ArchivedLogs:Dear Princess Celestia

Dear Princess Celestia
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Jackson, Micah
In Absentia	3 July 2013 Visiting Lucien after the news...
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. Lucien's house is quiet. Not silent, though; there is music playing, very softly but piped through most of the house, quiet classical. There is the soft burbling of the aquariums, and the quiet ticking of an antique grandfather clock off tucked into a corner of the dining room. Occasionally, the soft rustle of book pages. Lucien is curled up in Matt's favourite armchair, in jeans and a white button-down, half-unbuttoned. There is a bottle of Scotch on the table in front of him, almost entirely full; there's been a squat glass poured out with a few fingers' worth of caramel-coloured liquor but it has been barely touched itself. Lucien is focusing largely on the book, this evening. Lucien's doorbell rings! HELLO! It is not a surprise ring, Jackson has texted in advance, albeit not so much asking permission as just informing. Hi coming over now you home? He is, as usual, colourful, swishy white skirt covered in winding green vines, a bright purple blouse with flowy sleeves hanging bell-like down to his elbows. Bright yellow eyepatch with a happy face on it. His arms are loaded with /containers/, tupperware food tubs, and he is -- worriedly rearranging his expression. Smile? No wait too bright a smile, inappropriate. Worriedfrown? No wait too /hovery/. His teeth gnaw at his lip and he fidgets restlessly, face eventually settling into something just more genuine: /uncertainty/. "-- was he /ok/ when you saw him last?" he whispers to Micah, concern making its way thick into his /voice/ even if its not very heavy in his expression anymore. Micah is not nearly so interesting in his attire, standing beside Jax in a presentable pair of jeans and a green and blue plaid button-down over a plain white T-shirt. He also has a few containers in hand. “Eh. He was Lucien. Not like he gives up much. Think I gave him some news that upset him. He didn't mention Matt at all.” His shoulders roll in a resigned shrug...sometimes things are not to be known fully. “Just settle down an' act natural, hon, you're makin' me nervous just watchin' you pullin' all those faces.” He darts a little kiss to Jax's cheek before sounds of door opening happen. It takes a considerable while for the door to open. Lucien has straightened his shirt, buttoned it back up save its top two buttons, neatened out his collar. Neatly re-tousled his hair. He can do nothing about his /face/ right now, which bears a large splotch of purpling bruising spread puffy-dark across his jaw. "{Good evening,}" he offers in quiet greeting, and then in English, "-- Goodness," he is looking over the containers in Jackson's hand, "how many people did you imagine you were to feed?" By the time the door opens, though, he has rearranged himself into decidedly /un/natural; calm expression, a quick small smile when Lucien opens the door; there's no trace of his earlier fretting save for a restless /bounce/ on the toes of his platform sneakers -- but then, he's often bouncing /anyway/. "Hi Luci! -- Oh, um, I never /know/," he explains, "so I usually just plan for 'bout a thousand t'be on the safe side." “Evenin', hon,” Micah greets before answering Lucien's question almost simultaneously with Jax. “Pretty much /all/ of 'em.” He cuts himself off, instead tilting his chin in Jax's direction. Yeah, what he said. “Y'know what happens once Jax gets to cookin' a thing,” Micah offers with a hint of a smile. He arches a brow at the bruise. “You been gettin' into fist fights, now? That's an impressive bit o' purple y'picked up. With your face.” His tone is a well-practiced mixture of light and yet somewhat concerned. "There is only the one of me." Lucien's mild answer comes with a faint twitch of lips, a quicksilver smile that does not touch his eyes. He steps back, gesturing the others inside; the fading evening sun lights the hallway dimly though the living room is warmer-lit with lamplight. "You do not like it?" he asks, lighter and with a twist of amusement corded through the words, "they tell me green and purple go well together," and here he is looking at Jax's blouse matched with his skirt, "I thought it rather set off my eyes." "Green and purple are /fantastic/," Jax agrees with a small hip-swivel as he steps