ArchivedLogs:Budgeting Worry

Budgeting Worry
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Matt	2016-08-26 "I /drink tea/ with quiet dignity."
Location <NYC> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. It is late on Friday night when Lucien arrives home -- a little droopy, a little sweaty, his mind heavily straining with the effort of self-regulation. He's dressed comfortably, casually, plain black sneakers and light grey jeans, a ribbed black tank top with a lightweight white button-down unbuttoned overtop, a gym bag held in one hand and a cloth shopping bag in the other. Even before he's gotten all the way in the door, before he's finished closing it behind himself, he's bracing for impact. Curled in his armchair, Matt has been drowsing on and off with an equally sleepy Flèche sprawled across his lap. He wears a seafoam green t-shirt with a gigantic sperm whale curled beneath a seven-pointed star, and threadbare jean shorts. An ancient, worn paperback copy of Neil Gaiman's /Neverwhere/ is tucked into a crook of his elbow, and an empty celadon mug sits besides an unopened envelope on the coffee table in front of him. At the noise of the front door, the dog rouses with a joyous bark and scrambles off, paws stomping and claws digging, then launches herself bodily at Lucien. Matt comes awake with a soft "Oof", his powers stretching out for his brother's, taking up the task of keeping the other man's neurochemistry balanced. He drags a hand across his his and yawns. "Mmm. Tea." There's a considerable amount of clutter in Lucien's mind -- past the usual amount of routine tidying and straightening out emotions there is an excess of adrenaline cycling through him, a considerable amount of processing overtime to regulate the jittery-fluttery side effects of /that/. At the front door Lucien is toeing off his shoes, tucking them in the front closet while one hand busies itself with ruffling Flèche's head. He eventually manages to settle her down onto all fours, fingers still scritching behind her ears as he pads into the living room to set his bags on the end of the couch. One quick peek into Matt's mug, and then he plucks it up, heading off with it into the kitchen. "{Lies.}" "{That was a comment on the /necessity/ of tea, not an observation on its presence or absence.}" Matt stretches and rises, staring ruefully down at the envelope. Plucks it up and dangles it between the index and middle finger, his other arm hugging his book tighter, as he follows Lucien and Flèche into the kitchen. "Nor was it /meant/ to be a command." But he makes no move to stop his brother from preparing tea, either, only sinks onto a stool and sets about putting Lucien's mind back in order. His fingers pluck restlessly at the corners of the envelope. "Tie gwan yin," he says quietly, at last. "{That /is/ meant to be a command.}" Lucien doesn't answer this. Only sets about quietly preparing the tea, slipping back out to the living room while the tea steeps to retrieve his shopping bag. There is a bag of dog jerky within it, which he stashes in one of the -- several -- containers dedicated to Treats For Flèche before continuing to unpack -- new dish brushes by the sink, new counter spray underneath it, a fresh pack of razor blades that he sets down beside Matt, a crinkled prescription bag and pack of nail polish remover wipes that he sets on one edge of the counter, a bottle of shampoo and conditioner and second prescription bag that he lines up neatly a short distance away from it. Delivers Flèche one piece of jerky, finally. Decants the tea into large ice-filled mugs, and takes a seat beside Matt with one mug, setting the other down on a colourful glass coaster in front of his brother. One hand lifts his mug to his lips. The other reaches to set fingers atop the envelope, sliding it away from Matt and towards himself. Matt curls his hand around the mug, though he does not immediately drink from it, rather stares down to watch the rapidly melting ice cubes. He relinquishes the envelope easily (some small measure tension easing from his shoulders) and transfers his fidgeting to the cardboard package of the razors instead. "They're /supposed/ to call first, but it doesn't always happen." Bright green eyes stray aside to the envelope again: plain white, the two clear windows respectively displaying the Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center letterhead and 'Mr. Matthieu Tessier' above their address. "As long as I've been dreading this, I was sure I'd want to open it at once, but..." He picks up his tea (the ice cubes reduced to a few tiny bobbing fragments now) and drinks deep. "Have you heard from Hive yet?" Lucien sips, small and prim, and sets his glass down. He plucks his keys from where they are clipped to a belt loop -- just as careful, just as neat, he uses the pointed edge of his keychain to run