ArchivedLogs:Choice

Choice
Dramatis Personae Lyric, Micah, B, Dylan	26 October 2014 '
Location <XS> Kitchen
The kitchen staff at Xavier's tends well to the needs of its residents. Always cognizant of its students and faculty's dietary needs alike, the menu has a wide variety of choices, and the longtime cook works wonders in the kitchen. The pantry, too, is kept well stocked for those who want to come prepare themselves their own snacks. The shelf, fridge, and freezer space is ample, though if anyone wants to keep their own food there, they'd better make sure it's labeled clearly, and even that is no guarantee it'll last. Late on a Sunday afternoon puts the school in a weekend sort of stupor; it lacks the excitement of yay-weekend-is-here on Friday, the bustle of energy of Saturday -- by now there's a mingling of burnout from late nights and reluctant homework-finishing. So, quiet. At least it's largely quiet /elsewhere/ in the school. Here in the kitchen there's a clattering, the rattle of dishes and whir of an electric hand mixer rat-tat-tatting against the side of a metal bowl. Also music, Nicki Minaj playing /loud/ and thumpy, bass turned way up and treble turned way down and the volume set to a pretty uncomfortable level for most human ears. In the middle of this noise there is one skinny teenager, kneeling on a stool at the counter as she mixes up a batch of fluffy green-tinted icing in a mixing bowl. The icing kind of matches Lyric, today: long pink-and-mint-green kurta embroidered with intricate mirrorwork, green linen pants, a similarly embroidered gauzy green headscarf wrapped around her hair and tucked neatly under her chin. Her bare foot, hanging over the edge of the stool where she kneels, is bobbing in time with the music as she works -- she's made kind of a /mess/ of the kitchen, dusting of powdered sugar and flour on the counters, ingredients still scattered about, more mixing bowls and measuring spoons and cups also scattered about the working surface. Whatever was /in/ the mixing bowls seems to have been transferred into the oven already; there's only the leavings of batter still clinging to the bowls. The baking in progress is probably a blessing, at least as far a scents in the room are concerned. While Micah has cleaned himself up and performed a costume change (now in an orange and red plaid flannel shirt over jeans and sneakers), the scent of blood will be clinging to him for awhile. He winces faintly at the over-loud music as he enters the room, but allows time to accommodate to it since /he/ is the visitor here. Lyric gets a wave if she looks up, before Micah continues to the refrigerator in search of Tupperware containers ferreted away there before the hunting trip with the twins. A blessing for some people, maybe. /Some/ people might prefer the blood-scent. B, today, looks more feral than hir usual femme-punk fashion, rather bloodstained scuffed-torn cargo pants, no shoes, no shirt. Ze's at /least/ cleaned off hir actual /skin/, no blood still clinging to that. The tiny sharkpup is trailing hir father into the kitchen -- but stops by the door, cringing and clapping hir hands to waaay oversensitive ears. "{Ohmyfuckinggod.}" This profanity is rather unintelligible, most likely, coming as it does in Vietnamese and not English. One webbed hand flaps outward, waving in Lyric's general direction. Or maybe the speakers' general direction. Just aaaaah stopit. There is no other reason than simple hunger that has brought Dylan downstairs - well about an equal mixture of hunger and boredom. He is wearing a pair of jeans that saw better days, knees ripped out, bottom hem completely ragged. The shirt might have once been black, but is now more of a dark charcoal. Unlike Micah and B, Dylan does smell of blood - at least faintly, as the knuckles of his right hand are slightly bloody - dark and crusted over as if the injuries were a couple hours old. Stepping up to the doorway, he stops before he collides into B's backside. He arches a brow and cocks his head at the flapping gesture towards the girl playing Top Chef - if he knew what that show was, because there is no way that he would ever be caught dead watching a show like that. Lyric does look up when the door opens, flashing a bright smile to Micah. Her hand lifts to wave -- unfortunately while still holding the