Logs:Morsel

Morsel
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Matt, Spencer
In Absentia	2020-08-25 "{Can you teach me your secrets?}"
Location <PRV> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. The cast recording of Carrie: The Musical is playing downstairs, the fierce and angry climax of "I Remember How Those Boys Could Dance" currently contrasting with the pleasantly homey atmosphere in the kitchen. It smells warmly of citrus and strawberries, bar cookies cooling on the countertop only fresh out of the oven. Flèche has not yet recovered from a run; she's been happily panting on the kitchen floor by her water bowl for a short time now. Lucien, in neatly tailored dark blue jeans and a soft short-sleeve grey henley, evidently trusted Matt enough to remove his baked goods from the oven -- he's smelling fresh from a shower, a hint of sandalwood and amber, hair a touch damp -- but not quite enough to start on dinner prep, which he has been bustling through now. Herbs and seasonings neatly laid out, he's currently in the process of methodically grating sweet potato into a bowl. "{I am very glad,}" he is telling his brother, solemnly -- then stops, with a faint frown, a small ripple across the surface of his mind. Tiny adjustment, tiny smoothing-over in its neatly-curated processes: "{-- no,}" he adjusts, "{let me rephrase before I imply that I am grateful for the hundreds of thousands of lives lost to this disease. I do think that the necessity of drastically adjusting college theatre programs on a widespread scale in this election year may perhaps have spared us a glut of --}" The twitch at the corner of his mouth is very small. "{Very earnest. Very Ill-advised. Student productions.}" Matt has retired from his very limited kitchen duties to slouch at one of the stools at the counter, where he is nursing a cup of buttery jin xuan oolong. He's actually dressed properly today, in a black t-shirt with a blue house on it and a spiral staircase descending from it deep into the earth below, and threadbare blue jeans, both hanging conspicuously loose on his practically skeletal frame. "{Mmm, some will manage nevertheless, and they have oh so much to work with in the way of current events.}" He brushes fingertips over the glossy celadon glaze on his teacup, his pleasure at this moment of comfort and ease sensible to Lucien. "{I am sure you are the envy of many a colleague for the wisdom and restraint you exhibited in your callow youth.}" He hides the incipient smile behind the brim of his cup as he lifts it. "{Though they might envy less if they knew the cause, I suppose.}" A moment ago there was no one in the doorway, and then suddenly, there is. Spence has been sequestered upstairs with Gaétan for the better part of the day, only occasional bursts of loud laughter or conversation and snack runs to remind the rest of the house they are here. Now he's waving his greeting to the Tessiers as he steps into the kitchen. The boy is wearing a leaf green t-shirt bearing the silhouette of a dancing faun-creature bowing and extending one hand to a child above the words 'Amongst the Green and Growing Things' written in flowing cursive, and gray cargo shorts. He wears a green kippah printed with flaming Hebrew text reading 'tzedek tzedek tirdof'. As he has these past two weeks, he looks pale and unwell. Today he does not even seem particularly tempted by the cookies on the counter, though he does nevertheless ask, "{Can I take some of those up, please?}", his French serviceable if casual, distinctly Québécois even with a heavy American accent. "{I can only imagine. The halls of Congress, rethought as the Warsaw Ghetto, with Nancy Pelosi leading an --}" Lucien cuts off this stream of thought abruptly, with a very small dip of head as Spence appears. "{Ah -- they are still quite warm. Do you need a drink with them?}" He sets down his half-shredded sweet potato, rinsing his hands off so that he can retrieve a plate. He slides four of the berry-lemon bars onto it with a flat green spatula, offering the cookies to Spencer. "{Will you be staying for supper? Sweet potato and pumpkin risoni.}" Matt's demeanor shifts subtly at the sight of the boy, though it's subtle enough to be written off as a flash of pain rather than the interest--curiosity even--that it actually is, easy enough for Lucien to sense where their powers were already conjoined. Easy to sense as well is the languid flex of his power, turning within Lucien's to orient toward Spencer. Not reaching for him, just keenly watchful. "{It's really good,}" he offers, propping his chin in the palm of one hand. "{I promise that's not just me praising everything he cooks. It's just great I-don't-really-feel-like-eating food.}" "{Oh yeah um, Coke for Gae and can I have some juice?