ArchivedLogs:Mirror

Mirror
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Jackson, Micah, Parley	2013-07-06 '
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- 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 living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. 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. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. Is it early? It might be early. It wouldn't be early at all on a normal day but it's /Saturday/ and not yet noon so maybe? Early? Except for Jax and his silly farm-grown habits it's probably well into his day by now. /Dusk/, on the other hand, is still dressed like it's early. Shuffling downstairs in pajama pants and no shirt, wings drooped lazily down along his back, a faint sheen of sweat already slickening his skin (still a little bruised around his back, beneath the wings; still bearing a visible but healing red scar across his stomach) in the Way Too Hot, No Central Air building. He has in his hands a bag! Of coffee beans. Good ones, even! And though he knocks it's more announcement than permission because he's unlocking the door and entering regardless. "Hmmngh?" Jackson is up! Has been up for a while, probably. He's only middling dressed, a yellow and white sarong wrapped knee-length around his waist but past that nothing but a wealth of bright ink and shining piercings to clothe him. He's sprawled on the floor in front of a large fan which is doing little to stop the sweat that's built up on him, either; he has his laptop out, his tablet too, and is currently working on an image -- it looks like the scarecrow from Wizard of Oz, but sort of /deranged/ and -- bloodily eating a brain out of the Tin Man's head? His bruises are harder to see, mostly blending in with the panoply of ink brightening his skin, but he moves with just a hint of stiffness as he rolls over; the prickle of pain accompanying is more irritation than impediment. "Oh hey," his smile is quick; he reaches over to pick up a glittering blue eyepatch, discarded beside himself, to pull it on over his sunken-shapeless missing eye. "You brought coffee!" This is bright, warm; it mirrors the reflexive flush of warmth that accompanies seeing /Dusk/, too. Except maybe an immediately /fiercer/ warmth for coffee. Mmmm. It's warm flushes like that rippling periodically through the Loft apartments that make navigating the hallways a pleasure, psionically speaking. Parley has also been up for hours; gotten an early jog in when there's least amount of people in the park, a (sweaty) stop by Claire's, possibly to drop off or pick up paperwork, maybe to cozen a breakfast with her, then back home to shower. Now, he's down to undershirt again, a square cut out of the back to let his fur breathe - already it's damp again with sweat along the spine - and fanning himself a real estate brochure he'd picked up randomly at a cafe, drifting on bare feet down the hall. Dusk may open the door to head in, but the empath lurks back in the doorway while it's still open, knocking. And /peering/ inside? Kind of like he's JUST APPEARED behind Dusk. To sniff out coffee. "Yeah. I think I drank half of yours last week. You want me to put some up?" Dusk holds the bag up in offering, starting to close the door behind himself -- probably not noticing Parley there until the knock. He catches it still half open, pulling it back all the way open again. "You down for coffee? I will ice the shit out of it," he offers Parley as seamlessly as though he's just taken it for granted that the empath belongs here. Which given the fluid nature of the apartments around here, he probably /has/. He has his own share of warmth -- of late it burns hotter-fiercer-brighter, but then, of late /everything/ he feels does. It's a mingled warmth -- strong, for Jax, but it comes layered over a background cocktail of feeling that has in the past month tended heavily towards grief and anger. In the past couple days, a dose of guilt mixed in with it. His wing stretches out behind him, brushing Parley's arm in wordless greeting and leaving the door wide open for Parley as he continues in. He actually crouches beside Jax, dropping a light kiss to his temple, a wing brushed lightly up along his side before he rises again to head to the kitchen. "Jesus, what is that freakish thing." His wing is flicking towards Jax's computer screen in indication. "That is like