Logs:Chance and Chemistry

Chance and Chemistry
Dramatis Personae Cyan, Gino
In Absentia Lumin	2024-12-17 "It might not be a trip to Havana, but that doesn't mean it's not a good trip."
Location <NYC> Battery Park City Library - Battery Park City
This is a smaller branch of the New York Public Library -- plainly but cutely furnished, with plenty of seating and bookshelves -- and on a Tuesday morning it's fairly quiet too; there aren't too many people patronizing the rows of desktop computers, and most of them have sequestered themselves awkwardly off to one side rather than spacing themselves out more. Probably the cause of this imbalance is -- he's probably a man, very underdressed for the miserable New York winter weather in cargo shorts and a colorful and heavily patched Hawaiian shirt, and though he has a ratty green bucket hat perched on his head and a red paisley bandana tied over his nose and mouth, this is not doing much to hide either the hollow dead-barnacle growths clustering around his temples, or the sharp shelly spikes protruding from his joints, and poking through yet-unpatched runs in the fabric of his shirt, or his overall unpleasant complexion, chalky and shrivelled. If he's conscious of the way people are trying not to look at him, he's not letting on, just enjoying the space he's being given -- his chair is slid out from the desks so he can sit with his legs stretched out, the neighboring chairs shoved out of the way; the cheap earphones that bridge from the computer tower to his ears don't seem like they should be coping with this quite as well as they are. On the screen he is watching a group of teenagers in silly plaid suits and fedoras struggle their way through a choreographed dance number, with a highly entertained snicker. Cyan had originally come here to read, as evident by the book on organic chemistry he very carefully holds in his gloved hands, one finger pushed between the pages as a bookmark. But there had been People in that section of the library, and so he’d taken to wandering until he found a part with fewer of them. And then, as he caught the glimpse of dancing he had found himself sliding closer, like the chair of not-dirty-enough-to-wash-but-not-clean-enough-for-the-closet pile of clothes people tend to have in their homes, to the barnacle man. By now he’s completely forgotten about being subtle, or trying to remain unnoticed, stretching in the most obvious manner possible to get a better look at the screen over the barnacle man's shoulder. It takes Gino a moment to notice his interloper -- the teenagers onscreen have broken off into a baffling not-quite-Charleston -- but when he does he glances sort of abruptly over his shoulder; even mostly obscured, his face is worse than most of his body, pockmarked with those little shells, his eyes flicking Cyan up and down under his craggy browbone. Then he reaches out to tilt the monitor screen toward Cyan, brows rising in silent offer. Then in less silent offer -- really this is not library tones at all -- "You wanna hear this it's incredible, there's another audio jack --" he stubs his finger at the second, unused port on the tower. Does he mean 'incredible' in a good sense or a bad one? Really hard to tell. The abrupt glance causes Cyan to equally abruptly flinch before looking around as if somehow wondering if it’s really him Gino is talking to. Dark eyes peer at the audio jack over the edge of three layers of facemasks. There’s hesitation, then he fishes out two corded earbuds, the wires pretty much just tape at this point, from one of his pockets. “What show is it?” he asks, trying to make his way to plug in to the tower while at the same time maintaining as much distance between them as is possible. One library patron has overcome the intense discomfort of looking directly at Gino to give him a glare and a preachy "Shhh!" His voice drops not quite sotto voce but -- it's an improvement? He gestures grandiosely at the screen -- "Guys and Dolls," he says, then, in a salacious whisper, "They got a girl playing Nicely-Nicely so I hope you don't mind genderbending. Here --" He reaches for one of the shoved-away chairs; he's also trying not to make contact, though in his case perhaps his is a fear of getting his very spiky elbow snagged in any of the fabric of Cyan's clothespile. The resultant angle he grabs the chair from -- juuust his fingertips touching the seat -- seems like it shouldn't do him any good, but he drags it to more-or-less face the computer, then scoots his own chair away. On the screen the dance number is staaarting to wrap up; Gino points one knuckle at one of the teenagers using way too much wrist in her dancing. "Diagnosing this kid with Did Ballet," he says. “Jazz ballet-” Cyan corrects, their head hunched down between their shoulders as he sits down, “-their back heel is up.” He cocks his head to one side as he thinks about it for a bit. “Or I guess they might not have had a very strict teacher..." He trails off for a moment to clear his throat, at the same time catching a sneaky glance at the hushing patron to make sure it was just a hush and not anything else. "Genderbending makes everything better, have you seen the completely unhinged version of Heathers where they switched