Logs:Contrast

Contrast
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Noah
In Absentia	2020-08-31 "Ain’t illegal ‘til you get caught, yeah?"
Location <NYC> Harlem – Outside Chloe and Deanna’s Home
Summer, perhaps, is starting a graceful hand-off to fall. While the sky is bright and sunny, the temperature has stayed at practically pleasant temperatures, tempting many a south Harlem resident to hang out on their stoop and observe the world moving by. Part of this world is one Noah Hunter and daughter, the former dressed in clean(!) workboots, his nicest jeans, and a navy button-up with the sleeves rolled above his forearms. The latter, dead asleep in her baby carrier and dressed in a blue cambray romper, an adorable limp potato sack. A rainbow pastel diaper bag is slung over his shoulder like a backpack. Noah is not walking slowly - he learned against that city sin long ago – but there is a certain attentiveness to his walk that is not fast, with glances between address numbers and his phone once he approaches the rowhomes that take up part of the street. He eventually comes to a stop outside one, just remembering to step to the side and out of the way to give one final address check. There is a moment of hesitation and shuffling feet, before he approaches the steps. Here, perched on the steps already, one Lucien Tessier -- comfortably dressed, today, in emerald green quick-dry tee and convertible grey hiking pants. There's a large black and green case propped on the lower step by his feet, two carbon-shafted arrows tucked into one of its outer pockets. A slender black cigarette is tucked between his fingers -- he's just stopping short of lighting it as Noah approaches. Bright green eyes lift, fix on Noah curiously through the foot-shuffling. "Désolé," he is starting to pick up his things, move the carrying case out of the way, "I do not mean to impede. Ah -- are you -- looking for someone?" “You’re fine,” Noah answers with a quiet reluctance. He stops short of climbing the steps, free hand lifting to his chin to rub a thumb over the scruff there. “I’m lookin’ for Chloe and Deanna’s place?” His gaze falls briefly, lights with recognition at the case and its arrows. “...Compound or traditional?” he asks after a moment, tucking his phone away in his pocket. "You only looked a touch unsure," Lucien replies apologetically; this shifts into a very small smile, a dip of his head as he gestures back towards the door. "Ah -- yes, you have the right place. I was only getting read to --" He pauses, eyes dropping to the case. "Oh, this one is my recurve. You shoot, too?" A more curious interest lights his eyes than his previous politeness. His elbows drop to his knees, fingers cupping at his unlit cigarette. "Chloe is assembling herself quite a little hunting party at this rate." Noah lets his hand drop to wiggle it back and forth in the air before it falls to his side. His speech sounds more certain when he answers. “Not since I moved up here. I did for a lot longer than I haven’t, though. Had a compound and a crossbow.” There’s a small twitch of his lips. “To my ma’s shame. She’s a traditionalist. You and Chloe go huntin’?” "Had. Not anymore?" Lucien continues rolling the filter of the cigarette between thumb and forefinger. "I have two compound bows as well. Oddly," there's a wry amusement in his tone, "to my mother's shame as well." The tilt of his head is assent; he glances from Noah to the sleeping baby. "Today it was only target practice, but we do. There is a very excellent range in Queens. Where did you move up from?" “Sold ‘em to move up here.” Regret tinges Noah’s answer, even as he shrugs—gently as not to wake precious cargo. “I don’t suppose this range might rent out bows to use? If I ever get any free time, it might be worth checkin’ out.” He adjusts the strap of the diaper bag before moving it to his other shoulder. “Came up from Georgia. Maybe... about a year and a half ago? Think that’s right.” "It does indeed. They have quite a decent variety that you might try. Though," Lucien leans just slightly forward with this confession, "I hope I am not overstepping too much by telling you that Chloe has a number of excellent bows herself and makes a delightful range partner." He studies Noah's expression thoughtfully, leaning back once more against the steps. "I imagine Georgia's hunting grounds are far more fruitful than, ah --" One hand unfurls, gesturing at the city block around them. “Does she?” Noah asks with some interest, eyebrows raising a fractional amount. “I’ll have to ask her ‘bout that, thank you.” At the comment about Georgia, his eyebrows continue their climb. He glances around at the buildings and concrete, following Lucien’s gesture, before his gaze returns to the other man. “Depends on how you look at it, I suppose,” he answers after a moment. “Lot less animals and greenery. But the squirrels in Georgia don’t just walk right up to you neither. If laws were a bit different.” He shrugs. Who knows then. Lucien dips his head in acknowledgment. He tucks his cigarette behind his ear, slowly pushing himself to his feet. "Alas that the laws were written by those who never had to wonder where a next meal was coming from." He stoops, hoisting his carrying case up onto one shoulder. "Then again, what the law says only matters if someone catches you." Noah's smile is short-lived, crooked but genuine. "S'a very fancy way of sayin' a tried and true redneck phrase," he says, moving aside to let Lucien pass. "Been nice talkin' to you. Have a good one." Lucien steps down off the stoop, plucking a car keyfob from his pocket. He hesitates, turns back around, brows lifted curiously. "What phrase might that be?" Partially up the rowhome steps when the questions comes, Noah half-turns, blinking in surprise. “Oh, well. Ain’t illegal ‘til you get caught, yeah?” he answers with a chuckle. “I hadn’t considered it, but you may have a point.” A small twitch of smile touches Lucien's mouth. "I have often thought that there are far more similarities between rural and urban life than many in power would like to admit." He absently punches the lock on his fob (the car that clicks open is a black Aston Martin Vanquish parked just on the curb) as he tips a small nod to Noah. "Take care."