Logs:Glitter Bombs

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Glitter Bombs
Dramatis Personae

Marinov, Ryan


"You know what this means. Just gotta do something even bigger."


<NYC> 304 {Ryan} - Village Lofts - East Village

Similar in layout to many apartments in this building, the front door opens into a narrow entryway with a small coat closet. The living room beyond is wide and receives plenty of light from its high windows; floored in dark hardwood, it is separated from the adjoining kitchen by a half-wall counter, stools perched on the living room side and the sink and counterspace on the kitchen side. On the other side from the kitchen stands doors branching off to a pair of bedrooms and one bathroom; to the left of the entryway, a short hall wraps around past the kitchen to the second pair of bedrooms, a second bathroom at the far end of the hall. The apartment here stands often in a state of disarray, musical equipment or books or scattered notes spread among the pair of couches or coffeetable. The kitchen, at least, is usually kept neatly organized in contrast to the living room's clutter. At odd intervals from the walls, sturdy wooden poles branch out, somewhat akin to very large bird perches.

Things have been hectic around the Lofts, and Ryan's apartment has been no exception. It still bears the evidence of temporary visitors, couch pulled out into a bed, the bathrooms full of extra towels, platters of sandwiches and bowls of fruits and (vegan) jerky for snacking on scattered around the counter. Actual houseguests are currently blissfully absent, though. The apartment is mostly quiet, except for the soft music playing over the very excellent sound system -- currently Hozier ('To Noise Making' piped gently through the apartment) just barely reaching the fire escape. The window is thrown open wide; Ryan has just taken up a perch out on the stairs, head thunking down to rest on the bars. He's ordered food out for this occasion, a supply of take-out containers resting on the landing just above him to supply his generally meat-free house with some more Marinov-friendly fare. (Just lemongrass tofu stirfry in the dish on his own lap.) "I'm sorry for all the -- I wasn't trying to keep it from you, shit was just. A lot, you know?"

Marinov has opted to wear pretty casual clothes out for their visit, with a pair of pre-torn jeans (with some of their fur jutting out) and a black tank top with the text 'All Cats Are Beautiful' with the silhouettes of two cats, one red and one black. One of their hands brushes back through the fur on their head, which had been gelled up to give the illusion of spiky hair. "Nah, I get it. There was a lot going on and like. Fuck, I don't even know how you figure out all that shit after. All that shit. It's, yeah, a lot." They take a deep breath and look down to their dish, and they seem perfectly comfortable with their own position on the stairs. "Just glad you're doing better and I found out eventually. I like, just finished denial by the time you came back to life."

"I guess technically I wasn't keeping it from anyone what with the extreme lack of consciousness." Ryan's brows pull together. He's fumbling with his chopsticks, the long wooden rods clacking kind of uselessly together without actually picking up any tofu. "But if I had been awake --" This thought tapers off. He pokes at a piece of bok choy, then turns a quick grin up at Marinov. "I gotta tell you, though. If I had to get blown up, I'm really damn happy I got blown up in amazing style. I mean damn, I knew it was going to be great, but that was just --" His brows lift. "Am I allowed to say 'the bomb'?"

Marinov's head tilts back and they laugh and clacks their own chopsticks together in a gesture towards Ryan. "Yeah, I think that you're allowed like, a lifetime supply of bomb jokes now." They add matter-of-factly, "It's contractual, your agent surely knows all about it." They rub beneath their own chin lightly with their knuckle, "But yeah, I was back at school watching the press shit. Live feeds and all that. And holy shit, it all really came together." They half grimace, "'til it all came apart. Given how often I wreck my own shit, though, I think being destroyed is like. Extremely on brand for my stuff."

