ArchivedLogs:Autumn

Autumn
Dramatis Personae Dorian Siccavil, Doug, Parley
In Absentia	2013-10-21 '
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Rooftop
It tends to be windy, up here, but the presence of plastic table and folding chairs suggests that nevertheless building residents occasionally make their way out to this rooftop. With a good view of Tompkins Square Park less than a block away it's a good spot for city-watching. There's a railing around the edge, though it might be possible (if /unwise/) to climb over it to the narrow concrete ledges beyond and from there to the fire escape. Centrally, someone has broken down crates and constructed a small raised-bed garden up here, barren in winter but filled in three other seasons with a small assortment of herbs and vegetables. The concrete wall that rings the roof has been decorated, painted in vivid bright shades by some artistic hand to add colourful cheer to the rooftop. The mural shifts in terrain One wall sports a beach, flecked with grass and seashells and driftwood and shore birds. Beach transitions into meadow, colourful with wildflowers and butterflies and dragonflies; meadow shifts into snow-capped mountains, subsides into piedmont and sprouts into a verdant forest on the fourth, alive with animals. Autumn in New York grips a ghost of New England enchantment; though there's no view of the Appalachians, nor thick fog pooling amongst thickets, there is still a crispness to the slanting sunlight, shimmering off the windows of distant tall buildings, the trees in the park across from the building fiery in oranges and reds and saffron yellows rippling in the passing wind. Parley's tawny fur also ripples, the rosettes lining up down his back, the longer guard-hair spikes thicker down the line of his spine, all visible for the two square windows he's unceremoniously cut out of the back of his gray turtleneck, leaving a horizontal band across the middle to keep it from billowing out too crazily. He's brought his tablet up to the roof, and leans over it propped on the edge rail, with his back to the rest of the roof. Lazily draped as he is, he's just kind of sticking out his ass. Here. ASS. The door to the roof opens quietly; perhaps the person on the other side can sense the gentle afternoon waiting for them. Doug is the one who emerges, dressed in a pair of jeans and a Columbia sweatshirt. He pauses as he comes through the door, frowning as he sweeps the rooftop in search of something. An iPod, apparently, as that's what he beelines for and claims before he notices Parley. There's a moment of waffling, curiosity and mischief overriding the need to return below with the recovered device. The blonde veers in that direction, enjoying the view with a smirk before he reaches out to run his finger along that furry ridge of spine. Against the fur, before hooking that finger under the band of fabric and giving the slightest of tugs. The rooftop has been a santruary since arriving at the Lofts, since aquiring his new freedom - and Dorian is making use of the access to the rooftop. He's snuck up here quietly at some point in the day, and has situated himself in one of the far corners of the rooftop, barefoot and wearing his borrowed black cargo pants and oversized tank top with a marching parade of rainbow teddy-bears in a vanishing spiral at the center. This leaves his shoulders, covered in a thick pelt of dark brown fur, bear to the chill air. The sound of other people on the rooftop brings him creeping cautiously along, nervous that he might not be entirely supposed to be up here unescorted yet. Holding the end of his long brown tail in his hands, idly wringing it, he approaches, giving Parley a wide berth upon seeing the barely exposed tawny fur. Tendons stretch down the back of Parley's neck, where it connects to his shoulders - his head tucking down until his hair falls forward as Doug draws near. There's no startled jump, save a quiet breath drawn in as treacherous bristles lining his vertebrae respond with a puckering of skin beneath the touch, shiver-spikey up in a ridge that follows the trail of Doug's hand in a gradual delay. Like striking a match. He makes a weak exhale-sound when his shirt is tugged, peeking up at Doug over a furry shoulder, cheeks so faintly rosy in the cool wind, tugging in a curious unison at all of three occupants of the roof top, so that everyone's hair and clothes ripple off to the left, pinned down to the right, and then make a lazy orbit of slack before lying still again. Slippered feet shift on toes and, after a delay, Parley moves slightly to the side, giving Doug room at the railing. You'd almost think he didn't notice Dorian, creepering at a distance as he does. Save? -- that, slowly, he extends a hand, moving the tablet out to the far side of him. With a screen of ANGRY BIRDS opened up, loaded, and making a low manic whisper of music. He props it at the far reach of his arm and just - FLICk. Sends one red bird flying into a wooden tower. His hand then withdraws. DorianBait set. To lure. Doug rubs his knuckle against that ridge of fur as he extracts his finger and settles in at the railing next to Parley. There's a sense of warmth and surprised pleasure at the response, evidenced physically by a crinkle of the blonde's eyes. His gaze skims over rosy cheeks with a surge of sympathy; his own pale cheeks are ruddying under the wind's insistence. Which is probably the reason he slides comfortably as close to Parley and his radiant heat as possible, nuding his hands into the smaller man's ribcage. His own sigh isn't as weary-sounding as Parley's. It sound far more contented than that. Dorian's