asking if I want /oxygen/," Jackson answers with light cheer. The sound of knocking prompts a reflexive further covering-up, a habitual layer of illusion-makeup smoothing out the wealth of scars spread down the left side of his face and neck and body; identification of the source of knock comes with a faint thoughtful delay before illusion fades away again to leave scars where they are. "Got muffins on the counter, too," is half to Dusk but half to Parley, too, "-- hey, Parley. You -- coffee?" He glances to his screen with a crinkle of his nose. "S'a tattoo. Will be a tattoo. Some day. When it's on a body and not my screen." The brush of wings past Parley's shoulder will find a matching feather-light brush of fingertips to Dusk's bare back, where the bruises dwell. The touch accompanies a soft << (?) >>, to inquire how they are feeling. The careful peering formality worn on his face releases to... a somehow more casual setting when Jackson's illusions ease as well. And he meanders in to poke around, following mostly along caught up in Dusk's wake but washing to the side of Jackson in a crouch. "Do you have that. Almond milk? The one that's thicker?" The one he discovered during those communal times he was sleeping here off and on? He's leaning over his knees, watching how the tablet interacts with the image on the screen. And, possibly, peering over Jackson's injuries as well with quick sneak-glances and samples of his body movement that might betray their status. His own body is, by contrast, spared of bruises. His evening of pensive lurking had not managed to work up the boldness to stride into the ring himself. The brush of fingertips elicits a smile, a slight hitch of stride to press just for a second back /into/ it despite the slightly greater twinge of pain this brings. "Feels good actually," he answers aloud, "Sometimes its nice to --" This trails off thoughtfully, Dusk not really certain himself how he intended it to finish. But then coffee! Dusk opens the bag, shaking out some beans into the grinder. "People like some really weird things," he judges of the tattoo, but then: "I'm getting a tattoo. If I get a tattoo, can I just. Lie on your table a long time. In /air conditioning/?" There's a loud rattling buzz as he turns on the grinder. Then adds some water to the coffeemaker. "I -- hmm. I think I got almond milk," Jackson agrees, "it might be a blend. Like almond and hazelnut and cashew." He chews at his lip ring uncertainly, calling back over his shoulder, "-- Dusk what's in the fridge?" He wriggles himself a little more upright so that he can adjust his position to look at both the others at once; the huge wings tattooed onto his back are nowhere near as impressive as Dusk's in their slow shifting flex with the motion. "-- I mean yeah sure y'can do that if. You pay me. Lots of money?" Jackson sets his stylus down on the tablet, tucking one leg beneath himself. "The muffins are blueberry-lemon." Just. FYI. (From the closed bedroom door there is warmth, as well! Spencer is happily TINKERING with a shiny new toy robot. He might be cheerfully occupied for quite some while.) "-- I have a thing," Jackson is suddenly brightening as he tells Parley. "I mean your thing. I mean I finished? I think." He has a faint nosecrinkle of uncertainty here, never a hundred /percent/ sure he's satisfied with arts until long after he forces himself to stop /fiddling/ with them. "-push yourself?" Parley offers to Dusk, his eyes closing where he crouches. Laying his cheek on the arms he crosses over his knees, he lets the surface touch, good or bad, of the minds around him lay over him, buoy him up. "--mm? Thing?" He opens his eyes again, lifting his head - just after getting /comfortable/, Jax. "You think thing?" He doesn't sound confused, more /curious/. Like it's a PUZZLE game. "Painting," Dusk translates this through no feat of empathy and just long habituation with Jackson's chronic inability to finish sentences. "You've been working on that for months, haven't you?" He finishes his hard labor by putting coffee grounds in the machine and pressing a button. And then leaning forward against the counter because man that was a lot of work he just put in, he needs a BREAK. He gives quiet consideration to the finish Parley suggests for his thoughts, and nods -- hesitantly. "Yeah," he says, though he's still turning this over. "It's good. Like. I don't know, sometimes