Logs:In Which A Tea Is Brewed, Without Much Artistry

In Which A Tea Is Brewed, Without Much Artistry
Dramatis Personae Desi, Taylor
In Absentia	2019-05-09 "I got three /solid/ hours last night."
Location NYC - Evolve Cafe
Spacious and open, this coffeeshop has a somewhat industrial feel to it, grey resin floors below and exposed-beam ceilings that have been painted up in a dancing swirl of abstract whorls and starbursts, a riot of colour splashed against a white background. The walls alternate between brick and cheerfully lime-green painted wood that extends to the paneling beneath the brushed-steel countertops. There's an abundance of light, though rather than windows (which are scarce) it comes from plentiful hanging steel lamps. The walls here are home to artwork available for sale; though the roster of prints and paintings and drawings and photographs changes on a regular basis it has one thing in common -- all the artists displayed are mutants. The seating spaced around the room is spread out enough to keep the room from feeling cluttered. Black chairs, square black tables that mostly seat two or four though they're frequently pushed around and rearranged to make space for larger parties. In the back corner of the room is more comfortable seating, a few large black-corduroy sofas and armchairs with wide tables between them. There's a shelf of card and board games back here available for customers to sit and play. The chalkboard menus hanging behind the counter change frequently, always home to a wide variety of drinks (with an impressive roster of fair-trade coffees and teas largely featured) though their sandwiches and wraps and soups and snacks of the day change often. An often-changing variety of baked goods sit behind the display case at the counter halfway back in the room, and the opposite side of the counter holds a small selection of homemade ice creams. A pair of single-user bathrooms flanks the stairway in back of the cafe; at night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits up the stairs above the coffeehouse. Business has been fairly quiet, this week in Evolve. There's been a kind of pall over the community in /general/ -- large and visible terrorist attacks on your group have a way of putting a kind of damper on people's spirits! -- but here in this little community hub in the center of things, with a greater concentration of people who /knew/ Ryan -- before he was famous, /while/ he was famous, who knew people who knew him, who knew people on stage with him, who watched on the televisions here in the cafe and cheered in the streets when he outed himself at the Grammys -- it's hard to find folks who /weren't/ touched one way or another by Monday's blast. So coffee is subdued. Business is slow. That's fine by Taylor, alone right now behind the deserted counter. One of his arms is in a cast and sling swathed against his chest, his other sporting a small wrapping of white bandaging. He has a pale blue tee shirt on with Captain America's shield insignia in the center; it looks crisp and new. Aside from the two visible arms all his others are not in evidence. At the moment he's seated behind the counter, sitting up a bit stiffly and thumbing through his phone. Desi sweeps in through the door, walking as fast as tourists might expect of a no-nonsense New Yorker. She /looks/ more flower child than city slicker, though, dressed as she is in a floral print blouse under a lavender suede jacket and voluminous green a-line skirt. Over one shoulder she carries a green purse styled like a leaf, down to the lighter green leaf vein stitching. Her thoughts are more chaotic than usual, scattered beneath a heavy haze of weariness. She notes how few customers there are in Evolve, and gods how /thin/ Taylor looks, and of course the arms will grow back, but it must be uncomfortable in the meantime, to say nothing of the inconvenience. She's slipping behind the counter anyway to offer him a hug, then hesitates, frowning. "Will it hurt you?" Her attention is actually trained on the arm in the /sling/ now, bony and considerably less expendable than the ones he'd lost in the explosion. Taylor is slow to look up, slow to set his phone down. Slow, too, to slide down off the stool, lifting one arm to curl it gingerly around Desi's back for a careful squeeze. "Hhh/yeah/ it will," comes his answer -- warm, a quiet edge in it. Strained? Laughing? It might be both -- regardless, he isn't immediately letting go. Desi is careful with the placement of her uncovered hands, but where her cheek brushes Taylor's he can sense the brief feedback of /her/ telepathic presence, tightly furled. She makes no attempt to pull away before him, and it is only through her thoughts that he knows she is exerting an active will not to squeeze him tighter. "I'm so sorry," she mumbles into his shoulder, deploying the usual tricks to steer her surface thoughts away from--/something/ unpleasant. Taylor closes his eyes, arm curling /just/ a little tighter. His own