Ryan's shoulders have been slowly growing more tense the longer he fumbles at the chopsticks -- but Marinov's clacking puts a sudden ease back in his posture, a quick laugh startled out of him as his smile brightens. "I'm definitely taking advantage of that on the next press tour. 'This shit's blowing up the charts!' I'll be unstoppable." His teeth sink against his lip, his head shaking as he turns to the side, leaning back against the rail and curling his leg up on the stair. "I can't imagine. I'm sorry. It should've been such a good night for you, and --" He taps the chopsticks against the edge of his takeout dish, looking out toward the park across the street. "You know what this means. Just gotta do something even bigger. More deliberate clothing destruction. But maybe like, flashier next time but without any death. Glitter explosion. An even brighter outfit underneath."

"Ah, yes, we have to recognize the true victim of your being exploded." If the tapping of someone's chest can be said to be extremely sarcastic, Marinov accomplishes it when they do so on their own. Despite their deflection of the serious topic, they do take another deep breath and nod to acknowledge. "But yeah. It was... real scary and bad. I just... went outside and ran almost all night. Sometimes I get worried..." They sound for a moment like they're going to continue, but then put their container down on their lap. "Holy shit, though, I love that idea of like. Clothes exploding into ribbons and glitter. Gotta take back explosions from the terrorists, or else the terrorists win, yeah?"

"Hey, I was unconscious!" Ryan's eyes are wider, innocent. "My suffering had a definite cap." He's holding his hand just-so high above the stair. "Also I think by a lot of people's estimation, we are the terrorists, and I for sure want us to be the ones who win. I don't know exactly where that leaves us on the glitter explosion calculation but my vote is solid in favor." He's abandoned the chopsticks, now. He's just picking up his bok choy with his fingers to munch on it. He's also slipping in at the end, casual around his mouth of vegetable, "... get worried about what?"

"I guess in that case, I want the sparkliest terrorists to win," says Marinov, with a sweeping gesture of their chopsticks in the air, to mime scattering said sparkles. "Those fuckers will never be able to match up to our style." They laugh in a lower register, before picking up one of the pieces of meat and snapping it up in their mighty jaw. After they swallow, though, their jaw gets a bit more tense. "Get worried about... I dunno. Like." They pause a couple of moments as they search for words, eyes downcast. "Lots of stuff. I wonder how old I'm gonna get sometimes. I try to stand out and stand up and be like, real fucking visibly visible? But sometimes there's dread in the back of my head, creeping forward. I dunno."

"Not with you on our side, that's for sure." Ryan's smile melts away into just a quiet thoughtful look. His head tips back, eyes lifting toward the sky and his fingers clenching tighter around the fragile wooden chopsticks. "That's real. I really wish I could be -- super fucking encouraging right now, you know? Like fuck all the haters, both middle fingers high, you're gonna live forever and show them." He looks over at Marinov, exhaling long and slow. "But I don't honestly know. Maybe we'll die. There's a lot of people who want that. Definitely want to fight like hell to make sure it never happens but --" His shoulder lifts, falls again kind of jerkily.

"Some days I don't know how to think about it. It's just shitty and I think it's okay for it to be fucking shitty. Then other days I think hey. Nobody knows when they're going to die. I could have been hit by a car any day before I came out. But being loud and visible and glam as fuck?" His hands spread in front of him. "It probably won't stop being terrifying. For us. But it might let other people know they can be loud and visible and glam as fuck and it'll be less terrifying for them." His smile is returning. Not quite as bright as before -- but returning, smaller, crooked. "And hey, if the bigots do get us at least we make sure they choke on the glitter on our way out."

Marinov's tail wraps around themselves and curls over their leg while they listen to Ryan, eyes on him and ears tilted outwards. And while they clicked their slightly extended claws anxiously against one another after speaking their feelings, their agitation calms down a bit after Ryan speaks further. "Yeah. Yeah. The more of us who're loud and visible and just so fuckin' glam... the better. Thanks. For, uh, hearing me. It's not something I've really... vocalized before, yeah?" Their disposition brightens visibly at Ryan's final comment, ears turned fully forward again, and the look in their eyes softened, another laugh escaping their throat, this one lighter. "Sparkle so bright we burn those fuckers to ash."