ArchivedLogs:By Any Other Name

By Any Other Name
Dramatis Personae Mirror, Parley	2013-07-11 Mirror gets a name.
Location <NYC> 603 {Greyhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a small living room. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom. The decor in this apartment is eclectic, an odd jumbled mishmash of found items that seem to bear little relation to each other. Here, a newspaper article is clipped and pinned to the wall with various lines highlighted in pink and orange highlighter, here an advertisement, here the label off a beer can. The furniture is eclectic, too. A milk crate for a table, a soft (orange!) suede ottoman (with no armchair to match), a very /bright/ magenta vinyl couch. Someone has helpfully affixed a sheet of paper to the wall over the couch, with the label 'COUCH' and an arrow pointing downward. A combination corkboard/whiteboard near the kitchen entryway more often bears odd scribbled drawings than helpful information. It's a wet, muggy day in New York City. Outside all the apartment windows, the sky hangs low and fat and dark gray with coming rain. In the distance, ominous thunder rumbles, putting a sweaty-humid /energy/ through the apartment complex. The Lofts are no different; above, below, to all sides, the undertone buzz of minds pacing restlessly indoors in expectation for the storm to break. Parley isn't pacing. He's sitting cross-legged on the (magenta vinyl) couch, next to a flat rectangular shape draped beneath a bedsheet. With wrists draped off either knee and eyes blank, he's ostensibly staring at the door. Or possibly just marinating in the minds beyond the walls. The door opens! Like it has been WILLED to. It admits a young woman, dark-skinned, dark-haired, in business suit that was probably once crisp and has been /wilted/ by humidity and intermittent rains into being sort of a limp-bedraggled sadness. Though this form is Mirror's default, natural, hir /own/, it is never one ze is very /comfortable/ in for long and so here now that work is for the moment done, ze is already stripping off suit pants, suit jacket, peeling out of dress blouse into a more comfortable Joshua-form. Joshua-form in women's bra and panties. "You're staring." At the door, really, not at stripping!Mirror, but /still/. "You're a spectacle." Parley shoots back deadpan, kind of slowly blinking back to the present-moment with a kind of severe little furrow between his brows. Still seated, he reaches out a grabby-hand, indicating JoshuaMirror should turn around so he can unsnap that bra for him. Or maybe /just/ snap it. Mirror!Joshua stoops, turning, to crouch in front of the couch. Brastrap at convenient Parley-height. "I suppose I do kind of catch the eye." It's a Joshua-sardonic tone. Beneath, Mirror contemplates. Spectacle. +/-? It comes up a blank, as many things do. Spectacle, file for later consideration. "You have a bedsheet." << (+.) >> "I have many things. Don't touch it." Parley lightly draws back JoMir's bra strap and does snap it, making a mild chuff before unfastening it. Turning loose the Joshuatits. Pat-pat. He leans forward to administer a very light headlock from behind, sinking his fingertips into mir!Josh's hair. Scrub. His expression hasn't changed from blank-hard. "...how was work." Mirror touches it! Just to be ORNERY, a spike of curiosity stirred when Parley says not to; hir finger reaches out to give the corner of the bedsheet a tinytiny poke. "Did you know," ze informs Parley very seriously, "that people still don't like mutants. We're in the middle of an /epidemic/. The need for registration is only growing with all these criminals on the loose. I wrote an op-ed about it today." Ze sinks down to sit on the floor at the base of the couch, legs crossed, head tipping back against Parley's scrubbing. "Are you afraid? You should be." In wording this is ambiguous: afraid of the dangerous mutants? Afraid of registration? In sentiment, it is not much clarified -- only wryly /amused/. /Swat/ at the side of the head. For touching Parley's THING. "I probably am." He's kind of low-scale bullying, pushing forward and to the side to topple JoshMirror onto their side on the ground. "I'm not very good at it." Being afraid? Push-push, shove. He's trying to maneuver the other around to face the couch, joining hir on the floor. "-- I have something for you." Joshua pushes back, thunkthunkBONKing his head into Parley's manhandling, though in the end he acquiesces. And topples. Slowly. REGALLY -- ok no it's more like a FWUMP down onto his side. When manuevered he /rolls/, first onto his back, then onto his other side, to face the