ArchivedLogs:Colour is a Science

Colour is a Science
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Matt
In Absentia	2015-04-20 "No spaceships! What kind of future is that?"
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. It’s not quite /quiet/ in the city, but it’s quiet/ish/, being a Monday night; the occasional taxi rolling by in the wet street, rain pattering against the windows, intermittent voices hurrying along past the windows, every so often a siren. Then the click of a key in the lock, the rustle of an umbrella being shaken out just outside. Lucien sets his umbrella in a stand by the door, slips out of his shoes to leave them on the rack, hangs his jacket in the front hall closet. Shed of these things, he’s left in neatly tailored heather-grey suit and dress socks, only the faintest traces of dampness on the hem of his pants as he slips further inside. Sprawled in an armchair asleep with a blanket draped over his legs and a book in his lap, Matt could, in the dim light, be an echo of himself two years past. But he wakes at once, green eyes bright, cheeks rosy, and, setting the ancient copy of /Neverwhere/ aside, hops to his feet. He wears a navy t-shirt upon which one turtle says “Trust me!” as it tips a barrel of radioactive ooze toward three others, and his blue-jeans are well-worn, tattered where their cuffs drag on the floor. He wraps his brother in a hug before slipping into the kitchen. “{Asahi gyokuro?}” he asks quietly as he peers into a tin appraisingly; it sounds mostly empty when he tilts it. “{Or the new sencha?}” Lucien’s arm curls back around Matt, tight. The light press of his cheek to his brother’s comes with a very faint trickle of happy-warm before he drops his arm. “{Is there enough gyokuro for two?}” He is slower to trail after Matt, stopping by the twin aquariums to first glance inside and then shut their lights off for the night. He loosens his tie as he follows after towards the kitchen. “{You should stop by this gallery I was at tonight. I think you’d really have enjoyed the work. Some friend of Jackson’s from school…}” He trails off, opening the fridge to peer inside, though closing it again without actually retrieving any food. “{Quite a lot of -- colour.}” His brows pull slightly together, at this last word. “{Just enough.}” Matt fetches a clear Tea Steeping Gadget from the cabinet and, taking up a spoon, carefully transfers the last of the gyokuro from its tin. He leans over the temperature indicator on the kettle, nods, and fills the Gadget with a slow trick of water barely hot enough to release visible steam. The tea leaves unfold into delicate wisps of vivid emerald green, almost surreal in their brilliance. He sets this down on the counter and leans over, cheek propped in one hand, to watch the slow swirling dance of tea in the making. “{Was it an upsetting amount of color?}” he asks, smiling faintly. “{I’m in a tremendous amount of distress,}” Lucien replies, a faint note of amusement in his voice as he leans back against the opposite counter. His arms drop back behind him, palms resting against the counter’s edge and his eyes focusing on the tea as well, a small curl of smile on his lips. “{Jackson has a show there next month. I am sure the riot of colour will continue. I may have a breakdown.}” “{How are you going to cope when the colors /invade/ the garden wall, hm?} Matt darts a glance at the time and straightens up, grinning. He retrieves two cups, also colorful and almost curiously crude to be found in Lucien’s cabinets. “{Shall we barricade ourselves in and draw straws for bringing refreshments out to the besieging artist?}” Setting the Tea Gadget atop one cup, he watches it drain, then moves, only just short of overfilling, to the other. The fuller cup he slides across toward Lucien. “{I don’t believe I will cope.}” Lucien’s head bows slightly, one hand lifting to press fingertips lightly to his chest. “{Even just thinking about it I can feel myself beginning to wither away. By the time the mural is done there will be only a shade left where you once had a brother. Remember me fondly.}” He picks up the tea, careful not to spill, and moves to the kitchen nook to set it down on a coaster and settle /himself/ down in the windowseat, shedding his suit jacket once there. “{Your armor is stronger than mine. /You/ can feed the invading Colour Armies.}” Matt doesn’t bother with a coaster or a chair, but he does follow Lucien, tea in hand. “{Showing /your/ true colors.} This is what separates a charlatan from a Charlemagne.” He wraps both hands around the inexpertly made cup and takes a cautious sip, but really, the tea hardly needed to cool at all. The smirk fades from his eyes if not his lips, and he gazes past his brother into the night outside. “{I’ll brave that battlefield, then, if you can bear my whispering suggestions to the invaders. But really, you’re the one who wanted the mural, no? Self-flagellation doesn’t really suit you.}” “{Oh gods. No. No /Pippin/ on Mondays.}” Lucien sounds So Firm about this. He lifts his cup -- first for a very small sip of tea but then, afterwards, to eye the cup it is /in/ with a small and curious frown. “{Sera loves Jax’s work,}” he answers, eyes drifting up towards the ceiling. “{Do I /want/ to know what suggestions you have in mind?}” The briefest flash of /gleeful temptation/ crosses Matt’s face, eyes twinkling and mouth open, no doubt ready to belt some other part of that number as loudly as he dares, with the young ones upstairs. But he masters himself and puts more /tea/ in his mouth instead. “{Well, she has good taste,}” he says softly. “{Mine tend toward hers enough that you probably do /not/ want to know what I’d suggest. Besides, why spoil the surprise?}” Though he says nothing for a few moments, his hesitation is palpable. Finally, he allows, “You think you already know what it will look like, non?” In contrast to twinkling eyes Lucien has sharply narrowed ones; the lift of his fist is really not much of a /threat/ given that Matt is out of punching range and anyway sudden movements right now would spill his tea. “{Yesterday she wanted to cover the couch with purple and green sequins.}” His expression has relaxed back into amusement. His mild tone does not offer this up as affirmation or challenge to the statement of good taste. Just offers it. He settles back further in the bench-seat, hand dropping to cup the mug in /both/ hands, now. His eyes lower to look at his tea, eyes slipping half-closed. “I saw it. {Perhaps. A possible-it.}” Matt affects as serious a face as he can manage above the twist of a smile. “{Purple and green are perfectly good colors for a couch. Sequins, maybe not so practical, but what is art without daring?}” He shuffles a step closer, sock-clad feet silent on the tile. His hand rests on Lucien’s shoulder, lightly. “{Don’t tell me, then.}” “{/A/ couch, perhaps. But /our/ couch?}” Lucien’s eyes close the rest of the way. The small tilt of his head to the side presses his cheek against the back of Matt’s knuckles. It does not come with any transfer of feeling, this time. “{I normally dislike surprises but in the case of the future I am not sure --}” He gives a small shake of head, straightening so that he can take another sip of tea. “There were no /spaceships/ on it. Small blessings. {You can’t have had so /very/ much influence after all.}” “{/Any/ couch, but most especially ours,}” Matt insists. “{What excellent contrast it would make! Would anyone even /notice/ if Jax’s couch suddenly burst into purple and green sequins, or Tag’s, or Geekhaus’s, even?}” His hand closes on his brother’s shoulder, not hard enough to hurt. It’s the grip of someone holding on for dear life, though he stands entirely upright and steady on his own feet. “No spaceships!” He scoffs. “{What kind of future is that? We’ll see.}” An exaggerated shudder runs through Lucien. “{Purple and green, perhaps. But no /sudden/ about it. /Warn/ me before you both go} desecrating my colour schemes, {I will need time to adequately mentally prepare.}” He takes another long sip of tea, then lowers the mug. His head lowers, too. cheek brushing just lightly again, against Matt’s hand. This time it does come with a faint trickle, soothing, comforting, warm. Softly, only a faint emphasis lent to the first word: “{/We’ll/ see.}”