inside that sends his skirt swishing around his knees. "And Luci, honey-honey, you'd look fantastic in preeetty much anything but I don't know if that's really a good /style/ on you." He toes off his shoes inside the door, carefully as he balances the containers in his arms. "-- Micah's just as guilty as me," he totally /accuses/, hefting the food slightly in indication, "we cooked t'gether -- anyway I'm pretty sure it's a Southern thing, we'd have our citizenship revoked if we showed up with any less food than'd feed a whole army regiment." "Oh no, it is, as I said, rather impressive," Micah rattles on easily with the banter, words laced with just a touch of laughter. "Just next time y'need a spot more colour about, y'might wanna get a new shirt or somethin' instead. Won't have to gamble on the shade you'll get that way. An' you can change it when you wanna." He steps into the entryway and just to the side, to be out of the way. Containers are deposited on the floor for a moment. Because just /try/ taking a shoe off a prosthetic foot without using both hands. It's not easy! He turns his head up from the task to stick his tongue out playfully at Jax for the accusations of food preparation conspiracy. "Would you believe how easy it is t'get this one t'rat on a body?" He tsks and shakes his head sadly at the outright betrayal. "You cannot trust anyone these days," Lucien murmurs in answer to this betrayal. He closes the door behind them, locking it, and stoops to gather food containers -- half of Micah's, at least, and half of Jax's. "More my style than you might think." He sounds kind of dry. "Is there a /reason/ for the sudden feast? I do," he informs them quite seriously, "know my way around the kitchen." The question makes Jax's arms pull in closer to his chest, almost hugging the remainder of his containers close. "I know you do, you pretty much cook as perfectly as you do /everything/," he says with a slight flush of cheeks. His eye skips up over Lucien, head dipping just slightly when he says a little quieter: "We just. Heard about Matt. I wasn't sure if you /wanted/ to be spendin' a lotta time cookin' right nowabouts." Micah gathers the remaining containers once the shoes have been seen to, returning to his feet. "Didn't know, last time I was here," he offers with the air of an apology, voice softened from its earlier joviality. "Heard from Shane, by way of Desi, last night. An' this is just a thing. Custom. 'Least with Southerners an' with Jewish folks an' I ain't lived 'round much else t'say. Maybe in general. Share food an' company an' try t'give one less worry when things are...harder." He looks down at the items in his arms, for some reason feeling a need to /explain/ their existence. Perhaps more completely than is truly required. "Gives folks a way of feelin' helpful, at least." "-- Ah." Just that, simple and quiet, in answer to these explanations. Lucien glances down to the containers in his hands with a sudden bemusement, his brows faintly furrowed. For a very long pause he just eyes the tupperware somewhat blankly, but eventually he looks up again with a quick, small smile. "Thank you," is lighter, milder, "that is quite -- considerate. Do you," he wants to know, just as light, "feel helpful?" "Um --" Jackson's brows pull into a frown, and he studies Lucien's expression for a moment. "-- sometimes," he says this with a slight crinkle of his nose and more /amusement/ than censure, "I feel like most everything you say sounds polite an' is /actually/ jus' mocking someone." He lifts a shoulder, rubbing it against his chin. "Look, m'sorry an' we can go if you don't -- want the company, I just. He was your --" His teeth worry for a moment at one lip ring. "-- We jus' care about you. I ain't always sure how to show it." There is the /faintest/ snort of laughter in response to Lucien's question about feeling helpful. "Y'know me. Gotta at least feel like I'm tryin' t'be helpful or I might stop breathin'. Not ever quite sure if I'm /actually/ bein' helpful or just annoyin' with certain folks. But. Matt was our friend an' you're our friend, so. You get either the help or annoyance as it comes." Micah moves toward the kitchen to find a place to /put/ the excessive quantities of food. "An' you're welcome," he looks back at Lucien with a wisp of a smile, small but assuredly more sincere than all of the half-jest that preceded it. The small smile fades, as Lucien