mixer; it splatters stray bits of icing onto the already messy counter. A flush darkens her brown cheeks as she lowers the mixer back into the bowl. /B's/ arrival draws her eyes back to the doorway for a looonger time, a deeper /blush/ as she looks over the shirtless sharktwin. It's only once he waves towards the speakers that she seems drawn out of her blatant ogling, cringing herself apologetically and (this time /remembering/ to turn off the mixer) sliding off her stool to go shut the music off. Once the kitchen is no longer offensively blaring, /she/ cocks her head right back, squinting over at Dylan curiously. B can definitely handle the requests for lowered music volume, /ze/ lives here. Micah, instead, disappears head and shoulders into the refrigerator to dig out a red lidded Tupperware container full of lentil soup. Spinning back out of the cold box, he pushes the door to. Initially, he makes for a cabinet to grab a pot for reheating. A glance at the rather /busy/ cooking area seems to change his mind, however, and he fetches a smaller bowl to spoon soup into before popping the thing in the microwave. "Y'want me t'heat you a bowl, too, B, or are you full up?" Once his hands are empty, he offers Dylan a wave, as well. Dylan is greeted with a ragged harsh snarl, growling guttural out of B's throat as ze whirls, teeth bared and nostrils flared at the scent of Other Blood. A second later, though, the painful music cuts off and in an instant B seems a good deal more at /ease/ -- physically, anyway, though hir initial startle reaction fades into just /embarrassment/. "Oh, gosh, I -- apologies," ze says with a sheepish duck of hir head to Dylan, one fisted hand lifting to circle against hir heart. "I didn't -- I've just been -- I think I --" Ze scoots backwards out of the doorway, blushing deep and moving aside to let Dylan enter. "Hi." Hir arms curl across hir chest, gills fluttering along hir neck and sides. "Soup? Yeah no I'd love -- thanks. Please. Thank you." Despite the fact that ze has /definitely/ already eaten quite a huge amount of fresh meat just now while out. The smile ze turns to Lyric, finally, is shy and closed-lipped. "What're you making?" A sane person might have flinched at the sudden snarling shark boy, but 'sane' isn't exactly something that Dylan has ever really attributed to himself. Truth of the matter, he grew up learning not to show fear if he can between his father's and brother's intimidations and the various criminal elements that were connected to them. He offers B a nonchalant shrug, "Don't worry about it, bro.... No harm, no foul." He offers a slight grin as he moves through the open door. He offers a slight nod to the junior Betty Crocker. Likewise, Micah gets a nod as a non-verbal wassup. He says pretty much to anyone that might care. "Don't mind me... just rummaging." Lyric purses her lips briefly at B's question, and flicks her sugar-powdered fingers towards the counter where a small box of leftover cupcake liners is still sitting open there. Brightening, she trots back to the counter to dip her finger into the icing, sidling back over towards B to offer the icing for /tasting/ on the tip of one finger. There's a sweet matcha-flavor to the sugary green frosting. Her eyes follow Dylan back across the room, though, and she lifts her brows quizzically as she looks between the New Kid and B. Micah turns about quickly at B's growl, the threat assessment probably a /little/ too obvious in his features at first. His shoulders relax only a bit when it appears that there are only two other students in the room, and neither of them exactly on the attack. "B..." he starts quiet but firm, stepping toward hir. The movement halts as soon as B composes hirself. "We was just out huntin'," he informs Dylan, instead. "Kinda gets the blood up for a bit." At the alarm beep of the microwave, Micah pulls out the bowl inside and sets it on a countertop nearer to B. A second bowl soon takes its place, spinning and whirring away as it heats. Pointing to the cupcake liners, he signs 'What kind?' to Lyric once she turns back around. "Yeah, I --" B signs 'sorry' again, fist rubbing once more against hir heart. "The noise and the blood and -- oh, gosh, are you hurt?" Hir eyes dart down to Dylan's hand solicitously, but hir posture tenses up sharply when Dylan speaks