I just want. Distraction? Working out is --" His lips twitch. "OK, or getting beat up -- is -- it clears my head." This comes with a faint uncomfortable mental clenching, trying /not/ to acknowledge just how badly he has been in need of the not-thinking lately. "Painting," Jackson agrees with a sheepish curl of grin. "For your -- person." RoommateFriendPersonmirror. "It's -- it's been a while, yeah, um, working with oil paints ain't -- it's a process," though from his smile (and his kind of satisfied-content-happy) it can be surmised it's a process he /enjoys/. He leans forward to prop his elbows on his knees, chin dropping to his hands. "Yeah," he agrees, "s'sorta cathartic sometimes. -- I didn't expect t'see you there," he's adding to Parley, and this comes not as criticism or snark but just curiosity, "-- Did you want to -- I mean you didn't. Fight. Did you want to -- learn?" he offers, almost shyly. Like asking to dance. With /fists/. Parley's eyes have slipped past Jackson to Dusk, through the corner of his eye. "My..." His touch to Dusk's mind is the opposite of seeking; it /gives/, instead. The impression of endorphin-heat, of Dusk's own twisting mental state but... scrubbed clean, of any personalized association. A soft rush of adrenaline. << (escape?) >> It's hard to tell what Parley's own thoughts of it are. He isn't present. It's purely Dusk. "--...Person." He makes a small smile to himself with the word, standing up with deceptive eagerness and peering around in quick little darts of gaze. "Can - I see?" Peeeer? Peer? He's distracted enough that, at first, he's only murmuring absently, "I'd intended to. I should. It's strange, I've gone my whole life learning how to /not/ fight." THEN he glances at Jax, more present-focused, ducking head a few degrees, "...you didn't mean...?" Questionmark? "Avoiding it's definitely /preferably/ just sometimes --" Dusk closes his eyes, nostrils flaring on a slow indrawn breath as he sinks /in/ to the silent echoed rush Parley provides. It draws from him a further surge of endorphins, genuine this time rather than empath-delivered. A twist of fury, a hungry (tasty) /tang/ of blood. The sound of gunfire mingling with an older memory of the same. His head sinks down to rest cheek against forearms; he's largely disappeared behind the wall separating living room and kitchen, wings draped downwards to trail on the floor. "-- Sometimes you can't avoid it. Sometimes you shouldn't avoid it. And then -- then it's best to." He swallows, one of his wings pressing back firmer against the dappling of bruising on his back with a faint echo of pain. "Then it's best to win. -- He's a good teacher," he offers a little bit lighter. Micah has been holed up for much of the morning serving as assistant to robot surgeries, and his thoughts certainly echo such endeavours. Mostly, he comes with the better set of /tools/ for these activities than what Spencer typically gets his hands on. He wanders out with a closed toolkit under one arm, hair particularly mussed in a way that suggests it hasn't received much attention today. He is dressed in his typical uniform: patched jeans and a T-shirt. This one is olive in colour and depicts a series of finches, inspired by Darwin's sketches, but highlighting more /technological upgrades/ than simple differences in beak shape. "Think we solved the problem with the robot's..." He trails off as he notes people sprinkled around the apartment. "Oh, hi! People!" he greets with a sudden bright smile. "Sometimes," Jackson only echoes this one word, a wry tug pulling his lips upward. "I meant if you -- want to learn. I could help, maybe. I mean, I'm sure the boys would, too, but it's," his nose crinkles; he's perhaps speaking from /experience/, "-- hard in some ways with them, they're stronger'n faster'n most folks'll ever be. Which is good practice! Once it won't just take y'out in one hit." He leans over to nudge the fan a liiittle bit back, pushing in a button to let it rotate rather than just continue to blow straight towards him and Parley. "S'muffins," he tells Micah cheerfully, "if all that robotin' made y'hungry. Um -- yes." His smile is quick and bright and he's grown a little /fidgety/ in the slightly nervous anticipation of -- someone who has spent a long time making something! And is now opening it up to /judgment/. "Yeah yes of course it's in m'room." He's pushing himself to his