studies Jackson right back. His eyes lower to the food again. "I do not," he acknowledges, rather quiet, "make it easy to show, I imagine." He turns aside, starting towards the kitchen as well and adding, still soft: "-- You two do it admirably regardless." He sets the food down on the counter, and opens the fridge to start rearranging things to make room on a shelf. "-- He was your friend." This sounds almost /surprised/ in echo, and Lucien's jaw tightens. "My apologies. I should have --" He shakes his head, leaning slightly against the refrigerator door. "Helpful and annoying," he adds, at a delay, "are hardly mutually exclusive." Jackson blushes deeper, following the others to set down his cargo as well. "You don't make it --" He stops, head shaking. "It ain't your job to make it easy. You're just sometimes hard t'figure out." But then his lips compress; he leans against the counter as Lucien starts fridge-tetrising. "Yessir. He was. You don't gotta -- I mean I can't imagine what -- I mean it was just." He lapses into fidgety-awkward quiet and in the end just gives a crooked smile. "-- You /almost/ got through five whole sentences without the mockin' thing, is that a record?" Micah deposits his containers on the counter next to Lucien's, letting him decide where he wants them to end up. “I'm choosin' to take that as a positive. Because it ain't /just/ annoyin', then.” A smirk plays across his lips at Jax mocking right /back/. Though he also notices the other man's deeper blushing at that time and muddles the expression with sympathetic blushing that is, fortunately, a pale echo. He turns back to watch Lucien. “Y'know. You're even allowed to ask. If you ever need anythin'. You or your sibs. Right?” "Of course not," Lucien answers, "I have been through whole hours at a time without mocking anyone. Usually," he admits, "when I am asleep. Or on the clock. You could," he suggests, deadpan, "pay my fees, and be mockery-free." Fridge properly arranged, he goes to collect the gifted food, sliding the containers onto the bare shelf. He turns in the middle of this to flick a bemused glance at Micah. "What would I ask for?" "Well -- things /you/ need," Jackson answers with a trace of confusion, "s'kinda a thing you gotta answer for yourself." He quietly rearranges containers while Lucien puts them away -- cookies in one, scones in one, both /those/ don't need fridging. They get slid farther down the counter. "I mean, I don't know what helps y'all when things is rough." His nose crinkles up. "And man, if I had enough money to afford you, I would have a lot less worry come rent-time each month." Micah laughs /outright/ at the recommendation to pay for a cessation of mockery. “If I were worried 'bout gettin' mocked, I think I ended up with the wrong group of friends. Groups, even. Seriously.” It takes him a moment to cut off a few remaining stutters of chuckling. “That's up to you, sweetheart. I'm not the arbiter of your needs, nor am I remotely telepathic.” The smirk comes toying back at the corners of his mouth again. “Y'gotta figure out your own letters to Princess Celestia,” he adds with a solemn nod. "I am not sure I have needs," Lucien straightens when the last of the fridge foods are put away, "that I cannot already fill." He closes the fridge, moving aside to lean against the counter nearby Micah. His jaw tightens, faint, brief, at the Princess Celestia comment. His eyes shift away towards the window out to the garden, dusky-dim in the twilight. "He was better at --" His teeth click together, lips pressing together thinly. A moment later, his expression relaxes. "I have no manners, today," he says, softer, "shall I get you something to drink? Or --" He eyes the remaining containers of baked goods on the counter with a slight twitch of smile, "eat?" "Everyone has --" Jax takes a step closer to Lucien, his hands lifting towards the taller man. Then dropping back to his side. He follows Lucien's gaze to the window, but looks back shortly, eye lingering on the bruise at Lucien's jaw. "I could go for some tea," he says. "And I always kind of want to give you a hug but I think maybe I'm – projecting." Micah's expression softens again as Lucien looks away. “It's okay t'talk about him. If you want to.” He leans back against a counter, his fingers skimming over its surface idly. “He keeps insistin' I'm projectin' with that, too,” he confirms to Jax before seconding, “Tea's nice.” "It