a precise slit along the top of the envelope before returning the keys to his jeans. He is not dallying, anyway -- though his mind carefully irons itself just that much flatter as he tips the envelope's thin sheaf of papers out into his hands, a quiet calm in his expression as his eyes flick down over them. Slowly leaning over to rest his head on Lucien's arm, Matt nods--the motion so subtle as to seem almost furtive, though perfectly sensible through physical contact. "He's clear. We went down to watch the freerunning events." A brief pause, then. "Tag didn't win, but he had the best special effects." His power coils tightly around his brother's as he peers down at the paper as well. It only takes a fraction of a second for his eyes to skim down to 'we are pleased to inform you'. He lets out a long, shaky breath and relaxes so abruptly that he probably would have toppled over without Lucien there to brace him. Flèche rears up to shove her muzzle under his arm solicitously, and he smoothes his hand over her sleek head. Lucien's expression does not change as his arm slides around Matt -- firm, strong, supportive. The sudden internal shiver his mind gives, though, the abrupt easing of its tightly-held lock on his emotions, is keen and easily felt where Matt's powers thread through his own. His posture is straight, steady; after reading he tucks the pages neatly back into their envelope and sets them aside. "Tomorrow, then, perhaps you can celebrate together." His fingers are only a fraction too tight against his brother's shoulder. "/I/ plan to watch the fencing and archery. Less colourful, I am sure." Matt braces against the shiver in Lucien's mind even while he rests more of his own weight against the other man. "Celebrate," he echoes--not incredulous or affirming, but perhaps considering it. "/After/ quidditch practice, maybe." He turns his face in against Lucien's shoulder, heedless of sweat. "{There will be no quiet, drab dignity to /my/ sportsing this weekend, though I'd also like to catch fencing, if we can manage it.}" Lucien's tongue clicks lightly against his teeth. "{Archery is hardly /drab/. I very much doubt B will be, either.}" He takes another sip from his mug, eyes half-closed as the cold tea washes down his throat. "And what do you /ever/ do with quiet dignity?" There is distinct warmth in his tone. "{The Quidditch, though, I will certainly watch.}" "I /drink tea/ with quiet dignity." Matt immediately demonstrates said activity by raising his mug to drink. Though his mouth is obscured by the cup, there's a smile in his eyes when they lift up to study Lucien. "{It might be nerve-wracking to watch,}" he warns, "{and difficult to follow. Most of us aren't actually very...skilled.}" "{I have quite steeled nerves. And I have read the books. I know the rules.}" Lucien's smile has nothing to obscure it when he lowers his mug. "I can say nothing for your skill, though." He leans forward, one elbow propped on the counter and his eyes dropping heavily downward. "{There will be medics. I am not worried.}" "Oh, it's our general lack of skill that will make it difficult to follow, not the rules being nonsense...although they are that, too." Matt sets his mug down now. "{Good. I should hate to cause you more worry...}" He runs his hand down Lucien's back, the motion not so different from that of his other hand, still petting Flèche. "Shall I run you a bath?" Beneath Matt's hand, Lucien's back is tense, muscles tightly knotted. He squeezes his eyes shut, lifting one hand to rub gently at his temple. Eventually he picks his mug up again, taking a long drink. He opens his eyes, gaze flitting briefly over to the neat row of items laid out on the counter for their siblings. Then to the envelope set aside. "{No, I think there has been enough worry for --}" His head shakes, weight leaning back into Matt's touch. "I certainly need to wash up." Matt digs his knuckles gently into his brother's back. "You need a wash /and/ a backrub." His gaze follows Lucien's, his brows furrowing slightly. "Are we over budget?" Then, conciliatory, "The month is nearly over." Lucien's fingers tighten slightly against his mug. He swallows the rest of his tea quickly, the twitch of his smile sharp and fleeting. "Ah -- no. We still have a -- small cushion. And a good thing, too, because there are a few items I have yet to get before Gaètan returns to school next week." He slides down off his stool, taking his mug to the sink to wash it. "I need many things. But a bath is a good start." Matt levels a steady gaze at his brother. "Alright," very softly, nearly inaudible. He drains his tea, as well, then says, more firmly, "Alright." Hands the second mug to Lucien, as well. A subtle ripple running through his powers like a shudder, though his ministrations do not falter. His smile is fragile but not forced. "Have to start somewhere."