feet, knees creaking from too long sitting on the floor. Dusk is given this background privacy-cycle; Parley doesn't lurk /with/ him, in mind. he channels absently, uninvolved in many ways with what the man feels, unseen, in the kitchen area. His tone and attention, for all visible purposes, is focused on very different things, following Jackson with his eyes, "Oh, I entirely agree." He says it with a kind of overwhelmed chuff, "I think I was being overly optimistic in where I tried to start, though. It's not just out of my league -- I don't even know how to throw a punch -- I can't tell if you're being serious. But I'd pay you, if you have time to teach me." He's kind of LURKING around in the living area. Bouncing on his toes with his hands behind his back. Waiting for Jax to come back with a THING for him. Totally not suspicious, Micah, he's even rising up his eyebrows and flicker-smiling? "You're roboting?" HI. Dusk straightens from his position behind the counter, plucking up a /pair/ of muffins to bring them out to the living room as, behind him, coffee starts percolating. Filling the apartment with coffee smell. "Heyyy, Micah," this new appearance sparks the same bright-easy warmth he had upon entering, briefly pushing back the rest. He offers muffins out! One to Parley and one to Micah. "I think he's being serious. Can there be," he is asking this with sudden brightening of his eyes, "naked boxing. On the roof. In the sprinkler. All. Glisteny." Heeee might not be serious. He's /watching/ Jackson very seriously though. "Oh, muffins! Yes, muffins," Micah answers Jax's offer because, come to think of it, he /is/ hungry. "Well, Spence is robotin'. I'm mostly poppin' in with advice an' the /shiny/ toolkit here'n there. I s'pose, /was/ robotin'. Things got interrupted. By a sudden alien dinosaur invasion. Like they do." He tilts his chin back toward Spencer's door to indicate that the alien dinosaur invasion is /ongoing/. But then there is a Dusk with muffins! "Ohgosh, I get muffins /and/ a Dusk! Must've made the Universe happy this mornin'." He accepts the muffin with a wide grin, but doesn't immediately pay it further attention. Dusk gets wing-pets instead! "Wouldn't wet naked boxing result in /slippery/? That seems a bad combination for a roof," he observes with a tinygiggle. "...", is Jackson's nonresponse to the suggestion of wet naked roofboxing, cheeks flushing /dark/ (which, given Dusk's careful /watching/ was probably the /intended/ effect. He is trying (and failing!) not to picture Micah and Dusk wet-naked-boxing now. "-- Thing," is all he squeaks, scurrying away out of the room to his bedroom. It is a minute before he returns, with a large painting carefully held in his hands, canvas stretched over a wood frame. Something in Jackson's style -- sometimes whimsical, sometimes dark, often whimsical /while/ dark -- leans heavily towards the surreal. Most of /this/ painting is dark, smokey-swirled shadow in blacks and greys and dark blues creeping up around a very large mirror. There's a person silhouetted before it, tall and wispy-lean, and the echoing silhouette in the mirror is similar. The reflection is climbing back /out/ of the mirror's frame, fingers of one hand locked with the person on the outside, helping the reflection climb out. Most of the colour in the picture is found in the silhouetted people, slightly iridescent with prismatic wisps of colour shimmering in their darkness; the one on the outside moreso than the one climbing out; hir colour is being shared, trickling down through the connected fingers. "Um --" Jackson says, leaning the painting up against the wall. But then nothing else. Just steps back, biting at his lip and inching away towards the others. "Does 'alien dinosaurs' mean there are dinosaurs on other planets that--," Parley is musing, picking at his muffin, when Jackson emerges. At which time he grows silent. Other conversations sail past without him, as his gaze fixes on the painting coming into view. He walks forward, slowly, setting his muffin aside in a dream-like manner - which only means it MISSES the table edge and falls to the floor, earning a quiet "shit!" and Parley rush-kneels to pick it up, set it MORE FIRMLY on the table. Then he's back on his feet and creeping forward, eyes never actually leaving the painting for all of this (even while finger-patting around the ground to blindly find the dropped