is acceptable," Lucien points out mildly, "to give hugs because /you/ want them." His hand drops to rest on the countertop, palm braced against its surface. His eyes slide sideways to look at Micah. "You know." There's a very long pause, then, before he continues, a little bit more /clipped/ than before: "With almost anyone else, I would have just taken the hug. Told you it was helpful. I believe I could even have been convincing about it." Jackson exhales softly, lips curling upwards at this first reminder. "OK, true, just --" He's stepping in closer, /almost/ reaching to hug Lucien again. But those last words give him pause, make him drop his hands to his sides again, this time looking from Lucien to Micah with a faint uncertain frown. "Y'know I feel like that's the first --" he starts, but then blushes deeply and glances downward. "What's different with him?" he asks, instead. “Mmn. Not entirely sure how t'take that, but appreciate the honesty.” Micah drums his fingers softly against the countertop. Just a few quick beats. “I can stop askin'.” "The first --?" Lucien prompts, eyebrows raising. "Not him. You both." He pushes away from the counter, setting out mugs. Filling a teapot and the mugs with hot water as he puts a kettle on to boil. "Take it --" There's a slight drop to his shoulders; his voice sounds abruptly /tired/. "Take it however you care to take it. But take it as honesty." Jackson lifts a hand to scuff across the top of his head, and he leans back against the counter opposite Micah, watching Lucien and his preparations. "The first thing y'ever said straight to me," he says, slow and a little apologetic, "that was genuinely -- about /you/." Micah's brow furrows with the combination of changes in Lucien's posture and tone. "Sorry. Didn't mean t'be bothersome. Kind of the opposite of what we came over for." He tilts his head slightly at Jax's comment, in a somewhat confused-dog fashion. Lucien's head turns, glancing at Jackson with an odd crooked quirk of a half-smile. "Then perhaps it serves to tell you," he says evenly, "why I do not say such things more /often/." He slips around past the others with a light trace of fingers briefly against Micah's side in passing as he goes to decide on a tea. "My apologies," he says, quieter, "you are not bothersome. I have a distinct lack of grace. Does oolong suit your tastes?" He is reaching for a tin. "What --" This time, he sounds somewhat genuinely /curious/ rather than mocking, "-- /did/ you come for?" "Oolong's delicious. And I don't think I ever done see you less than graceful." The look that Jax answers Micah's with is not, really, particularly helpful; a slight frown, teeth dragging against his lip. "-- Yeah," he finally eventually allows, "I can see why y'don't say things like that if -- your goal is pleasin' the people around here. But we ain't here for --" Jackson stops, freezes; the slow smile that creeps across his face is wry. He rubs at the back of his neck. "-- I guess we /are/, actually. Here cuz'a your brother died. And coming to see you makes us feel like we're actually --" He exhales, sharply. "Lucien," he says, kind of awkwardly, "what would help /you/? S'alright if the answer is for us to piss off." Micah's hand catches Lucien's briefly, almost on instinct, to hold his attention for a second. “You ain't gotta do that. Polite-face thing. Really.” Hazel eyes follow the other man's movements closely. “Came 'cause Matt was our friend an' /you/ are our friend. Care about how you're doin'. Wanted to check in... Thought maybe it might be hard. An' we could either help or just...be. Like friends do.” A tiny shadow of a smile is offered at the tea query. “Y'know Jax's tastes in tea well enough an' that I ain't hardly /got/ tastes yet s'far as these things are concerned.” The catch of Lucien's hand comes with a sudden jolt of pain; it's brief and startled-quick and then fades away to nothing. The brief touch comes with a less painful silent flex of ability, too, a quiet /assessment/ of whatever Micah might be feeling. But past this he is silent. Listening to them both. Measuring out tea carefully. Watching the kettle until it starts to whistle. Grabbing a potholder to take it off the stove and pour out the hot water in the teapot, adding the basket of leaves and pouring the not-quite-boiling-anymore water over them. "I had been expecting it a long while," he answers, then. And, after another brief pause: "Tea." This sounds like answer, too. He slips his phone out of his pocket, tapping a moment at its screen and then setting it on the counter to count down steep-time. When he turns, it is to lean back against the counter and face Micah. "What if that is my only face? You wear one for long enough --" This sentence trails off into just a almost-casual flick of glance towards Jackson, instead. "Don't think that makes it /easy/." Jackson stops leaning against the counter; he is never very good at staying in one place /long/ and so instead he bounces, restless on his toes. Wanders over to the tea cabinet to study it, wanders back towards the sink. His cheeks flush /dark/ at that last statement, at that glance, and he looks away. "'f that's what y'want, I think tea we can do." There is a slight jump, muscles twitching in Micah's arm at the shock. He is mentally apologetic, assuming he had startled Lucien with the sudden contact, though outwardly quiet about it. “Been through a lot of...slow'n expectin'. S'just...the kind of people you make friends with during long stays in hospitals. Never really made things easier for me, at least.” Micah shrugs, his thoughts muddled bittersweet, expression briefly pensive. He shakes his head at Lucien's talk of faces. “Don't think that's so, neither. Wouldn't've had reason to mention it just then, if...I hadn't noticed the change. In...” 'You', would finish the sentence. “Definitely can do tea.” "No," Lucien agrees, softly, "not easy." His eyes slide to Jackson, pressing his lips together thinly at his blushing. "Perhaps not the only face, then. We all wear many. But how do you know which is real?" The phone buzzes on the counter, and he acknowledges the alarm with a swipe of finger, removing the basket of leaves from the pot to toss them into a small trashcan. He pours the three mugs full, picking one up to take a step closer to Micah and offer it. "I am sorry," he offers this soft as well, and then with uncertain curiosity, "-- What did make things easier for you?" "You wear 'em enough," Jackson answers with the red still lingering in his cheeks, "maybe none of 'em. Maybe all of 'em." He watches Micah, with this last question of Lucien's, studying his boyfriend's face for a moment but then looking away. “Don't know...if you have trouble tellin', yourself. I'm kinda transparent as hell.” Micah's fingers trace their way through his hair, his lips turned upward slightly in a self-deprecating smile. “I'd guess...what comes natural when you're alone. Or with somebody you trust.” He glances sidelong at Jax, faint pink answering the other man's red. “No need for apologies, hon. An' thanks.” He takes the mug, just cradling it in his hands for a moment. “Time. Bein' around other people. 'Specially other people as loved 'em, too. Eventually...memories stop just remindin' about pain an' start remindin' about the person again. An' that's good. Because it's good to remember.” Lucien doesn't move aside, after the mug is taken; his fingers drop just slightly, resting lightly instead against Micah's wrists. "-- Most people," he says with a small twitch of smile, "are far more transparent than they think." The other answers just pull his expression into a mild frown. "I am not sure," one hand lifts from Micah's to touch lightly against the bruise on his jaw, "that remembering is always --" He shakes his head quickly. "Tea," he says, instead, gesturing to the living room. "'zat include you?" Jackson asks before he can catch himself, the red in his face deepening. He scoops up one of the other mugs, holding it carefully, but then asks suddenly, apologetic: "Luci is there -- was there -- a -- funeral. Or -- service or --" He shakes his head. "Sorry,we probably weren't -- it's just sometimes it's helpful to --" His nose wrinkles up, and he quiets abruptly. He picks up the last mug too, as he turns for the living room. Micah's smile widens, more straightforward and genuine as he glances down at Lucien's hand. “Maybe not /always/ rememberin'. That would be a bit much t'handle. Can't dwell in nothin' but memory when life keeps goin'. But...rememberin' always. Is a different thing.” He follows Lucien's gesture to the living room, cup in hand. "There was none," Lucien answers, somewhat clipped in tone as he drops his hand from Micah's. "And yes. I as much as anyone." With that he takes the third cup from Jackson, slipping out to the living room as well. For tea.