approach gets another crinkle of eyes, and an imperceptible lift of chin in the universal guy greeting, although Doug's attention seems to be focused primarily on Parley. Doug gives the empath a small surge of curiosity and a rise of eyebrows before he lifts his hand to skate his finger along the perimeter of one of those cutouts in ghostly sketching. To the whistle of wind, the low rustly roar of the trees below, the deedle-eeddling Angry Birds music, all full of synthesized riveted trumpet garnished with squawks and toots is apropos against the otherwise city sounds of car engines and the high whine of a plane flying overhead. Parley looks out at the city, chin lowering, head tucking in slightly further between his shoulders; his ribs expanding, collapse, with slow even tempo - just the slightest hitch! felt more than heard, at the apex of each inhale - beneath Doug's skating fingers, twitch-spasming like horseflesh beneath a fly. /Slight/ constriction... slow easing. /Slight/ constriction... slow easing. He's generally warm to touch, if a bit chilled on the surface; the shared proximity makes a warmer surface area. Doug seems lost in the sense memory of velvety fur against his fingertips, and the resulting twitch of skin beneath. The music of the city washes over him, adding a bit to the warmth that he's sharing with Parley. One cutout traced, his fingers walk the half-step to the next one, tracing a bit lower on the smaller man's back. In his other hand, his thumb skates over the screen of the iPod, calling up a song before he tucks it in his pocket and lifts an earbud to press it gently against Parley's ear, so he can listen to the smoky jazz that somehow accentuates the city autumn. At leat it does in Doug's mind, bringing forth feeliings of home and cool evenings like this, with a panoply of color that is a Westchester autumn that runs like watercolor through channels of engramatic memory. And still he traces, watching the skin jump with warm, mild fascination. Dorian watches from a safe distance, still fidgetting with his tail uncertainly as he frets over approaching the pair or not, large eyes following the trail of Doug's fingers against Parley's fur with curiosity. It takes him a moment, but he finally notices the bright screen with the colorful birds on it, curiosity at the chirpy music overriding his better judgement as he finds himself taking cautious steps forward to the glowing device. Within moments, he is carefully approaching along the railing, eyes locked on the tablet and the entrancing game, bare feet quietly padding along the concrete rooftop. He freezes, just steps away from Parley, eyes wide as he stares at the other man, recognition dawning on his rounded features. The small fuzzy, rounded ears flatten to his skull as he cringes slightly, looking around the rooftop anxiously as though expecting someone to come out and drag him away. But one traiterous ear swivels back towards the digital music and sounds coming from the tablet, once again drawing his attention. There does come a slight jump from Parley when the bud is pressed into his ear, blinking open eyes that had been closing. There's twitch like he almost turns to look, then comes an exhale and, with a quiet swallow, eyes staring out at the city once again, he tips his head to the side. For all this time, Dorian's creeping approach has been allowed to happen in that realm of privacy that happens when no one is looking at them, taking up to now to slip his eyes on side - RAPID. Like a sprung rubberband. To lock with Dorian's. His head is tipped down, dark eyes unblinking... and, slowly, the far side of his mouth twitches up, slanting the line between lips diagonal. The only movement he makes, form and frame remaining loose and draped, is to extend a hand to the tablet. To pull back another bird - wreeeeeee! And to send it flying, to a guttural series of piggy grunts. Demonstration: SET. He then withdraws his hand and rolls his eyes towards the sky like nope. /He/ isn't looking. Doug's lips curl slightly at Parley's jump, and he watches the smaller man's reaction through half-lidded eyes as he works the other earbud into his own ear with his free hand. The other still occupied with tracing those curious cutouts and the spiky fur framed within. Dorian's cautious approach is noted with a small pinning of the blonde's gaze, that half-smile tipping gently as the man gets closer. There's a small furrow of brow at the sudden flattening of ears, and a wash of perplexity that stills Doug's finger for half a second. Then the tracing continues, the teenager allowing his own attention to be drawn out over the city with another contented exhalation. For a moment, when Parley looks right at him, it looks as though Dorian might just give up and make a run for the stairway and the relative safety of the indoors. Another somewhat terrified look to Doug, as though the other teen might just be one of the scientists in the long and non-sensical experiment that has been this week. His faintly scarred hands, with their dark nails, continue to worry at the end of his tail nervously, wringing at the fuzzy appendage enough that he hazards a glance down; a pained grimace crosses his features as he lets go of his tail, allowing it to drop back to its normal placement behind him. He cautiously approaches the tablet, watching Parley's demonstration intently. A worried glance to Doug, and once again around the rooftop for lurking scientists or looming orderlies, before Dorian reaches a tenative finger out to swipe against the screen, pulling back a blue bird and watching it scatter into the shower of tiny birds - a bit too prematurely, earning