treat.) Then he's standing in front of Jackson, and the painting. And he extends fingers to over over the intertwined hands on the image. "--a mirror." "S'what the roof /wall/ is for," Dusk protests; he has a sharpfanged grin, bright, at Jax's blushing. His eyes slip closed at Micah's petting, wing pressing back into the touch with a quiet happy /luxuriating/ in it. "Besides, I'm being /responsible/, I didn't suggest /oil/ wrestling on the roof." His wing creeps outward, sliding around Micah's shoulders in a gentle squeeze. He opens his eyes when the painting arrives; he's seen it in various stages but hasn't seen it /complete/, and there's a long quiet moment of silent contemplation. /His/ eyes are fixed more on the shadow than the people, for a very long while, with a heavy-sick wrench inside him before it -- does not so much /vanish/ as subsides into the same dull background ache he has carried for a month. It takes a moment for him to refocus, look at the painting as a whole, think of it in light of who it is /meant/ for. His appreciation is, really, more for the artist than the art. He's not particularly well-versed enough to make any sort of /knowledgeable/ evaluation; his appreciation tends more towards the awed holy-crap-/he/-actually-painted-that of those without any real artistic talent /themselves/. Micah was doing /quite well/ with keeping the naked rooftop boxing as an abstract idea, thank you very much, until Jax started blushing. Which sets him to blushing, albeit not nearly as impressively. Oh, look, a muffin! He pries a bite free with his teeth, munching quietly for a moment and appreciating /blueberries/. "I got the impression it meant dinosaurs piloting spaceships. I mean, that's what you'd take from, 'Get down! The alien dinosaur squadron is attacking!' right?" He very nearly darts out in an attempt to rescue Parley's fallen baked good, but then there are Duskwings holding him and...the muffin can fend for itself. Micah leans back into Dusk, snuggling gently (he /had/ noticed all the marks and bruises, after all). He leaves the others to their closer art inspection, having already observed the painting along most of its progress. He has a muffin and snuggles to attend to, after all. "It could be," Jackson decides with a quick smile, "aliens piloting /dinosaurs/. Dinosaur cavalry." He distracts himself with mental imagery of aliens charging into battle on dinosaur steeds, Totally Not watching the others looking at his painting. It takes a moment, but the default nervous fretting subsides. He wanders off towards the kitchen to get out mugs! "-- Hot coffee, iced coffee?" he asks the others in the living room. And, quieter, his cheeks flushing faintly again: "Yeah. It is -- ze is." Over in his little corner, Parley has squatted down on his hunkers in front of the painting. And, still staring at it, he's nodding. Silently. Presumably to Jackson. Though there is no definitive proof it's /not/ agreement with Alien Dino-riders. Maybe with little cobra-serpent heads on. The hovering fingers over the hands moves to trace the frame of the mirror, still not touching it. "It could be aliens riding /on/ alien dinosaurs. While. Flying spaceships," Dusk will happily accept /everyone's/ suggestions as fact. His eyes start to trace back to the curls of shadow in the painting but then they drop away. He lifts a hand to PINCH a tiny blueberry out of Micah's muffin. With a small nuzzle to Micah's neck that might be thanks (for his stolen fruit!) or might be SNIFFING, mmm vein. Even if it's an offlimits one for the next month. "Oh man, iced," he starts to say, but then /frowns/. And drops his wing from around Micah to trot over to the kitchen. "Hey no way, /I'm/ getting the coffee you go," his wing flicks lightly at Jax's backside, "/sit/. None of us need /waiting/ on." "Dinosaur spaceships," Micah agrees, taking it a step further. He doesn't move to protect his blueberries, rather letting Dusk steal what he likes. Especially if there are /nuzzles/ in return. "Coffee? No hot. Even I don't want hot coffee now, blah." He bunny-crinkles his nose at the thought of being /warmer/. Then he adds a bit of a /pout/ to that at losing his cuddles. Though, again, there is no complaint as Dusk is getting Jax to sit. Presumably. Another bite of muffin disappears into his mouth. Consoled by sugar! He chews as he walks over to the couch, practically falling into his