again. "Bro? I -- no, I'm not. Not..." Hir arms curl around hir (definitely very /flat/) chest, teeth scraping against hir lower lip. Ze only relaxes /slightly/ when Lyric approaches, the rapid flutter of hir gills calming slightly as ze licks off the icing. "/Huh/. Green tea. I wasn't expecting -- Pa makes an icing a lot like -- /Oh/ you're in his baking class this term aren't you? Is this /homework/?" Ze licks at hir lips, moving over to the counter to pick up the bowl and sniff at it hungrily. Dylan looks down at his hand, "Oh, fine... talked with the old man earlier and kinda punched the wall... Let's just say the wall kinda punched back...." He offers a slight grin, "Ever'one's either bro or foe... didn't mean anythin' by it." He reaches up and combs his fingers through his mop of hair, "Hey, used to get smacked if the beer wasn't cold enough... a little growl ain't nuthin'. Like I said, no worries." Looks at the exchange between B and Lyric and the icing. "Green tea?" He mutters to himself as he shudders slightly. He starts searching through one of the fridges for something portable and not immediately perishable. Pushing a couple pieces of fruit into the pockets of his jeans. Practically climbing into the fridge, "Jackpot... left-over fried chicken." Lyric's head bobs in an acknowledging nod at the question of homework. '/Delicious/ homework,' she signs, returning to her bowl. 'Almond cupcakes,' she adds, brightly, to Micah. Her eyes return to Dylan afterwards, brows knitting in puzzlement as he gets all Up In the fridge. Blink, blink. She looks between Micah and B after this, still puzzled as she jerks a thumb and Dylan and inquires silently, 'Why?' "Hurt?" Being across the room as he is, Micah didn't really notice the bit of blood lingering on Dylan's hand until someone else pointed it out. "Y'should really get that cleaned up, swab some antibiotic ointment on." His brow furrows at the explanation, but he doesn't pry. "How'd the wall fare in that fight?" Lyric's answer brightens his features with a smile. "Almond an' green tea? That kinda has Jax written all over it, yeah. Make sure y'put a sign on 'em declarin' Poison Cake or somethin' or folks'll eat 'em all out of habit 'fore y'can get 'em t'class." He shrugs at her question, pointing to Dylan as well before signing an exaggerated 'hungry'. B's gills start to flutter again, hir head shaking rapidly and hir shoulders tightening again. "I'm /not/ a /bro/." This is sharper, not /angry/ so much as upset. And despite the clear physical indicators and the very extremely identical twin rooming with Dylan: "I'm not a /boy/." This is much quieter, spoken to hir soup more than anything. 'You making flowers? For the top? Pa makes --' Ze hesitates a while before spelling (sloooowly, webbed fingers don't handle fingerspelling /excellently/,) 'M-A-R-Z-I-P-A-N'. Hir voice is still a little fluttery when ze addresses Dylan again: "You know you're allowed to eat the food /any/ time? I mean you don't need to squirrel it away. You can have as much as you like. When I got here," ze admits with a blush, "I kind of hoarded all the food too, but. You don't. Have to." Dylan extracts himself from the fridge, chicken leg held with his teeth. At B's statement, the chicken leg falls from his mouth. He catches it before it hits the ground. "Oh." blink. "Oh." blink. "Um... I am so sorry... I didn't mean anything... " He sighs softly, "Just chalk it up to me being a massive idiot." He glances at his hand, then over to Micah. "I'll live. And let's just say, that the wall did much better than I did." His attention turns back to B, "Never know when things are gonna turn south though. You know?" He offers a weak smile over to Lyric, one that is steadily becoming more and more uncomfortable with the conversation. "I'm Dylan... and I probably should be going before I make a bigger ass of myself." Lyric looks /intensely/ skeptical at the claim of not being a boy. Her eyes skip automatically back to B's bare chest, lips pursing slightly and her nose crinkling up a little bit. She answers Dylan's smile with a small shake of her head, lips pressing together. 