ArchivedLogs:Not At All Awkward

Not At All Awkward
Dramatis Personae Micah, Doug, Hive
In Absentia	8 December 2014 '
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
Spacious and open, this coffeeshop has a somewhat industrial feel to it, grey resin floors below and exposed-beam ceilings that have been painted up in a dancing swirl of abstract whorls and starbursts, a riot of colour splashed against a white background. The walls alternate between brick and cheerfully lime-green painted wood that extends to the paneling beneath the brushed-steel countertops. There's an abundance of light, though rather than windows (which are scarce) it comes from plentiful hanging steel lamps. The walls here are home to plentiful artwork available for sale; though the roster of prints and paintings and drawings and photographs changes on a regular basis it has one thing in common -- all the artists displayed are mutants. The seating spaced around the room is spread out enough to keep the room from feeling cluttered. Black chairs, square black tables that mostly seat two or four though they're frequently pushed around and rearranged to make space for larger parties. In the back corner of the room is more comfortable seating, a few large black-corduroy sofas and armchairs with wide tables between them. There's a shelf of card and board games back here available for customers to sit and play. The chalkboard menus hanging behind the counter change frequently, always home to a wide variety of drinks (with an impressive roster of fair-trade coffees and teas largely featured) though their sandwiches and wraps and soups and snacks of the day change often. An often-changing variety of baked goods sit behind the display case at the counter halfway back in the room, and the opposite side of the counter holds a small selection of homemade ice creams. A pair of single-user bathrooms flanks the stairway in back of the cafe; at night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits up the stairs above the coffeehouse. Well, the sunshine was sure short-lived. The city is back under what already feels like perpetual cloud-cover again, sludgy not-quite-snow not-quite-sticking on the sidewalks and streets in a cold, slippery mess. Micah is once again dressed like he lives in the arctic tundra, though his olive puffy coat now adorns the back of a chair, Jayne hat, Fourth Doctor scarf, and two pairs of gloves stuffed into pockets and his messenger bag however they'll fit. His neon orange forearm crutches also hang over the lot in their black nylon holster. Even so, he is still in a Firefly hoodie zipped up over a T-shirt that can't quite be seen, a robin's egg blue henley, lined jeans, and boots. His messy-mussy hair /looks/ like it was until recently under a wool hat. The redhead has a tray in hand, bearing two large mugs (one SO FULL of spicy cocoa and the other SO FULL of black coffee) and two bowls of pumpkin soup. This he slides onto the table, distributing appropriate containers to his own space and to that in front of Hive. "S'pumpkin. Also the biggest container they have here that they'll sell you coffee in." The chill from the outside swirls in as the door opens and a familiar figure pushes inside. Doug might not be /immediately/ recognizable, until he peels off the blue-and-black knit cap and loosens his navy peacoat, revealing a sweater that can only be called an ugly Christmas sweater, with Mogwai and Gremlins worked across the front of it. The blonde pauses just inside the door, peeling off his gloves and jamming them into his hat before they make their way into a pocket. Shifting the messenger bag slung across his chest so that it rests on his rump, he glances around the room in a habitual sweep before he heads for the counter. Where he immediately orders a coffee probably the size of Hive's -- with three shots of espresso added; which probably explains the fidgeting as he waits for his order to be filled. Spotting Micah and Hive, the blonde lifts a hand in greeting as he makes his way in their direction. "Hey, guys." Hive is still kind of bundled up too, long grey scarf and grey fingerless gloves paired with black armwarmers, Grumpy Bear sweatshirt layered over three shirts (short-over-long-over-under shirt), fleecey Theta Tau hat still on his head, a pair of blankets covering whatever he might be wearing on his legs. He's pulled up to the table in a wheelchair (that has recently acquired a good amount of /bright/ decoration in the form of red-and-green el wire lighting up its frame and small blue-and-silvery star-shaped string lights twined around its back. 'Tis the season. Though /he's/ slouched in the chair with a very Grinchian scowl that doesn't match his cheery accoutrements, directed, at the moment, to his soup. Though it soon turns up to Doug instead. The gruff grunt he makes might pass as a greeting, in some sort of caveman society. "Your sweater is fucking hideous. ...I need to lodge a complaint with Shane." He's turned his eyes back towards his coffee with the latter half of this. Still scowling at it. Once he is settled back in his seat, Micah goes about distributing napkins and utensils: a spoon to his bowl, a bendy straw to Hive's coffee, and a /milkshake/ straw to Hive's soup. "S'a pureed soup, so it should straw up fine," he adds hopefully. Because maybe that means Hive will /eat/ a thing. His hands are magnetically attracted to his cocoa mug afterward, soaking in the heat through the ceramic. "I think it's an /intentionally/ hideous sweater." This is followed by a sudden bright-red flush. "I mean. Now I hope it's an intentionally hideous sweater an' I'm not just diggin' an ever-deeper hole in m'fashion commentary. Which I'm clearly not qualified t'make." He finally pulls cocoa into his mouth to stop the words from pouring out, scalding his tongue just a little if the crinkling of his nose serves as reliable evidence. "Your chair looks like a New Orleans Christmas float," is Doug's cheerful response to Hive's grumpy greeting, complete with a bright smile. "So you're one to talk." Micah's fashion assessment gets a nod as Doug leans against the nearest obliging structure that is not Hive's chair. He looks down at his sweater, frowning lightly. "I thought it was cool. You know, because Gremlins and Christmas..." he shrugs, and lifts his eyebrows. "I think it's cool. I have