Logs:Balm
| Balm | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2023-11-24 chez tessier sad boi hours |
| Location
<NYC> Tessier Residence - Greenwich | |
There are not nearly so many remnants of last night's party visible as might be expected for a gathering of its size. The living and dining rooms have been restored to impeccable order, the dishes all done and away; only the remnants of several pies under their covers on the kitchen counter tell of how recently the tables had been groaning with food. Lucien has been mopping the last Evidence Of Visitors off of the entryway hall, but has been interrupted in this work with a phone call that he has just concluded. As Ryan's blackbird icon vanishes from his phone screen he's taking just a moment to sigh, to pinch slowly at the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, before he opens his interminable To-Do list to add at the very top: Press statement, Jax-Steve split. He does not have long after this is concluded to finish his cleaning, though; it's a very short while later that the doorbell rings -- perhaps not unexpectedly, given the promptness with which he opens it and invites his guest inside. On the doorstep, Jax is looking -- great, really, neat and bright-eyed. It's a sharp contrast to the turmoil of his internal chemistry, telling of a deep exhaustion and deep despair, and a lot of recent crying that does not show through his perfectly-upkept illusory mask. He hesitates outside a moment, though, looking at Lucien like he's suddenly reconsidering. When his mouth opens he is almost certainly on the verge of an apology; he's already taking a half-step back with a small and diffident shake of his head. The apology does not get a chance to come. Lucien just huffs, sharp and -- admittedly, slightly exasperated-amused at this reconsidering. He's reaching out to pull Jax in and shut the door firm behind the other man. His touch comes with comfort, whisper-soft and familiar in the cool wash that buoys at turbulent emotions and gives them their own support to work themselves out. He's setting his mop aside forgotten and instead escorting his guest to the backyard (and the dog that has been exiled there for the duration of cleaning.) Jax is left somewhat pointedly in Flèche's company until Lucien returns with some fresh tea and slices of sweet potato pie, setting these on the table in a quiet invitation. Jax, somewhat predictably, has promptly forgotten at least the top layer of his woes when left with the exuberant pup; by the time Lucien comes back he's engaged in half-a-tug-of-war, half a simple wrestling match, Flèche's amiable growling punctuating the garden peace and a restless flicker of shifting colors fluctuating in the air with his exertion. He does drag the pup at the end of her knotted rope closer to the table at the promise of sugar, though. When he collapses into the seat opposite Lucien his careful polish fades -- eye dark-shadowed, pale face blotchy, but the grateful smile that drags tired onto his face is all the more genuine for it. --- It's grown very late, now. The house has gone to bed -- largely, anyway. There's still a faint light on in the kitchen, where Lucien is at his laptop revising (not for the first or second time) a very carefully worded statement. The squat glass of whisky in front of him is half-empty -- and at the kitchen nook across from him there's a second, waiting and ready though at the moment, without anyone in sight to drink it. The lock of the front door turns quiet, and the door opens quiet, too, when Steve slips inside without fanfare. He isn't really dressed for the weather, little though the chill seems to bother him. If he's been crying, his body recovered too quickly for it to show under his eyes, but the plentiful blond stubble on his face tells he hasn't shaved at all today, and there are faint bruises along his knuckles that have yet to fade altogether. He shucks his boots and drifts into the kitchen to fetch up at the breakfast nook, one hand braced on the table like he can't quite hold up his considerable bulk as he settles in across from Lucien. His other hand curls around the glass sort of automatically, though once he's picked it up he finally hesitates, perhaps to consider whether it had, in fact, been left out for him. Lucien's eyes barely lift from his work when he hears the door open, and if the initial twitch of his smile is smug and knowing it has at least faded back to a quiet welcome by the time Steve comes into sight. His hand tips out in invitation -- towards the glass, towards the empty seat -- and when it falls palm-up to the table, in invitation of another sort entirely. There is a familiar trickle of cool comfort that comes with his touch, though the rest of his work, quietly shifting Steve's metabolism to dampen its alacrity with the alcohol, may not be as imminently noticeable. Steve slumps forward, braced on one elbow, but even the uncharacteristically poor posture is nothing to the despondent neurochemical chaos that floods across when he rests his hand in Lucien's. He tips his glass in a vague salute and doesn't toss it back all at once, though his first pull is hardly a delicate one. The familiar warmth of the whiskey spreads through him faster than the alcohol itself possibly could, soothing the edges of his heartbreak even as Lucien's skillful adjustment opens the way for it to do more. He draws breath to speak, but ultimately just lets it back out in a soft shuddering sob as his fingers curl in tighter against Lucien's, then relax again. | |