every single character’s gender around? Completely different experience, it was very interesting...From an artistic perspective of course.” Definitely did not have anything to do with boys in skirts being hot, or that the girl who played JD being an absolute unhinged chaos gremlin. "Fuck is jazz ballet, that's two different things. Next you're gonna tell me pizzaface here trained in tango tap." Gino does not sound actually indignant, just amused; the pimply teenager he's pointing at now is rather flamboyant but it seems more likely that he's gay. He shifts to rests his elbow along the back of his chair, massaging at his scalp with his fingers. "Fucking Heathers? No way, that sounds wild. They didn't change the croquet skirts, did they, that would be criminal. Like genderswapping Dolly and putting her in a tux. Disrespectful." “No, they kept all the costumes true to the original, except JD had a crop top.” Cyan sighs a bit wistfully, then studies the teenager Gino pointed out, trying to see if anything about his movements betray a particular style. “I think he just wants to be good a bit too hard.” Realizing they’ve leaned in quite close to the screen, Cyan hurriedly pulls themselves back, their eyes darting nervously at Gino. It’s probably fine, right? With that many spikes he would have surely noticed getting too close. “If he just remembered to breathe he’d nail it...Or at least not sound so...” he tries to find the right word, a diplomatic way to phrase it, “...like one of them squeaky desert frogs?” Gino nods sagely, like this makes very much sense -- "Huh, I could see it. That's Christian Slater, right? Maybe they should start putting ungenderbent JD in a crop top," he muses; the hand that was scratching his head is now going to scratch thoughtfully at his scraggly goatee, rolling his head sideways at the screen. "Croaky," he says, though immediately he's hedging, "He could be croakier but this is not the range for him. Maybe nobody else's balls had dropped yet, not a baritone in sight, man. -- well, earshot." He sighs, shakes his head, and then -- perhaps he's finally feeling guilty for how relentlessly he's been picking on all these high schoolers from 2014 -- he says charitably, "Creative choreo." Cyan shrugs noncommittally. “The dialogue is pretty slick, I take it this Skye fellow is supposed to be the heartthrob? That’s a guy who could use a crop top.” He’s tapping his foot along with the rhythm, already visualizing how to do some of the moves. Something to try out another time. "Oh you don't know this one?" There's a tinge of judgment in Gino's tone at first, but it's replaced by sheer glee almost at once, "Man, wait until -- no no no, I shan't, but it's impactful as shit." He adjusts delicately himself in the chair and clasps his hands over his stomach. "Dude, community theater YouTube is a bounty of this shit, I come here all the time just -- oh shushushush he's monologuing." He's pointing at the screen, raptly attentive as teenage Sky Masterson (in this awkward high school production, he stands easily a head taller than anybody else in the cast) claps his hand to his costar's chest. Does Gino already know the punchline? Almost undoubtedly. Does he laugh anyway? Also yes, shoulders shaking with the effort of staying library-quiet, though the scrape-scrape-scrape of his spinespikes on the plastic molded chair is distractingly unpleasant to the ear. Then, as if he hadn't interrupted himself, "I do this all the time, I love amateurs. Like, this is real joy in the craft. When I start feeling like there's nothing beautiful in life I just come here and watch a bunch of hella earnest kids do grapevines like, yeah." “Nah, this stuff wasn’t really part of my upbringing,” Cyan leaves it at that, an old memory flutters at the edge of his mind, insisting he listen to what it has to say. He shakes his head, trying to get it to leave him alone. Why think about what has been when there’s something new and fascinating to think about instead? He watches Gino out of the corner of his eye, just as much as he follow the witty lines of the musical coming like pearls on a string, there’s something fascinating about someone being able to have this much fun with what is clearly not a polished performance. “Amateurs huh?” If you’re not going to do it right you have no place here! There it is, that sneaky old memory crawling into view. “I guess I haven’t really thought about it that much, it is kind of cool how they seem to actually have fun.” "Ahhh," Gino nods. "I grew up here so I think I just automatically absorbed it through, like, osmosis." He adjusts himself against the chair with another scrape and sighs. "Well, that and I'm also too broke to see professional theater kids," he says, "but you can't beat this stuff for heart, you know? Like chicken soup for my hater-ass soul. Damn, and you missed Fugue for Tinhorns, it was a trainwreck vocally but they stayed on the beat and I was proud of them. I only wish they'd let me smoke weed in the library." “Yeah....” Cyan scratched the back of his hood, pushing some of his crowsnest of black hair out for a moment before he hurriedly tucks it back in. How long has it been since they last watched a professional show? Six years? More? It was hard