ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Yule

Vignette - Yule
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Matt
In Absentia	Winter Solstice Sort of a vignette, anyway. Actually jointly written by me and Rasheed. But no interaction even with two characters, so more like two vignettes in parallel.
Location <NYC> 305 {Teahaus} - Village Lofts - East Village and Undisclosed Prometheus Facility
xxxxxMuch changed from its days as a den of teenagers, this three-bedroom apartment is furnished sparse but elegantly. Done up in black and white, long leather couch, low coffeetable, large armchair, end tables with accent lamps. The small kitchen table only seats four, the cabinets currently holding minimal dinnerware and a sparse assortment of pots and pans but a decent collection of spices, teas, and liquor. xxxxxLucien's alarm goes off early. Before dawn. Get up, get dressed -- even once he's ready there's a lingering nagging tug that tells him he's not. Not ready, not finished, something missing. xxxxxHe tamps it down, heads instead to the kitchen. It smells fresh in here already, the piney evergreen scent from the tree in the living room, the holly-bright wreaths on the doors. The pot of cider he heats, spices, is large enough for the whole family whenever they wake up. He just takes a thermos-full, grabs his violin, and heads up to the roof. xxxxxIt's warm, today, nearly sixty even before the sun comes up; even in just loose cotton pants, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, bare feet on the cool cement, he's pleasantly comfortable. Moreso with the sweet spiced hot cider, comfortingly familiar as it rolls over his tongue. xxxxxWith New York's plethora of buildings, sunrise creeps in slowly. Tiny hints of colour slipping through tall apartment buildings rather than trees. He watches it with eyes half-lidded and his thumb brushing slowly against a ring worn on his middle finger, plain and unobtrusive in just a simple band of solid black titanium. He sets the thermos on the roof's edge, opening up his violin case. xxxxxTucking the violin beneath his chin, he keeps his eyes focused out towards the sunrise. The warm bright melody is a hard contrast to his set expression as he watches the dark grow brighter. His music fills the air, his bow against the strings singing a valediction to the dark and leaving the trials of the old year behind. xxxxxMatt's eyes open before dawn. In the lower levels it's harder to tell, but up here he's a low enough escape risk his room has a window, of sorts; a high narrow slit up near the ceiling that would be barely wide enough to get his arm through, if he could get it open at all. xxxxxTime has less meaning in here than it had outside, but he keeps track despite himself. Whispers soft protection spells for his friends and family on their birthdays, keeps quiet track of how many stolen days he's survived well past his expiration date, every one of them another drop in the bucket of guilt he can't seem to shake. xxxxxHe gets up in quiet, careful not to wake his roommate. Dressing is quick, his outfits identical from day to day. He's still for a long silent moment once he's finished, trying to stifle the wrenching hollow ache that screams at him that this is wrong. Not the labs or the imprisonment, the experiments, the screams he sometimes hears down the hall. Today, only the stillness, the emptiness; this is never a holiday he has celebrated alone. xxxxxIn here it's chill, the heat lowered overnight when everyone should be in bed. In nothing but thin cotton scrubs, gooseflesh prickles his bare arms and a shiver runs up his spine as his feet touch against the cold floor. He's squirreled away a juice box, Mott's apple, in his nightstand, and takes this with him as he moves a chair towards the wall and climbs up onto it to peer out. xxxxxThe view might be a pleasant one in other circumstances, lawn rolling down to a plethora of trees, high rocky hills in the distance. If he narrows his eyes just right he can see these and only these things, and not the high barbed fence around the compound. The sun is rising before he can see it properly from this angle, but the tells are there all the same, the slow lightening of air, the pink tinge lent to the bare dark tree boughs. He slips a ring off his finger, plain and unobtrusive in a simple band of solid black titanium; he rests it in his palm as he sips at his juice. One finger curls inward, brushing along the etched inside of the ring, finger running lightly over the symbols etched inside; a circled star on one side, a small sun on the other. xxxxxHe rests his chin against the cold wall, eyes focusing out towards the sunrise. His humming is very soft, out of respect for his sleeping roommate. A smile curls his lips, warm and hopeful as the sun rises over the trees. In the back of his mind he can almost hear the soft violin strains, bright-warm melody to welcome back the light and usher in the endless possibilities of a new year.