sofa. "Is it a puppy?" he asks, with a deep and solemn hopefulness; and then with a flicker-image of Sloanima, tongue lolling, flopped on /their/ magentavinylcouch: "Because you already tried that." "It followed me home," Parley is using his snippy-voice. /Protest/. When Joshua fights back, Parley is /batting/ him about the head, mussing him. In mind, he's packing slightly closer, to the /hir/ within /him/. The cool coil of liquid mercury, stoking at it, grooming it, channeling it brighter. And, sitting on the ground, he's now idly /fixing/ at Joshual's hair. "... you don't have a birthday." Like this is /all/ hir fault. "Don't be silly. Of course I have a birthday." Read: He was /born/, right? And it had to have been on /a/ day. The fact he has no idea what day that was seems immaterial. "My ID says I have a birthday." It -- likely has absolutely no relation to any sort of chronological age /but oh well/. "Can we get an /actual/ pet?" This is a little more plaintive. "Jax has a dog and a cat. Dusk and Ian," he is apparently just /not acknowledging/ the lack of Ian, today, "have a ferret. Hive has --" FROWN. "-- a goldfish. We," this is snippy-protest, too, "Have /Anima/." "I think you're /warming/ to hir." Parley says ever so lightly! His smile is narrow and somewhat unhappy as he finishes neatening Joshua's hair. The rest isn't really possible, the man is only wearing lady-panties. Stranger things have happened. "...I mean a birthday as an event. A day that's yours. I got you something." And doesn't have a DAY to give it to Mirror on. He's a little accusing with his tone. As though this complication was making his life hard. He glances uncertainly over his shoulder at the sheet-draped rectangle. "I warm to everyone. I am the warm/est/. I find Hive absolutely /charming/," Joshua insists, deadpan, "And only yesterday I brought Anima home a /kong/." This might not be true? But he says it like it is. "When is /your/ birthday?" Joshua wonders musingly, and for a moment there's a slight bristling of /fur/ growing along his shoulders like -- maybe he can just find out for himself! But instead he stays Joshua, fur fading back away. "If you like, today could be my birthday." "Hive-san can be charming," Parley says, simply. "If you only look at what he does. And ignore everything he says. You didn't bring /me/ a kong." He /smoothes/ at the rush of fur that bristles and then vanishes, leaning back to look down Joshua's now-naked spine again. "Mnh. It's in August. Are you paying attention? I'm making today your birthday." He says it in a much quieter version of the tone muggers have used for centuries when making such statements as 'This is a stick-up' and 'Your money or your life.' It's sort of a neat little /threat/. He pushes himself to his feet and moves to climb up onto the back of the couch, pulling the cloth-draped enigma in front of his knees. "...I had this made. For you." "Would you like a kong?" This sounds like a very serious question, from Mirror. "Today, then. What is today? I'm paying good attention. I am /so/," Joshua agrees, "birthday'd." Forcibly birthday'd. His eyes light. "Can we have a party?" When Parley tells him the cloththing is /for/ him he sits up straighter! Exciteder. Roundabout the eye region, which is LIGHTING with interest. "I have been in need of more bedsheets," he says, just as solemn, "was it hand-sewn?" Beneath his light layer of Joshua-dryness, Mirror is /perking/ curiously. If he were a puppy his ears would be PRICKED. A pillow is heaved at Joshua's snarky /face/, Parley carefully steadying the SPOOKY-GHOST sheet'd present with a free hand. But then he's just kind of perching there. Looking down, at the cloth covering. At the knot of his knuckles twisting the material around them, taking a double-handed grip. "No. Forget the kong. You can have a party. If you like. Just." He swallows and, gaze remaining low, drags aside the sheet, to expose a painting. Done in oil, there are shadows, roiling around a depiction of a mirror, from which something reaches out - something /climbs/... Joshua lifts his arms to catch the pillow on its downward tumble from his face, hugging it against his chest. He lapses into quiet, as the cloth is drawn aside, brown eyes studying the painting with a continuation of that curiosity. That slides into a sudden soft-happy << (oh!) >>, that slides into just pensive contemplation. For a very long while, Joshua is silent. Staring. Eyes tracing along the swirls, tracing along the frame, tracing along the silhouette. His hand reaches out -- by the time it hovers a bare few millimeters from the surface of the canvas it hs