the disdainful snickers of the protected pigs. A frustrated pout pulls at his mouth, and he steps closer - consternation over these agrivated avians overriding his apparent fear of Parley. A certain focus settles into Parley, felt in the lean knots of muscle that shift beneath his pelt, darting a silent glance at Dorian when he isn't looking. His empathy is open, ever like a web to get caught up with the flotsam fallen off the top of the mind; passive and undigging, it picks up only surface fragments, direct inclinations, focused intention... and in turn, the clutter breaks up his shape. Shreds the weight of his presence with veins of color from those around him; even Dorian's own shy existence hovering along the fringes finds no resisting counter presence here. He uses a hip, thumps it against Doug's when Doug looks at Dorian for too long. Facing back out at the city again. Doug's own interest sharpens when Parley pulls into focus, but he doesn't look at the other man. Until his hip is bumped. Then the expression he turns on the smaller man is one of amused innocence. But, the message is received, and Dorian is left, for the moment, to fling birds unobserved. Entirely focused now on the Angry Birds game, Dorian is almost entirely oblivious to his surroundings, chewing on his lower lip in concentration as he swipes again at the screen, pulling back the bird as far as he can and then watching it go sailing over the partially toppled porcine structures. He frowns, as the game now declares 'Game Over' - complete with snickering pigs and bruised looking birds, his dark furred shoulder's slumping as he glances around nervously. The creeping fear begins to rise again in the bit of his stomach, that he'd done something wrong, that he had failed, and that he would be put in isolation again - all the while his thoughts are spiraling somewhat out of control, he is still focused on the tablet. With a determined look, he hits the button to try again, and makes another attempt at it - carefully pulling back the bird and letting it fly - this time actually knocking a pig over with the ballistic bird. He perks up, grinning broadly and actually bouncing on the balls of his feet, for a moment the fear in his posture vanishing. Movements drifting, drab and anonymous, Parley shifts down, folds his knees. Tugs at Doug's arm to come with him as he turns to settle his back against the rail, sitting on the ground. His knees fold up neatly, ankles crossed. On some level he watches, through the mind's eye, Dorian's approach of the game, his focus - and tips back his head to turned closed eyes into the sun light, letting the wind bathe past his bared throat. Doug is easily led to the ground, his own legs folding up much in the same way that Parley does, ensuring that his hip is pressed against the smaller man's comfortably before he too relaxes against the wall. He drops his hand to Parley's knee, curling his fingers there and tipping his head to watch the empath bask in the late sun. His lack of an ability similar to Parley's means that /his/ observation of Dorian's efforts against the bad piggies is relegated to furtive and careful upward glances through half-lidded eyes. It's all very comfortable, and the teenager sinks to lean his weight against Parley, another undirected smile playing about his lips. Dorian's concentration is evident even for those without a view on to the inner workings of his thoughts - his tail swishes in agitation each time he manages to miss with one of the birds, and his tongue pokes out from the corner of his mouth as he focuses. As far as playing style - he doesn't seem to be too concerned about /beating/ the game, as much as he is having fun trying to figure out what the different birds do, and how they interact with other things. Occasionally there's a faint giggle from the teen as he finds out some new thing - or manages to actually succeed in knocking over the towers with the pigs. As he plays, he dances slightly from foot to foot in time with the music of the game, apparently completely forgetting that he is being observed - or perhaps just so used to it he doesn't care. Either way - he seems content to continue playing until the guards come and take him away - or Parley wants his tablet back. He seems somewhat resignedly certain, beneath the veneer of playfulness, that this is just part of another long drawn out test, the dread bubbling up occasionally to be sensed, or seen in the slight tensing of his shoulders, the twitch-twitch flattening and raising of his tiny ears. It's an eventuality that doesn't come. There is silence and there is wind; the sun travels long across the sky until it quivers red and swollen against the air pollution on the horizon until Parley, sitting still on the side Doug leans against, staring out across the roof, eventually folds in his feet and rises. With a last twitch at the side of his mouth, he looks at Doug for a moment pensively, then Dorian again. And, pulling in a breath, jerks his head towards the door. Already turning to depart himself. He'll come find his tablet later - it's not like he doesn't know where Dorian /lives/. Doug seems surprised when Parley pushes to his feet, and he blinks himself into a wide-eyed sort of look. There's a flash of almost-concern that ebbs just as quickly as it rises, squashed in another roll of (pleased) surprise at the gesture. With a quick glance at Dorian, and his infuriated avians, the blonde nods and pushes to his feet in a smooth movement. He has one last look for the occupied teenager before he's following after Parley, a warm smile tilted gently on his face as he pulls the roof door shut behind them.