own seat there, draped between the couch's back and arm. Jax. Jax, what are you doing. Stahp. Parley has finally come away from the painting, in the unemphatic creep he's ever prone to. And is, essentially, lurking after the illusionist at an unobtrusive 'hot' pursuit. To creep his arms around the other man's waist, squeezing shut his eyes. "...please sit." "What -- but -- oh." Jackson starts to protest Dusk's kitchen invasion, but then surrenders the mugs to him. His fingers brush lightly against a wing in passing, trailing against the soft fuzziness with a quieter flush of warmth. He nabs a muffin of his own on the way out. "Is it --" He finally ventures to Parley, once apprehension has mostly faded into a simple professional curiosity, "-- s'it fit what you was --" << looking for, >> would have finished this sentence but instead he has a hug! And his eyes widen, that tiny flush of warmth blossoming further. He snakes his arm back around Parley, squeezing in return. "-- Oh." It's small and surprised, but happy. Dusk opens up the freezer to obtain ICE. He ends up dumping it into a pitcher to just turn the entire pot into iced coffee, refilling the tray afterwards to slide it back inside. "-- Micah, how do you like your caffeine? Y'wanted almond milk, right, Parley?" He's already just LOADING up a mug with agave nectar for Jax. His lips twitch upwards at the hug. "Think it fits," he says. Micah burrows into his couch corner, doing significant damage to the muffin with tinybites while the rest of the crew is in the kitchen. "Moderate sugary substance of some sort, tinybit of whatever milk-like thing y'can get hands on easiest," he calls back to Dusk. He is remarkably not-picky with foodstuffs. "Yes, please." Parley muffles to Dusk from... somewhere against Jackson's tattoos; it's not a very elegant hug, he kind of came at him from his six o' clock so the poor illusionist likely has to kind of twist at the torso to make the exchange. It's brief, before the empath is slipping loose, expression already set back to brisk businesslike with his arms out to kind of... /flush/ Jackson over to sit by Micah. /Frowning/ at him if he needs a STICK with that carrot. Then creeps off to the kitchen to help Dusk. In that he... kind of lurks up against his flank. And gets underfoot. And tries to TOUCH things. (Or maybe take them to help carrying things out.) "It fits." He says, quietly. Squeeeeeze -- probably /less/ elegant still for the copious amounts of /sweat/ the day has generated between the two of them -- and then Jax disengages to be bustled off towards the couch! He doesn't sit on it but he does /sit/, tucking himself kneeling and sitting back on his feet at its base in front of Micah. "Good," is all he says, a lot lighter than the deep satisfied-pleased-proud that bubbles up inside him. And then: "-- Guys. We need," he is /wiping/ a hand over his gross salty-slick chest, also-inelegantly wiping sweat from his palm to his sarong, "to go. /Swimming/." He nibbles at his muffin, catching crumbs on his palm and licking them off. With a wrinkle of his nose, because they are now sweatflavoured crumbs. "Or maybe just sit on the roof. With sprinkler. Not moving." A giant pile of agave in one, a bit of nut milk in another, a dash of agave and milk both in the last two. Dusk curls his wing around Parley's shoulders when he finds a Parley at his flank, and chuffs a quiet amusement at, "-- you are as good at getting underfoot as my ferret." His mind reflexively corrects this to << our ferret >> as his wing squeezes a little bit tighter, then releases so that Parley can help! With two of the mugs of coffee, once they are all prepared and stirred. "Can we just turn the roof into a pool? Get everyone up there to /lounge/?" The suggestion of water-based activities, though, meets with a large SURGE of omgyes. Mingled with a mitigating hesitation for any activities that involve being Out In Public. The remainder of Micah's muffin disappears wholesale into his mouth. Which frees up his hands to lightly place fingertips on Jax's head for rubbing. Said fingertips are surprisingly cool! Or at least seem cooler than the surrounding air, physics be damned. "Ohgosh, swimmin' sounds /amazin'/. D'you know any places that are good?" The rest of that sentence is a silently implied << about having different-looking people in them >>. "Dusk, d'you use your /wings/ for swimmin'? That just