straw of //his// drink (iced soy latte, 1 pump of hazelnut syrup). His mouth peels into a broad grin, all teeth as he remains against his post, one arm stretched out to admit Shane into a hug if he ventures forward to accept it. “I brought you some shit from around the cafe around the block. You gotta scope out the competition you know.”

Shane switches his bow into the opposite hand to hold it together with the neck of his violin, turning to bounce forward into the hug, returning it one-armed but very tight. “Pfft, /competition/. We’re the best coffeeshop in the neighborhood -- oh /man/ you should try Aly’s coconut-milk ice cream it’s /pretty/ much like heaven. How’s the tour going? I sneakily,” he admits, “keep checking your website /just/ to keep track of -- you know every damn thing is sold out /hey/ has anyone else tried to kill you yet?” Somehow he manages to say this in a tone that implies it would be /so totally cool/ if there were more assassination attempts.

“How do you know,” Ryan challenges, brows oscillating several times in a waggle, “if you don’t try everyone else’s shitty coffee?” His arm wraps around Shane, reeling him in for a tight-pressed hug that last until he pushes the drink tray towards him, insistently. “Mmm. Coconut-milk ice cream. Reminds me of my Mexican roots, y’know? Or maybe that’s what they called me. A coconut.” Liar, inveterate. It’s all in jest, as he releases Shane to give him A Look. “Just crazy fangirls. Fanboys. Y’know. Groupies. No one //actuallly// dangerous.”

Shane tips his head up to /nip/ very lightly at Ryan’s arm before he takes the drinks tray. “Coconut nothing, just tastes like you’re full of /shit/ to me. Shouldn’t Mexican be spicier?” He wiggles one of the cups out of the tray and sets the /rest/ down for the time being on the balcony for lack of actual /furniture/ out here just yet. Carefully setting his violin down beside it, he hops up to sit on the railing, tucking his feet behind the posts for balance. “Oh man you should’ve seen at Pa’s art show -- you should stop by the gallery by the way, the paintings were fantastic -- but there was like this /crowd/ of groupies around yours. Like maybe they’d absorb some of you secondhand? I don’t know. Creepy as fuck. Hey um.” His tone drops more thoughtful as he takes a sip of the coffee, eyes dipping down to his abandoned violin. “Seriously though like. Since that whole. Grammys thing /has/ it been -- more --” He trails off a little uncertainly, gills fluttering quickly for a moment as his brow creases.

“I am plenty full of spice. Or I know how to spice it up.” Whatever that ambiguous ‘it’ is that Ryan alludes to. He selects a cup for himself, a small amount of froth foaming on his upper lip after his initial sip, wiped away with the back of his hand. He leans back against available wallspace, across from Shane to watch him and peer beyond the railing to the sights beyond as well. “I think I have time to visit the gallery before I go again.” On tour. Wherever that next destination may be. Perhaps Europe! “I can’t wait to have my first crazy stalker. You know, the legit kind. Not the government kidnapping kind.” A rockstar stalker! Not an anarchist or mutant opressor. “More what?”

“I’d offer, but I’m not crazy enough and I don’t think it really counts as stalking if we’re just friends.” Shane sounds almost (almost!) disappointed at this. Like maybe he thinks Crazy Stalker could be an exciting new adventure. His claws drum against the side of his coffee, mouth hooked up briefly in crooked grin. “Yeah, you are a spicy one. When you want to be.” The smile fades away, though, back into just uncertainty with another flutter of gills. “More --” He exhales again as his gills press closed, sharp and quick. “I don’t know. Fucked up. /Hard/. I --” His eyes drop down to the lid of his coffee, and he lifts it to take a quick gulp. “I’ve got this audition. Thing. For this orchestra. OK it’s not like, uh, being a rockstar or anything. It’s classical. But it’s sort of serious. They’re kind of a -- I don’t know. Kind of -- well. Serious. And I’m -- you know. Blue.”

“I’m holding out for the //real// fanatics anyway. The kinds who want to dedicate a cult to me. I’m talking compound in Texas level of groupie-ing.” Ryan sounds way too enthused by his future status as a cult leader. Apparently, he and Shane share the same sense of deviant fun and penchant for crazy. “‘Course. I’m whatever I need to be,” he affirms, before his lips press together and his brows drag down together, the bridge of his nose pinched outward. “//Hard//. Huh.” Expression brightening, understanding: “Ohoho. Orchestra? I mean. I’ll be real with you Shane. I’m not blue -- but musicians really //do// come in all shapes. It’s your //talent//, not your appearance. One can certainly help the other but-- you shouldn’t let you hold you back. Both how you look and music are all about expressing yourself. Unfettered.”

“Oh, shit. Are you going to get yourself sixteen wives? Or husbands. I won’t judge. You /know/ my Pa would be there like --” Shane snaps his fingers. “If you ever asked. I mean. Maybe not in a /cult/. Just your wife.” He takes a slow pull from his coffee cup again, legs swinging to thump his heels against the railing of the balcony.

“I know.” His voice drops quieter, more serious now. “Or, well, I want to know. The audition’s the end of the month and I haven’t even told my dads like. I’ll probably fuck it up I’ve just been practicing till my /fingers/ bleed but. It’s just. I mean okay, auditions they do blind so that’s -- helpful. Because they /don’t/ look at me till they’ve decided. I’m just, like. what the fuck happens if I /do/ get /in/ and then they see me and they find out that hey that person they just accepted is --” He waves a webbed hand towards his face. “No respectable group is going to want me up on their stage, you know?” Though now he sounds uncertain, looking to the /actual/ professional musician with his teeth dragging against his lip. “... are they?” It seems to put him in a faint state of /fret/, as he slides down off the railing to pick up his violin again and tug Ryan back inside. “-- I probably need to practice more. Come on. You can help.”