Logs:A Little Lagniappe
| A Little Lagniappe | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-12-25 "What the hell do you think I am building here?" |
| Location
<NYC> Lagniappe Studios - Astoria | |
This is a sprawling complex, occupying several floors of an unobtrusive building along the waterfront. Inside it is anything but unobtrusive, an indulgently appointed creative haven for music and art. It's split between the considerably larger recording studios that take up the first several and the smaller art studio at the very top. Its tall windows drenching it in natural light and providing a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline. The design of the place -- whimsical, comfortable, colourful, with eclectic handcrafted furniture by local artisans, state of the art equipment and to-die-for acoustics -- leaves plenty of space to hole up and get creative in its array of lounges, studio rooms, equipment storage, writing and production rooms, and tracking and mastering suites. It's been a very long day, up dark and early for the massive undertaking of preparations that is Evolve Christmas Feast -- always something of a chaotic and grueling slog and this year only moreso, New York's population of displaced and indigent mutants growing and Evolve's usual instigator no longer around. But people have been fed, and fêted, and Evolve has even been returned to a pristine state of readiness for its actual workers to return to coffee-as-usual tomorrow, which frees the Hollands up to return -- Well, it should have been home, home is probably where Jax was hoping to get to and he cannot really say that the idea of a detour before collapsing into bed filled him with joy. Most people would be forgiven for thinking that he is still somewhat lacking in joy -- his pale and pinched expression hasn't changed much since they arrived, and there's a sluggish drag to his steps as he's been wandering the halls of this would-be haven to the arts. Most people aren't Ryan, though, and even without empathy he's known Jax well long enough to sift through the nuances of his non-performative affect -- the thrill that shows in the fluttery-light dance of his fingertips against the walls even if it never breaks into his iconically sunny smile, the delight in each small bob of his head as he recognizes which of their many Chimaera compatriots contributed this beautifully-crafted table or that stunning painting to the decor, even if he does not voice any excitement. He has, finally, come to a stop, excitement or exhaustion catching up with him as he whumps down onto a sofa in an upstairs lounge just outside a painting studio. "Lagniappe," is the first thing he's said since his complaints about can't-we-just-go-home ceased outside the studio doors, and though at first this has only the faintest whisper of feeling threaded empathically through it, as he locks onto this happily: "-gniappe. gni-appe," the delight (and grief) and excitement (and grief) resound fiercer to Ryan with each repetition. "It's a good name." Ryan had been talking enough for the both of them, upon arrival and the beginnings of this tour. That's since faded away to a silence (only slightly fretful, really!) as he trails Jax through the empty space. He's wheeled over in front of the couch, slouching forward with his hands on knees and fingers clasping and unclasping restlessly. Despite the warm reception, his first reply is anxious, apologetic: "This wasn't really how I planned all -- this." "Y'say that like we planned any of this." It's a different kind of exhaustion in Jax's voice, now, duller and older than just One Long Day. He looks up at the ceiling, and though Ryan can't directly feel his strain the fleeting tension in his shoulders, small narrowing of his eye, are familiar enough visual markers as he tries habitually to reach for some muscle that's no longer there. "This is really beautiful, sugar." There's a but buried deep within his voice, but he isn't digging it up, just yet. Ryan's eyes lower, his breath a little bit shaky. He pushes his chair just a little bit forward -- enough that he can take Jax's hands in his own (markedly, uneasily warmer) ones, his forehead bowing to rest on the other man's knuckles. "We could move," he says, finally. "Go back to Georgia. Go anywhere. I'd go to a whole new fucking dimension if it'd help you to start fresh." Jax squeezes back at Ryan's hands. His breathing is slow, controlled in a way aiming to minimize its sound -- not that it can be a perfect effort for Ryan's keen senses, a guilt and a pain still whispering in each quiet breath. "We could," he finally allows, "but I think I'd just bring all this with me. I'm sorry, honey-honey, you're --" With his swallow he squeezes just a little harder. "You still got so much to give the world, I ain't dragging you away from everything you're building here." "What the hell do you think I am building here?" There's a harsher frustration clawing its way up through Ryan's voice, sharp and prickly were the feel of it scrapes over Jax. "From the day they chucked you into my cell at Fermi you've been dragging me into being a better man. Kinder. Braver. More principled. I'm mad at the world so much for so many things but way high up there I'm furious that it dropped you into my life in the middle of hell and never let up. You got so much more to give the world than just fighting and I just --" His shoulders are sagging, but the fire in his voice is not dimming. "-- thought maybe if we had somewhere to work together on something besides goddamn battle plans it -- could be a start." Jax's eye closes. The frustration washes over him in prickly waves, and he breathes it back out as a contradictory calm. He's looking around the space again, under his breath a soft: "Langiappe -- gni -- gni -- gniappe -- gniappe," that culminates, once more, a little more upbeat, in: "S'a good name." There's another breath before he looks back at Ryan, his mouth twitching, amused. "-- we do 'pparently got a whole 'nother kid to raise, you ain't have to go built all this just to get some bloodless time with me." Ryan leans back in his chair, rolling it back an inch or so with his abrupt plosive of laughter. "Okay for one, when I started planning all this I did not know we were going to I figured Spence'd be haring off to MIT in spring and leave us the youngest damn empty-nesters around. But for two if you think raising that boy's gonna be bloodless --" He's glancing towards the window as if he might in fact spot the bird in question already. Of course he can't spot the bird, it's dark out there. Plus, a telltale crash a few rooms over might give some more (sudden! was Horus supposed to be in here, he was not) evidence as to the proper and correct direction to search for a tween bird. There's a clatter, a squawk that bristles with indignation, a hasty flapping, and Horus is winging in to perch himself on the back of Ryan's chair. His tablet is already playing a message, its register simultaneously gleeful and indignant: Don't don't don't look over there but one of those statues attacked violently viciously attacked innocent poor bird poor poor poor bird innocently perching then wham this means war. Jax presses his hand over his mouth, his eye gone wider and his laughter stifled hard behind his palm. His expression is extremely serious by the time he drops his hand, though. He's getting up from the couch to start leading the way -- out, home, somewhere else. His empathic signature isn't quite as cheerful as the bright warmth mustered up for his actual voice, but it's got a trickle of amusement in it all the same. "I'll draw us up some battle plans." | |