}" Spence takes the plate of cookies and glances at Matt, just a touch skeptically. "{But what if everything he cooks now is good 'you-don't-really-feel-like-eating' food?}" His smile is still bright, if kind of tired. Then, with an abrupt surge of bravado, "{That sounds great, though, I'd love to stay for that.}" Matt can feel the quiet reach of Lucien's mind, even if Spencer cannot. Luci takes his time with the drinks, unhurried as he roots through the (neatly organized) fridge for soda and juice. Gets a glass. Pours Spencer some watermelon juice. "{Everything I cook now,}" he replies lightly, "{is good don't-really-feel-like-eating food. That ought to be a recommendation, no? I have had plenty of time to perfect this particular repertoire.}" He slides the drinks across the counter, returning to his grating. "{It will be a bit yet. Take this poor pup with you, I'm afraid she's being quite neglected.}" Matt lifts his tea and takes a slow sip, tipping his head in Lucien's direction as he speaks. "{You caught me. I do think everything he cooks is excellent.}" He lowers his voice conspiratorially, switching fluidly to English, "You might even say he's rather...skillet coaxing reluctant appetites." Spence sets the plate of cookies down and stoops to pet the exhausted dog. He's pretty exhausted himself, though bound and determined not to act it. To a closer examination, he's definitely anemic, ever so slightly feverish, and perhaps most worryingly to Lucien, shows elevated levels of lactate dehydrogenase. "{I think that's great!}" he chirps, his enthusiasm real even if the energy he affects is not. "{Can you teach me your secrets? I'm a real good sous chef.}" Straightening up, he blinks at Matt. Then, "Ohhhh...wow, skillet." It gets a snicker out of him, anyway, and a bright grin. "{Thanks so much!}" He tucks the Coke under an arm, picks up the cookies and juice, then clicks -- a very clumsy imitation of Lucien -- at Flèche to get her to follow him upstairs, on foot this time. "{Certainly. Next time you come you can join me from the beginning.}" Lucien's head inclines politely as Spencer takes his leave. There is a slow careful grooming happening in his mind, a meticulous reordering in his mental landscape as he works. He returns to his grating, steady, quiet, one potato and then starting on the next. He's careful here, too, even and rote in his methodical motions, eyes fixed steadily downwards and a slow -- small -- crease forming between his brows. Matt's smile remains perfectly fixed in gentle bemusement until Spencer is out of sight. Then it fades, replaced by a pensive frown as he studies Lucien. He says nothing, but there's a quiet shifting about in his mind, too. It's a long stretch before anything like dismay rises in him, and even then it's distant, faintly troubled. He looks away, out the garden window. "{How bad is it?}" he asks at last, lightly. Lucien does not answer nor look up until his potatoes and his pumpkin have all been neatly grated. It's only while he's washing his hands off again that he replies. "My sense of time has been off. How long has he been like this? {Several weeks now, no?}" Matt draws breath to speak again once, but bites it back with a ripple of annoyance that subsides as quickly as it rose. He waits placidly, sipping his tea and watches his brother work. To the question he raises his eyebrows faintly. A shiver passes through him. "{Two weeks, at least.}" Lucien's lips compress. He wrings at the towel as he dries his hands -- a motion faintly echoed in the deeper twisting shiver of his mind, curling tighter where it is twined through Matt's, its balming effects briefly skewed into something disquieting. Then a calm, once more, that also finds mirror in Lucien's soft voice. "{His LDH is high.}" Matt draws a quick breath at the ripple of disquiet, the sharp tensing of his shoulders answered with bone-deep aching from his beleaguered body. If he had any thought to complain, though, Lucien's reply pushes it from his mind. The sharp sensation that shoots through him is not fear or anguish, but sheer surprise and a slow, methodical set of calculations grinding away deep beneath it. "{That's rather specific, no? And only too familiar.}" his tone matches his brother's. Bit by bit, a muted anxiety rises, straining against Lucien's carefully engineered comfort. "{We must tell Jax.}" "{We must.}" Lucien folds the towel neatly. Hangs it back in its place. There are walnuts to brown, sage to crisp -- but first he leans up against the counter, exhaling slow and staring down at his collection of vegetables. The small quirk of smile that touches his face is perhaps at odds with the determined blankness in his mind. "{Goodness. After all these years of terrible jokes. It would explain quite a lot if your secondary mutation were cancer, after all.}"