'You're OK.' Okay is at least remarkably easy to parse for non-signers. Micah lets B fight hir own fight regarding self-identification and preferred pronouns. Well, mostly. Lyric's skeptical look is answered with a disapproving one and a small headshake on top of it. "Whoa. Marzipan might be gettin' a little /advanced/." His limited signing vocabulary reproduces that thought as, 'Wow. Fancy.' "You're not an idiot, sugar. Y'just didn't know an' now y'do. So that should be better from now on. That's all." He offers a reassuring smile along with the words. B shakes hir head, eyes fixed down on hir soup. "Not an idiot. It's -- I just. Don't identify -- that way," ze answers uncomfortably, tightening up further under Lyric's skeptical look. "Sorry." Ze lifts the bowl of soup, slurping a mouthful directly from it. "Pa's class does have the tastiest homework," ze finally offers with a small awkward smile. And, quiet again: "Whatever makes you comfortable." Dylan smirks over at Micah and B, "Nah. I really am an idiot. Anyone who knows me long enough knows that." He shrugs. "Anyway, I probably need to get back to studying anyway.... Or staring blankly at the book and trying to learn by osmosis." He looks over at B, "Hey, and it's cool that you know who you are...." His voice softens a touch, losing a bit of the almost innate bravado. "Not everyone does." He smirks a bit, "Catcha cats later I guess." 'I can't make the marzipan flowers. /Definitely/ fancy,' Lyric agrees, though it's a little hesitant-awkward, too, her skeptical look morphing into discomfort at Micah's headshake. There's a buzzing from her pocket that has her returning to the oven to go check on the cupcakes, pulling out the tray once she has slid a toothpick in. Once oven mitts are off her hands and she can sign again: 'But you can't just. Put on girl-clothes and become a girl.' "Have a good night, Dylan. Good luck with the studying." The microwave gives one of those reminder beeps that the food has finished cooking and no one has opened the door yet, managing somehow to sound irritated in a single beep. Micah finally retrieves his soup from it. "Can't just put on girl clothes an' become a girl, no. But can have a girl brain an' be a girl. Despite whatever physical appearances might have a tendency t'confuse other folks." He doesn't even /try/ to sign the more complex subject matter, just making sure his mouth is visible while he talks and hoping for the best instead. "If you ever are stuck in a subject there's a lot of us who -- help with tutoring? Anyway if you need a study partner I can -- probably help out. In some things," B offers, smile a little easier at Dylan's parting words. The comfort doesn't /last/ with Lyric's follow-up, gills fluttering again fast and hard. "I /don't/." Hir nose wrinkles, eyes dropping to hir current -- semi-outfit, nothing particularly gendered about his (bloodied) (ripped) plain cargo pants. "I'm a girl in /any/ clothes. Or -- I -- not-a-boy anyway. It's not about clothes it's just." Hir shoulder hitches in a quick shrug. 'Who I am.' Lyric's frown creases deeper as she looks between the others. She exhales a sharp breath, lips pursing again as she transfers her cupcakes to a cooling rack, blowing on her fingers between plucking each out of the cups they're nested in. 'Look like a boy,' she finally answers. 'Don't think /other/ people are the confused ones.' Micah swirls his spoon through his soup to blend it before lifting the spoon to his lips. He waits until his mouth is clear to speak again. “Who someone is ain't nobody's decision but their own. Wouldn't be my place t'tell B ze needs to...be Baptist or love classical music or be indispensable t'the soccer team or marry a boy or become a doctor. Don't see why it's anyone else's place t'tell hir what hir gender needs t'be or how ze needs t'be addressed, neither. S'rather presumptuous.” "I'm -- confused about a lot of things," B acknowledges slowly. "But not this." Ze slides down off hir stool, curling hir hands around hir soup bowl. "I hope your cupcakes turn out good." Still carrying the soup, ze heads out for the back door, to go finish hir meal on the patio. Lyric bites down on her lip, shaking her head. 'Those things are all /choices/ being a girl isn't a choice.' She exhales again as B gets up, turning aside to start cleaning up the mess she's left on the counter. “Can't say I agree with any of that statement, unfortunately. Good luck with your bakin'.” Collecting his soup bowl and tea thermos, Micah follows B to share dinner outside.