ArchivedLogs:Box Seats

Box Seats
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Ion, Isra, Teague
In Absentia	2015-12-24 "Are flowers traditional? I didn't bring flowers."
Location <NYC> Lincoln Center - Upper West Side
Ending in twin stairways, the mighty David. H. Koch Theater’s expansive lobby is awashed in the warmth of rich golden light as a sea of muggle bodies begins to spill out. With only native New Yorkers stranded through the quarantine, the transition into the main lobby is smoothest Lincoln Center has seen in decades. Sugarplum fairies and soldiers drift out to greet enamored fans of all ages with rehearsed smiles. Powered by poppers and cocaine, the exhausted performers pose for photographs and exchange hollow pleasantries while they sign playbills. That has never been and will never be Jewel’s métier. Or should we say Nathaniel’s? The young dancer in question winds his way up through the continuous balcony rings. Even as they attempt to draw his eye, the teen pays no mind to people as he passes through the lush, burgundy-upholstered halls. Still in costume, the dance belt stereotypically worn by male ballerinas makes his attire border on the obscene. In white leggings and a trim red toy soldier's jacket instead of a mouse’s costume, he parts the curtain into the private balcony area in which his /unique/ associates had been hidden away from the public eye. Face still saturated in makeup that dramatizes his bone structure, he surveys the box. Previously reserved for some generous dignitary or other, the teen’s lips can’t help but upturn slightly in satisfaction of its /current/ occupants. "Hey /shit/, man, that was off the goddamn /hook/." One large wing, elaborately decorated in a rich red burnout velvet paisley layered over a metallic gold background, stretches out to curl in a hug around Teague as he enters. Dusk's long talons are tipped in gold, too, gilded bright and gleaming where he leans against the railing of the balcony. In contrast to his usual casual scrubbiness, today he has polished himself up -- the neat dark three-piece suit he has on is well-tailored to both his lanky frame and the enormous wings. His hair has been brushed, even his scruffy beard neatly trimmed. "I mean it's one thing knowing you're fly but seeing it? -- Are flowers traditional? I didn't bring flowers. I brought a... not-flowers." He may not have brought flowers, but he has brought a colorful gargoyle. Isra wears a rather asymmetrical black satin evening gown that accentuates, rather than disguises, her lack of womanly curves. The back of the gown sweeps low to leave her immense wings free, their membranes decorated in gold filigree pattern over a glimmering snowy white. Gold, too, her talons and the horns that spiral back from her temples, gleaming richly against the deep green of her skin this week. "What a splendid performance," she says, both sets of vocal chords engaging to lend her voice a curious depth and resonance, echoing itself. "An excellent production overall, as well." She smiles a sharp-fanged smile. "Congratulations." Ion, at least, looks well and truly Normal Human -- well, at least in his /limb/ configuration. He seems to be trying to make /up/ for this by balancing things out in the other direction; where his companions are the picture of taste and class, /his/ satin-and-velvet jacket shimmers in crimson and sheeny red, huge floral pattern splashed across it. His trousers match, his dress shirt glimmering in metallic black with very gaudily ostentatious SKULL patterned diamond cufflinks. His bow tie is definitely a clip-on. "{/Shit/ shit shit} dog that was something fucking /else/ did you know," he says this wide-eyed, earnest, like it will come as a surprise to anyone here, "I ain't never /been/ to no ballet before, those moves on fucking /point/. Next time they should give you /all/ the damn parts you were killing it." In a rare display of humility, Jewel averts his eyes under the praise, preferring to glance down to his feet for a moment before looking back up. The heavy amount of foundation they’ve painted onto him likely masks some of the blood the rushes to the young man’s cheeks. “Fuck off,” he pants bashfully, holding back a toothless smile, “They didn’t give you too much trouble?” His arms remain close, crossed languidly over one another at his chest even as he’s hugged. As he surveys the trio and their formalwear, his eyes begin to widen. Upon reaching Ion, they are at their widest. “You should dress up more often.” Although he projects his voice to the room and began the statement well before his eyes found Ion’s outfit, Jewel may very well only be speaking to man. “I’m flattered that you all came out… I didn’t think anyone would see the post on the fridge, what with what’s been on. … You know: the zombies.” Shifting his weight, he bends and flexes his high-arched feet in their pale ballet slippers, “Paz de la Jolla is a smaller show,” he adds, “I have a larger role.” There's a faint