seems like it would be kind of awesome." << Also, pretty. Extremely pretty. >> Mm, sweaty-hug. Up close, Parley has a den-like smell of cloy-damp fur before he's off. Sniffing coffees and sliding a furry shoulder along soft wing membrane. The mental rasp of combs that smooth along the side of Dusk's mind may as well, in the form of nonvocal appreciation for the wing-embrace, be translated as << (purr.) >> "...I'll go to the roof," he comments, bringing out two of the cups. Even /he/ knows which one is frigging Jackson's, he only takes a little coffee with his nectar. "You could -- show me. Things." MORE things. This 'things' implies something more lively, though, a heat of muscles and a strain of sinew. With his cup, however, he's then drifting away, back to the painting, "I want to get this upstairs first, though. If you don't mind." He'll be taking the COFFEE cup with him in one hand. It's not like it won't find its way back. "Know a couple places I like to take the boys," Jackson agrees, "mmm -- there one beach out in Queens that's more laid back an' ain't /usually/ trouble, and out in Staten Island we know a couple spots that're just /quiet/ enough it don't tend to be a problem." Jackson closes his eyes, a soft happy hum in his throat at the head rubbing, bald head nuzzling back up into the touch. "We can do /both/. /Sprinkler-boxing/ first, head out to a beach a little later in the afternoon when s'quieter anyhow." He tips his head up in a nod to Parley, promising, "Meet you up there in a bit!" But then. There is head rubbing to enjoy. For a while he is just relaxing into it, a faint glow creeping its way to shimmer in soft halo around him. "Or oil wrestling," Dusk interjects, since roof activities are being discussed again! He stretches out a wing, brushing it against the fur at Parley's back once the other man is heading out. "See you in a few." He hands the last of the coffees to Micah, and keeps his own. He doesn't seem inclined towards moving anywhere much, settling down face-down on a beanbag near Jax to sip at his coffee. His wings rustle, and then FLOP down out along the floor in a wide spread. One -- over Jax's lap. The other just out on the wood. "-- Yeah, they're -- kinda like enormous fins? Crazy fucking /drag/, though, it's a mixed blessing. They make it really easy to not drown and really hard to keep /up/," his wing is flicking lightly at Jax! "with the serious swimmers." Micah offers a little wave to Parley as he exits, before Dusk's suggestion has him snickering and shaking his head. "I'd be afraid that people'd start to /sizzle/ in oil, on the roof. I did like the sprinkler and no moving plan. That was a good plan." See how good he is at not moving? He's doing it right now! Except that he has to reach for his coffee mug. "Oh, thank you. Cold and caffeine, I think this may be worthy of /worship/ at this point, more'n thanks." He curls both hands around the mug long enough to take a long drink, then sets it aside on a convenient coaster that is laying out on a side table. The process leaves his fingers a bit cold-wet with condensation before he reapplies them to Jax head-rubs. "I don't usually worry much about the serious swimmers. Don't rightly /swim/ much except in indoor pools, myself. Beaches are...sand an' water. Kinda leave the leg back at the car and resort to crutches with sand attachments. Standin' in the water is still nice, though." "Hnn," Parley smiles in the doorway, "Oil or water. Whatever you like." He's feeling /generous/, and you can guess why, the way he's looking at the painting again while sipping from his coffee. He does pause to glance back, "...thank you. It's perfect." The Holland household will likely receive it's final payment for the commission very, very soon. It will not be a /shy/ sum. As he's vanishing through the door, he can be heard murmuring a last word, thoughtfully. "...Mirror..." Jackson tips his head to watch Parley go, eye squinted up to peer around the side of the couch. "Welcome. M'glad you like it," comes with a small flush. Then his eye closes again, hands dropping -- one rests his coffee cup on the ground by his hip, the other rests against the wing that has spread blanketlike over him. He trails fingers slowly against it, head shifting slightly up into Micah's blessedly /cool/ rubbing. A smile spreads across his face, and the soft glow around him spreads out to encompass the others.