Logs:Haring Off

Haring Off
Dramatis Personae Jax, Ryan	2020-09-10 ("Done with that shit, though. No distractions." Set several hours after Ryan goes to see Steve.)
Location <NYC> The Tombs - Lower Manhattan
In the small hours of the morning, there aren't many people still hanging around here, but the ones who are share a certain kind of weariness. In some this manifests in a resigned patience, curled up on a chair asleep or doomscrolling on their phones. In some more agitated, jittery-pacing, checking the time every thirty seconds. It's probably not hard to guess which of these camps Jax is in, a set of bright blue and silver magnetic balls in his hand that he's mashing into a clump and constantly rearranging. He's dressed blandly at the moment -- comfortably worn old overalls, a bright green tee that reads 'Social Justice Psion' in large capital letters and underneath that in cursive, 'changing the way you think', his peacock-hued hair worn combed down and floppy, plain black eyepatch, no makeup. A backpack resting on the uncomfortable plastic chair he's vacated for his pacing that he keeps half an eye on as he clicks and re-strings his beads. Ryan is -- almost -- still dolled up nice, when he finally is escorted up from the back by a rather bored-looking police officer. At least, there's certainly evidence that at some point in the night he was spruced up -- currently he's in a gold brocade vest with a mesmerizing pattern of interlocking stars over a very rumpled lavender broadcloth shirt, royal purple tie that has been undone and retied badly, pleated purple trousers, several new scuffs on his brown monk shoes. These trousers definitely had a matching jacket but where that is -- who knows. He is, at least, reasonably steady on his feet. "Shit," comes his greeting, eyes widening in sudden dismay when he sees Jax pacing. "I didn't call you. Fuck, fff -- you should be sleeping." Jax mashes the string of beads between his fingers, pivoting sharply and beelining for Ryan when the other man emerges. He answers this oh-so-warm greeting with a fierce hug, holding it for several breaths before taking a step back. "Yeah, you who done call me? My ma. You know what a mess you gotta be for someone else's momma hafta call frettin' 'bout your drunk behind in jail? You near-bout gave her a heart attack an' you are apologizing soon as it's a decent hour." Ryan may not have much decorum at this exact moment, but he has just enough left to look chagrined at this, a faint blush in his stubbled cheeks and his head dipping. It's a brief expression, pushed aside soon enough by a mildly wounded: "Well, my ma sure as hell wasn't gonna." "I'm thinking you cook her a real nice dinner tomorrow. Time comes, maybe write her up a nice Mother's Day song." Jax's tone is amiable, light, but the irritation simmering beneath it is sensible to Ryan. "An' Alma? You best'a been thinking on that apology while you was drying out in there." He heads back to his chair, scooping the backpack up with one hand. "You could at least let folks know if you gonna go haring off. Until Steve called I --" "Fuck Steve," Ryan interrupts this last sentence nearly as soon as Jax says this name, sharper, vehement. "I wasn't haring off, okay? He said he wanted to talk and -- he didn't want shit. My fault for fucking believing him though, right?" His head shakes, his arm looping through Jax's free one as he starts for the door. "Done with that shit, though. No distractions." Jax's lips compress. "He was real worried about you, honey-honey." He pulls his backpack up onto a shoulder, leaning slightly against Ryan's side as they walk. "A lotta us was. S'okay to believe folks care about you an' want you around because we do. It's just -- a little bit startling if someone's expecting a text an' instead you cross a half dozen states to say hi instead." He pushes the door open, holding it for Ryan and sliding his backpack partially off his shoulder so he can rummage inside it. He first pulls out a thermos, offering the hot coffee to Ryan; next, the fob for Ryan's car. "Might want to nap first, then have that." With a nod to the thermos. "We gotta long drive." Jax can likely SEE the objection forming in Ryan's expression -- but it never quite makes it off his tongue. He exhales heavily, squinting and blocking his eyes with one hand as he steps out into the grey-dawn light. "He said he missed me." This comes out softer, shed of its venom and now -- just -- tired. The smile he offers Jax is very small. "Oh, great. Gives me time to work on my apology song."