to keep track back in the lab and he’s not entirely sure he trusts his math on it anymore. “Professional theater kid is kind of an oxymoron, really.” At the comment about weed his spine stiffens a bit making him sit up a little straighter. “Weed huh?” He looks around, making sure no one is watching them too carefully. Sure, there are looks, there’s always looks, but nothing that feels threatening right now at least. His eyes fixate on Gino, fully studying his demeanor, he seems fun, and it’s been a while since fun was on the table. “I might have some stuff, no equipment needed and no smell. If you’re interested?” "Absolutely not," Gino disagrees swiftly, "just 'cause they struck gold on that great white way don't mean they're not total dorks. Cream of the crop of theater kids, actually. The Tom Bradys of theater kids." He tilts his head sideways, regarding Cyan with a suspicious squint, the shells on his browline grinding down with a crrrck; one can almost hear the wheels in his brain grinding too, before he says, "How much?" Cyan is still studying Gino, calculating what route to take. “20 per pop, cash, or if you've got something to trade for it I'll take that too. This stuff doesn't even show up on regular drug screenings so it's worth it. Just--” he hesitates. “--you gotta be cool about it, alright? It’s a bit weird and I’ve had enough of suburban housewives trying to lock me in their basement." "I look like I mind weird?" Gino gestures at his face, then even more lackadaisically at the rest of himself. "Don't worry, I can pretty much guarantee I've had weirder. And don't worry, I'm not a housewife. Is this like a thing right now? I know someone who was kept in a glass display case, fuck is going on in the suburbs these days? Anyway," his shirt opens weirdly easily, like the top button is just magnetically attached, and he produces a twenty from within the Hawaiian shirt, as though there was a pocket sewn into it like a suit jacket. He pokes the button shut again, gives the twenty a little wiggle. "I mean... weird, how?" Cyan takes one of his hands out of his pockets, holding it out to catch the money. “I gotta get up close and personal. How are you with touch? Is your skin your real skin or a cover? And uh...are you abnormally lightweight or prone to spontaneously defying gravity?” "Um," Gino frowns a little deeper; though he's not pulling the bill away yet he stops wiggling it. "It's kind of both? It's my real skin but it's kind of watertight. And I don't know if I defy gravity but I do break the laws of physics a little bit. Actually, maybe I do defy gravity, look," he sort of casually attaches the twenty to the front of his shirt, as easily as if it were Velcroed there, but then he touches a single fingertip to the top of his computer mouse and picks it up, gives that a wiggle. "Huh," Cyan follows the demonstration carefully, he hasn't encountered this before, and it's good to know, it would be a disaster if he ended up attached like that. "Right, that complicates things." He takes a moment to think. "Okay, so right, if your skin is watertight that might not work too well, and it's kind of very important that you don't touch me longer than what I say is ok." He fixes Gino with a Serious look. "Very important." he repeats with emphasis. "But you do breathe so you can always just breathe it in. It's just a tiny bit trickier to dose like that." Suddenly realizing he's said a lot without explaining anything, Cyan leans back a bit. "It's me. I'm the drug, I touch people, they get high. It's simple really." "Oh, you're the drug," says Gino, as though that makes a ton of sense, though he's still blinking sort of blankly at Cyan. "So I gotta sniff you? I'll be honest that still would not be my weirdest trip, but, uhhh I think I'm gonna keep my twenty bucks. Sorry. I would prolly do it in a dive bar bathroom but I'unno about here in front of God and --" he tilts his head back at the computer screen -- "Miss Sarah Brown and everyone." "Fair enough," Cyan puts his hand back into his pocket. "I could just breathe on you, most people do that all the time anyway. No need to make it sound weirder than it is." He mutters for a bit then goes silent, staring absentmindedly at the teen playing Miss Sarah Brown being walked to her wedding, still in her red Salvation Army uniform. "You recon with a double wedding like that, if one of them said no, none of them would get married?" Gino somewhat fussily presses his twenty back into his shirt; his tone of voice is piling on with vocal fry, so that his "Nnnooo offense" sounds almost excessively insincere. He folds his hands back over his stomach. "To be frank, I think the rigors of a musical comedy plot would demand that they all get hitched even if all of them said no, man." Cyan raises an eyebrow, but elects not to comment on the tone. "Well, show's over and I got to go meet someone about a couch to crash on. So..." He gets up, grabbing his book on organic chemistry and gets ready to leave. Then stops for a moment and pulls out a crumpled up post-it from one of his many pockets, checking that it's one of the correct ones before putting it on the table in front of Gino. "It might not be a trip to Havana, but that doesn't mean it's not a good trip."