Logs:Morning People

Morning People
Dramatis Personae Jax, Ryan
In Absentia	2019-02-04 "I was gonna let you know about this exciting new invention called a spatula, but you seem on top of this now."
Location <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. It's almost chipper here in Ryan's disasterzone of an apartment. Coffee percolating, pancakes cooking on the stove, Bruno Mars's "That's What I Like" playing -- loudly in the kitchen though in the rest of the open-plan thin-walled apartment the music has not carried over at all. Convenient, really, given that it's barely five in the morning. A too cursory inspection might lead one to believe that the young man flipping the pancakes, bopping to the music, is a Morning Person. A closer look might notice the nightclub VIP bracelet still wrapped around Ryan's wrist, the not quite entirely smudged off eyeliner. His jeans have been traded for pajama pants but his soft and clingy tee shirt still smells a bit of sweat and Someone Else's cologne. He lifts his pan, shakes it in time with the music -- tosses -- doesn't actually manage to catch the pancake properly, having it splat instead back down onto the lip of the skillet and then slide off to the floor. Undaunted, this earns only a small wince before he drops another neat circle from a squeeze bottle into the heated pan. Rattlechunk. A key turns in the lock, the deadbolt slides open. Does Jax live here? Perhaps not, but the light on under the door opposite his is as good as an invitation, right? He's slow about his entry, sagging back against the door to close it, slumping down to the floor to fumble-tug his black workboots off. He's clearly also coming at his morning the wrong way 'round, though the rumpled black and red Mendel Clinic security uniform he wears suggests he probably didn't have as much fun about it. Kind of pale now, kind of slumping, there's nevertheless a bright smile that lights his face once he steps into the bubble of Ryan's music, dancing, post-club buzz. "You gotta work on that wrist action." He mimes flipping the skillet as he stoops to pick the ill-fated pancake off the floor and drop it down the sink disposal. Having thus Contributed to the current breakfast workings, he contents himself to settle against the counter. Kind of a droopy-floppy lean, one hand tucked into the crook of the opposite elbow, chin in hand and his sunglass-shaded gaze turned toward Ryan. The tilt of his head to try and cop a glance at the bowl of batter is extremely half-hearted. "There enough there to take home?" The warm buzz that suffuses the kitchen once ensconced within the curtain of music likely does not hurt, either. Not cloying or heavy, just a light flush that ripples through Jax along with the song. Shamelessly letting Jax pick up his mess, Ryan turns aside to grab a bunch of bananas from where they've for some reason been hung on a frying pan hook over the counter. "I was just about to get that." He plops the bananas down in front of Jax, sans actual explanation. His brows lift at the question, tongue clucking against his teeth. "/Please/." The word comes out in a light puff, his amusement echoed in a stronger flutter bubbling light through Jax's mind. "I'm genetically incapable of cooking for one. My abuela would come back from the grave just to look at me with disapproval." This pancake he's more careful with; flippant or not, he does a fair mimicry of Jax's demonstrative Flipping Form. Actually catches it this time. "You can take some back to Spence, pretend you've been slaving away since you got back." Jax's pierced brows crinkle inward. Behind the sunglasses, it's difficult to read precisely what look he's regarding the bananas with, but his face is turned down toward them for a long blank moment. "Your grams is alive and well in Tucson." His knuckles smoosh into his cheek, pulling one half his face upward and pulling his already languid drawl into a sleepy mumble. Mashed up against his hand, his smile at the successful pancake catch comes out lopsided, too. "Hey, good form! Eight outta ten. I was gonna let you know about this exciting new invention called a spatula, but you seem on top of this now." Very focused on making sure the pancake lands squarely back in the pan, Ryan can't spare a look at the moment. There's a distinct lack of chagrin in his crooked smile, his breezy: "Yeah, well, you know she'd leap at any chance to shower me with reproach." He follows the bananas, eventually, with a knife, setting it down by Jax's elbow. "By the time I'm done, I'm going to make this look easy!" Another shake-toss of the skillet. The pancake flips into the air and -- does not, really, land on the plate that's been set out to receive it. Drapes sadly over its side instead. At least this time it's only spilling over onto the counter and not the floor. Ryan picks up the plate, gives it a shake to resettle the pancake in its center. He presents it to Jax with an exaggerated flourish. It takes Jax a moment even now to catch on, but he pulls himself back upright gradually. Picking up the knife, he carefully slices a banana at its tip, peeling it halfway open. His nose crinkles up at Ryan's pancake presentation -- he takes the plate with much less fanfare, setting it on the counter and slicing neat discs of banana into a thin layer on top. "I don't doubt it." He leans over, nudges a shoulder lightly against Ryan's. "But you know, easy or not, y'always make it look good."