answer comes in a soft telepathic echo that brushes up against Desi's mind -- a swirl of sympathy, sorrow, solace, that touches muted and mild before withdrawing. He straightens, exhaling slowly and taking his seat again. "Are you. Going to class and all? I can't believe it's only Thu --" He gets back to his feet hurriedly, eyes widening. "Crap. Did you actually want coffee?" "Technically, yes--for now." Desi waves a dismissive hand. "Classes will be over come Monday, and then we descend into the screaming void of exams and projects." << Gods, this term can't be over too soon. >> Her skinny shoulders hitch up, and she hastily obscures some mental calculation she's making. "Anyway, I came to see you, but I wouldn't mind some Darjeeling." She digs out a five dollar bill and rings herself up for it, dumping the change in the tip jar. "With just a splash of milk?" "Oh, Christ. I don't envy you that at /all/. It's not like you're already getting an excess of sleep." Taylor's smile is a little crooked at Desi's order. He nods, watching her briefly as she rings herself up but turning aside soon enough to start the tea. "Yeah, sure. You got it." He's slow and methodical as he works, back turned to Desi. "You know, I can't believe you people do this every /day/ with only two hands? How does your store stay open?" "I sleep plenty," she retorts with a /slightly/ petulant sniff. << Arguably, >> she supplies silently as she slumps back against the counter. "I ask myself the same question sometimes. I think it must be the books. That, or our line of tea pun accessories. Or..." There's a touch of amusement in her voice and mind alike. "...it's that we're ideally placed to ensnare wandering sleep-deprived students who don't care if their barista falls short of your artistry." "Plenty? Plenty where? /Who/ you using as your yardstick here?" Taylor snorts, shaking his head and settling back in a lean against the counter once he has gotten the tea to steeping. "Artistry, please. You think people down here got /standards/?" He looks down at his hand, braced against the counter. His fingers squeeze down, slowly relax. "Thank god they don't. Can't afford to or we'd lose 'em all to..." He trails off, looking aside to watch the cup and its timer, as though it will steep faster this way. "... how're your brothers?" << Luci. >> That this slips through Desi's mental self-censor if evidence enough of her exhaustion. "I got three /solid/ hours last night." There's no heat in her defense of her sleep schedule, though. "I have it on good authority I'm a /bit/ of a caffeine snob," she confides, leaning toward him conspiratorially, "and /I/ like your brews just fine, thank you very much." At the question her thoughts grow even more muted, but it's not deliberate psionic obfuscation this time. "I've hardly seen them, truth be told. Matt and Luci are practically living at the hospital." Her lips press together, and though her reaction does not resolve into /words/, her sheer /familiarity/ with the idea speaks for itself. "They're exhausted and stressed out. Gaé's been coming and going, but to the Hollands', mostly and..." Here a flood of complicated poignancy and frustration around her younger brother's insistence that he's fine. "...he's fine. Just wants to be there for Spence." "My bad what was I saying? Three whole hours that is definitely all you need going into..." Taylor raises his brows. "Hang on, how they do exams at your school again? Sedate, relaxed, low energy?" His forehead creases, head shaking slightly. "That's rough. I mean -- it was a godsend they were there, but." His grey eyes fix on Desi steadily. "Just a long-ass week. Are you..." He trails off, lips compressing. "No, sorry, dumb question. Sometimes, things are just shitty for a while. Hopefully they can come home soon, at least. People been getting discharged. Slowly." "Oh yes, just some multiple choice, maybe an /essay/ or two." Desi's smirk is a sly, shallow thing. In her head, though, there's music playing. << What a feeling! Bein's believin'! I can have it all, now I'm dancing for my life... >> "I'm getting by," she answers the unasked question, looking down at her hands, nails neatly painted lilac. "Got plenty to do--just wish I could do more than keep people fed." << And I'm a poor substitute for Jax, anyway. >> She glances at the clock. "Do you mind if I hang out with you a little while? I know it's not busy, but I don't want to assume where your head is on all this." "Honestly, I feel like that's one of the first things to get left behind, times like this. Especially with Jax behind goddamn /bars/ and with Ryan --" Taylor stops, clamping his mouth shut hard. "I mean, someone's got to step up with the Southerners -- you know." The timer is nearing to completion; Taylor glances at it, his body giving a small twitch. It's soon followed by a small grimace. His teeth grit harder as instead he pushes himself up off the counter, turning to finish the tea. "The quiet in here was driving me crazy anyway."