Logs:Plan B
| Plan B | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2023-02-21 It may be that you are also |
| Location
<PRV> Black House - Ridgewood | |
It's just creeping up on dinnertime Tuesday when a rapid series of texts pings Matt's phone.
It takes quite some time, this time, before an answer comes
This stately townhouse has a cheerful yellow brick exterior, its front entrance spectacularly inaccessible but affording residents a commanding view of the quiet street below. Inside it's bright and airy and almost entirely empty of furniture. It has the pristine, sterile look that comes with professional renovation, but here and there the obvious custom touches -- whether from the previous residents or at the new owner's request -- shine through. The first floor is expansive, with a longish open floor plan that's quickly falling out of fashion. One entire wall of the living room consists of tessellated geometric mirrors, reflecting the truly massive and functional fireplace and even larger mosaic stone hearth. Beyond this the dining room and kitchen are conjoined; the space left for the as yet absent dining table looks vast and strange. A small half bath is tucked at the rear of this space, beside which the back door leads down into a small backyard with a patio sheltered by a quaint little pavilion and a strip of a garden along one side. The staircase winding through the heart of the house is lit by a generous skylight, and runs parallel the main hallway of the second floor, which joins two comfortably sized bedrooms room, with an expansive and luxurious full bath in between and not one but two hallway closets. On the top floor is a massive bedroom with as much glass as wall and its own full, if smallish, bathroom. French doors one one side of this attic room lead out onto a roof deck, whose stairs lead down into the backyard far below. Is Ryan too boozy for soup? He is too boozy to answer, it seems, because no answer comes. Some time later finds the house brightly lit up -- windowshades habitually drawn but every one of the windows behind aglow. Matt is, at least, easily waved past the security guards at the sturdy gate that guards the front entrance -- the front door itself is unlocked. Ryan is currently just dressed in a slim-fit pair of black jeans and an maroon apron over featuring a large heart bracketed by lightning bolts and the words COMPASSION is INVINCIBLE; its front panel doesn't quite obscure the thick red knots of scars running ragged down his chest. He is in the kitchen, stirring at a large pot of spicy-creamy soup as he sings along, with Florence + the Machine's "Free". The sound system running through the house is very good, but he is still clearer -- not just in the rich tones of his voice but in the flood of heady-delirious-buzzy-exhiliration that carries through his singing. Matt has changed at some point since school, and now wears a sage green corduroy button-down open over a heather purple tee with "Magic to Do!" in glossy red and blue metallic letters, soft faded blue jeans, and black sneakers. He's unslinging a Xavier's School Chess Team canvas tote from one shoulder as he drifts into the kitchen, his head starting to bob to the frenetic rhythm of the music--or perhaps the frenetic rhythm of Ryan. "I ought to have been more specific about the direction of soup, but I was afraid you might be too weak with hunger and hadn't meant to bestir you so" His voice is flush with amusement and concern as he produces a pint of potato leek soup ("Souper Girl" the container reads above a cartoon figure wearing a cape and wielding a ladle) from the tote. "Yours is like to be much better, though." He drifts over to park himself at the end of the counter, well-trained to keep out of the cook's way though he's eyeing the contents of the pot with unabashed interest. "I don't need soup direction." The song -- including Ryan's singing layered along with it continues even as Ryan scoffs at this. "I know from corn chowder you don't need to give me..." Ryan trails off, his spoon dripping chowder on the counter as he reaches out to drag the pint of potato leek closer. He's peering, a little squint-eyed, at the carton. "They never put salt. Even you know to put salt." "I thought you might have some salt lying about, comes to it." Matt leans forward and braces his elbows on the countertop. "I didn't want to keep you waiting too long. If you lost an entire day, gods know how long it'd been since you ate." The concern in his voice is unchanged, determined and steady. His eyes are steady, too. "But, you do indeed know from corn