dilation of Dusk's pupils all the same at the (hidden) blushing from Teague. His fangs flash in a warm smile, and his wing drops away after the squeeze of hug; he turns aside to his seat, rummaging under it for a black bag from which he procures a paper sack, holding it out to the younger Brother. "Zombies been seriously cramping good /food/ around here, thought you could use something after all -- /that/. Though it took kind of a trip, you might want to pop them in a toaster oven or -- something." There are several sandwiches in the satchel, garnered from a few different shops outside the quarantine zone; a cheesesteak, a pork banh mi, a thick cold cut hoagie. "Not quite so pretty as flowers, but. Taste better." One of his wings folds back behind him, the other tucking against Isra's. "They weren't exactly /pleased/ but they were -- polite. Enough. Where would I /wear/ this more often? I guess," he says brightly, "to Paz de la Jolla." "I would dress like this more often if not for practical considerations." Isra smooths down the billowing folds of the gown's skirt. "I feel less than aerodynamic in this. You, on the other hand, rather looked as though your feet did not touch the ground at times." She leans into Dusk's wing, her smile widening to slightly frightful effect. "You needn't worry. They exercised great restraint in dealing with us, and I, at least, their discomfort most entertaining. But the staff's misgivings aside..." She bobs her head, the movement fluid and birdlike. "...I should certainly love to see you in Paz de la Jolla." "There was a post on the fridge?" Ion's eyes widen; this is clearly news to him. "Hell yeah, man, you doing this shit /again/? I'mm'a be there. We be there." He brushes his hands down the front of his suit, beaming broad. "You like? Maybe I find something, like this, for you? /Christmas/ suit, hermanito. They haved this green one, some fucking /vine/ all over, it was the shit. Not my size, though. I'mm'a wear this every damn day. /Fly/ down the fucking streets, cops wouldn't dare ticket me. How you gonna get in the face someone looking so polished?" “Thank you,” Jewel says quietly, blinking in contained disbelief at receiving any gift at all. He peeks into the bag briefly but doesn’t delve in, despite the kneading impulse to. “You’re too kind.” Still secretly rosey-cheeked, the permits Ion a wry little smile of encouragement before reaching his fingertips towards the folds of Isra’s dress. Not quite touching, he twiddles them as if to make the fabric move. “There’s no reason you can’t compromise practicality for aesthetics /a little/,” he purrs, “And they very well better have been accommodating, considering I’m practically keeping this ship afloat.” His heavy-lidded eyes slide down to Ion’s cufflinks and then back to make eye contact, as if only to point out that he’d noticed. "I'm not -- /entirely/ sure that's how cops operate but --" Dusk's smile has hitched up, crooked and amused. "And come /on/ you'd look so goddamn /regal/ flying in --" Though he pauses here, shaking his head. "... anything, actually, nevermind." He folds his wings back behind himself, slinging the black bag up over his shoulder. "... I can imagine," he adds to Jewel with a small furrow of brow. "I mean, through the worst of things, I dunno how many people had time for..." He shakes his head. "Their loss, though. In the middle of a fucking apocalypse, a little bit of --" He twitches a claw back towards the stage below. "Maybe what everyone needs. I'm glad we came, anyway. Thanks, man. This was -- you were --" He just shakes his head, scuffing a hand through his hair. "They'll still go after you, and still have no success." Isra casually straightens the back of Ion's collar. "Compromise, yes--but in something with a bit more give, I think." Her wing curves around to rustle the hem of her own dress. "Fashionable evening wear that flies well should be my next sewing project." Her smile softens, more sincere now than fierce. "It was a great gift to see you perform--or, for me, at least, to even be permitted in here." She inclines her head at Teague, golden horn gleaming in the light. "Thank you." Ion claps his hand on Jewel's shoulder with a cheerful jostling. "Come on, now, we all fucking dolled up --" The sweep of his hand is /including/ Teague in his toy-soldier outfit and makeup, here, in this statement, "night too early to end now, yeah? Let's take you /out/, hermanito. There a bar or two actually open. Or we find some that /ain't/, it all the same." /His/ grin is fierce as ever. The playful push sends Jewel’s body swaying. Sultry-eyed, the seventeen year old glances over the faces of his brethren. “I’ll change,” he offers smoothly, hitching his shoulder up in a small shrug. “And I’m bringing one of these sandwiches to the bar,” he adds without even the slightest hint of irony as he turns on his heel. The dancer wiggles his butt as he saunters out through the flap of heavy curtain, and out of the balcony box.