another one that actually lights up." He wrinkles his nose. "That one doesn't have Gremlins on it, though." "I didn't know New Orleans had Christmas." Hive slouches further in his chair -- though the slouching does bring his mouth closer to the level of his soup straw. He takes one very small sip. Grimaces some more. "Think... pretty much. Everyone I know. Has fucked up ideas of cool. I mean we sit around for fun playing..." He trails off, eyes closing sleepily. "I didn't do my chair. I take no blame." For a time there is just red peeking out over Micah's mug that only serves to half-hide his face, deepening and blending its way right up into his hair as if in attempt to match it. Eventually he snags onto what seems to be a safer line of conversation. "Think m'kids're the ones t'blame for that," he confirms, nodding toward the cheer-chair. "S'just lucky it doesn't have built-in sound effects now." A little out of order, one brow suddenly lofts in curiosity and confusion. "Why /wouldn't/ New Orleans have Christmas? It's like...ubiquitous in the entire country." "They have Christmas," Doug confirms, nodding once. "We lived there the winter before we moved to New York. It's like Mardis Gras, only with /slightly/ less boobs." He holds up a hand, thumb and forefinger close together. "/Slightly/." The explanation of the chair gets a soft ah, and a lift of one shoulder. "It's probably just a matter of time," he says, glancing at the counter to gauge his order. Then he's looking back, looking down at Hive's chair with a lopsided grin. "I bet the chair could rock a sleigh bell." Hive lifts both hands, eyes faintly widening. "How the fuck am I supposed to know? Treme and Mardi Gras, that's goddamn /all/ I know about New Orleans. I don't know what your fucking /American/ customs are like." His hands flop back down to his lap, and he snorts at Doug's explanation. "Boobs. 'Nother thing I know about New Orleans. My mental picture is fucking -- jiggly." His head shakes, teeth slowly grinding. "Yeah. Your kids are monsters. Jesus Christ if anyone puts sleigh bells on my chair I'll --" He breaks off here, considering. "... jingle, I guess." “Meh, I don't rightly know other than bein' inundated with it for the entire month of December ev'ry year. I have a hard enough time barely payin' attention t'my /own/ religion t'be fussin' with anyone else's.” Micah frowns a bit at this. “Gettin' a /little/ better at pretendin' at it for Spence's sake. S'been...hard for 'im. Since Liam died.” He makes no commentary on all the /boobs/, just keeping his blush refreshed and ruddy. Doug lifts a shoulder. "Sleigh bells would be a nice touch," he repeats, tilting his head to regard the back of the telepath's chair. "You could wear antlers, or a Santa hat. Like the Grinch." He grins, although it fades almost immediately upon Micah's mentioning Liam. Then there's just an uncomfortable expression on Doug's face as he glances at the counter again. Color creeps into his ears, and he presses his lips together briefly before he offers /something/. "Christmas is important to kids." Which sounds as lame as his expression says it is, and he exhales heavily. "I should go and see if they've got my coffee yet," he offers, lifting his eyebrows. "It was good seeing you guys." "Spence is Jewish," Hive clarifies, with a very small twitch of lips. "Liam was --" His head shakes. "Spence does like decorating shit though. Christmas, Hannukah, whatever-the-fuck. So long as he can make a. Mess. Of it..." He looks up at Doug, eyes slowly focusing once more. "Right. Coffee. Shit. Yeah. Have, uh. Have fun." He remembers his /own/ coffee with this, leaning down to take a sip. "... I don't mind. December. I like the lights." Micah nods at Hive's clarification. “Spence's family was /pretty/ Jewish, from what I hear. An' Liam was also good at bein' /pretty/ Jewish. I'm...kind of an agnostic with a Jewish family, so. S'a mismatch, a little.” He stops talking on the subject when Doug is clearly made uncomfortable by it, the full context of Liam's death seeping into his conscious thoughts and making it a thing not to pursue further. “Don't wanna miss your coffee. Good t'see you, too.” "Jewish. That's right." Doug nods as he begins to move off. "Well, holidays in general I guess, are big to kids. Probably the spectacle of it." It sounds like empty small talk, and it gets more awkward the more he tries to fix it, so he just leaves it be. Instead, he lifts a hand and bobs his chin once more. "I'll see you guys around," is a little more confident-sounding, but only just. Then he's all but a blur as he claims his (thankfully) ready coffee and beelines out the door. "My little brother. Fucking /loves/ the holidays. Goes freaking..." Hive frowns, shoulders tightening. "Different holidays, though. Wonder how he's..." This is kind of a tapering-off mumble as he fidgets with his blankets. "... that wasn't. Awkward or anything." “Yeah that was. Totally my fault.” Micah slumps in his chair, head bowed down over his cocoa. “Couldn't you...call? Or Skype with them or somethin'? I'm sure they'd love t'hear from you again, too...” "You have a gift." Hive says this like a commendation. He closes his eyes, curling shaking hands around his coffee mug, thankfully so large in size that the trembling doesn't jostle it all that much. "I talk to them. A lot. I just." He shakes his head quickly. "Home feels really fucking far." “I was truly blessed with the full geek package. Right up to the social ineptitudes.” Micah scrunches his lips over to one side. “Though some of it is that I don't. Filter. M'mouth. Very well.” He scoot-scrape-scoots his chair closer to Hive, wrapping an arm around him. “That home's far. But y'can still talk t'your people. An' /this/ home's not goin' /anywhere/ no time soon. An' y'got us whenever y'need. Okay, sugar? We love you.” "I know. Being in your head it's like. That fucking -- episode of Buffy where she gets demon-telepathy. With Cordelia. Just whatever's here," Hive's fingers wave towards Micah's head, "half a second later it's --" He gestures to Micah's mouth. "... kinda refreshing actually." His head sags down against Micah's shoulder. "Mrgh," is the only eloquent answer he gives to the rest of this. “Great, now I'm Cordy. I think I liked it better when I was Xander,” Micah attempts to joke. And then finds /his/ eloquence in simple hugs.