shifted, trading Joshua's large strong calloused hand for Mirror's slender one. The pillow hugged to chest could almost now be for modesty, if Mirror /had/ any. It's mostly just clutched there forgotten. "-- Oh," she finally says, at length. "Is that me." Parley only purses in his lips. Still not looking up. At length, supporting the painting where it can be seen, he nods tightly. "Huh." It's a soft thoughtful huh, and Mirror returns to studying the painting. Very intently. Hir elbows prop on hir knees, chin resting on loosely curled knuckles. "Huh." And then silence. More studying, looking thoughtfully at the silhouettes. The one standing before. The one climbing out. Hir breath slows. "This is," ze says after long silence, "incredible work. You got this made. For me." It's -- warm. Surprised. Pleased but not sure quite how to /express/ this. Gifts-for-hir not figuring heavily into hir scope of experience. "It made me," ze says eventually, softly musing, "beautiful." Also unsure, if this is a concept that /should/ be applied to hirself. But entertaining the thought. "You are beautiful." Parley growls this quietly. Watching his thumb trace along the rim of the stretched canvas. "I don't -- didn't. Like. How so much--sss." Instead, his mind washes out, buoys up the fringes of Mirror's mind and /expands/, to pull hir inward, to a world of watching, as the entity that is Mirror borrows. Borrows faces, borrows clothes. Borrows pasts and preferences and fears and -- "This is /yours/." << (only yours.) not theirs. (they change)(you stay the same; beneath.) >> It's a treacherous hike, finally raising his dark, hard eyes to match gaze to gaze. "...can we call you Mirror?" Mirror finally closes hir eyes -- until then ze hasn't so much as blinked since the painting was unveiled, drinking it in steadily. Parley's words wash through hir, hir posture relaxing into something calm and oddly contented. << (Mine.) >> ze agrees, though this concept feels /foreign/ in hir mind. << (Mine?) >> settling /in/ to << (Mine), >> more firmly. Hir affection, when it comes, comes in small-tentative creep. Hand inching to rest over Parley's and stop there, just that. Fingers curling down warm over the other man's. "I," ze says, quiet, "would like that very much." Parley stoops over, letting out a sigh that unfastens a multitude of clenched muscles down his back. And he sets his hand over Mirror's. Pat. "Good." He gives hir fingers a squeeze that latches down for a moment, gripping. ...And then slips forward to his feet. "Let's have a party." He says it with great solemnity, nearly looping an arm around Mirror's waist to drag hir towards the door before -- oh. Right. Panties. "Get dressed." He's kind of... shuffling around, arms crossed hard against his abdomen. "How many people make a party?" Mirror is asking this with genuine uncertainty as ze stands. Slipping easily back into Joshua-form, going to -- well, /Joshua's/ room to raid his clothing. "Can there be," he asks this hopefully now, "/cakes/." "There will be cake." Parley is rapidly pulling down random articles hung on the wall; a flipflop sandal, a decorative painted hand fan, a 25cent poster of a meerkat that came out of a mechanical chicken egg, to make room for Mirror's painting while he waits. "And as many people as you want. It's /your/ party." Mirror returns, in badly-matched Joshuaclothes, lightweight pale chinos and a contrastingly casual Chili Peppers t-shirt. "Can we have another in August?" << (for you)(birthday) >> In Mirrormind there is excited thoughts of sparklers (and maybe of just LIGHTING THINGS ON FIRE), of grilling chicken kebabs and tiny American flags. Ze has not had an /abundance/ of experience with Parties lately. << (our party) >> finishes quieter. Parley runs a critical eye down Mirror's choice of attire then up again, reaching out to absently /tweak/ loose a stray wrinkle. "--this doesn't match." And, cautiously, he steps forwards, head ducking down, to carefully wrap his arms around Joshu-Mirror's torso. To awkwardly... compress hir against him. Or, considering the size difference, he's kind of mashing himself against Joshua. It means his face isn't visible when he murmurs, slightly tense, careful. "...We'll see." << (/our/ party, then.) >> Then he's just... HAULING on Mirror to drag hir towards the exit. To go knocking door to door, of neighbors they know. To solicit cake and party from the people living around them like they're selling girlscout cookies, Parley /introducing/ Mirror at each door with a sternly puffed up chest. /Probably/ not actually how you organize a party normally but... it's the thought that counts.