chowder, so I'm glad you weren't too inebriated to cook." He smiles brightly and beckons. "Lay it on me? If it's ready for tasting." "I got like -- twenty. Salts. Chardonnay oak smoked sea salt in this," there are more droplets spattering on the counter as Ryan gestures, now, toward the soup with the spoon. "Right salt makes big-big difference." He leaves the spoon on the counter, fishing a bowl out of the cabinet and a ladle out of the drawer so that he can dish up some of the soup and set it down (no spoon) in front of Matt. The chowder is smokey, creamy, spicy -- by Ryan's standards, admittedly fairly mild. No bowl for himself; he's flopping down onto a stool beside Matt, melting onto the counter with cheek pillowed against an arm. "Never too inebriated for you, mon cher." "Mm, and the wrong one can be an assalt on the senses, no?" Matt fetches a spoon and tastes the soup delicately, wary of the temperature and heat alike. Then quickly takes another sip, no affectation in his delighted hum. "Oh, but this is delicious! Thank you, dear. I hope I did not insalt you too badly with my lapse of faith." He casually offers Ryan the next spoonful. "Call it a kind of madness. Though really it was somewhat less doubt in your abilities under the influence than your likelihood to think of feeding yourself." His smile softens. So does his voice, though there's a flat quality to the adamant affection he's pouring into it. The flicker of hope in it is somewhat less artificial. "Did you go to see him?" "I'm always an assault on the senses." Sorry, Matt, Ryan may be too drunk to interpret the puns; his brows are creasing as he echoes this, like he is trying to puzzle out whether or not he is currently doing any assaulting. He does not get up from where he has draped himself against the counter, eyes slowly falling shut like his earlier burst of cooking-energy has abruptly all fled. He does open his mouth for the offered spoon, just a little awkward in his current position though he largely manages not to dribble any into his beard (currently slightly overgrown from its usual very-close trim.) "I ate," he protests too emphatically, "right after we --" He sits bolt upright, the fire returning to his voice, to the waves of hurt and indignation and shame that batter at Matt. "Why did I go there he is better off without me." Matt's next breath comes quicker than is quite natural, but for the most part Ryan's emotional assa(u)lt just washes over and through him. His methodical if unorthodox arrangement of care and worry disappears under the flood, but then pops right back up in its wake unruffled with, "Because he loves you, and he's missed you, and he needs you." He takes another mouthful of soup, and feeds Ryan the next. "You are better off together. Trust him to know that, darling. Even if you don't believe he'd prioritize his own well-being over your feelings, believe that he would prioritize Spence's." "My feelings aren't fucking with Spence. With Spence's people... with Spence's... Spence... dating." This time Ryan is less capable with the soup, a trickle of chowder dripping down his chin. "He asked. Asked me if it was gonna be a problem. Him and Steve." In his shaky laugh there's now a deep cold coil of fear wrapped through the other feelings. "When am I ever anything but problems." Matt tugs a napkin--or maybe a dish towel, he's not picky--from a drawer and dabs the soup from Ryan's beard as if this were the most natural thing. "He's choosing to consider how your feelings fuck with you. I do think that's an important distinction, but I admit..." There's a stir of despondency, far more organic than the rest of what he's feeling and harder to furl than he'd like. "...it can be difficult. When you rely a lot on someone to help regulate all that..." He makes a looping "crazy" gesture in the direction of his own temple. "Even if you trust him entirely to consider his own feelings, it seems unfair to lean on him for processing yours when they may be at odds." He's gone back to alternating spoonfuls of soup between himself and Ryan. "Especially if he is already inclined to put others first. To put you first, when you're not always altogether sure what it is you want. Do you?" His eyebrows lift fractionally, a gentle amusement bubbling up into his words. "Know what it is you desire?" "No no no you gotta do the weird fucking eyes. Eyebrow. Stare into my soul," is Ryan's reply to the question about his desire. He's cracked his eyes back open just enough to check if Matt is correctly Eying, but his face crumples in the next minute -- "... fuck. Jax would be painting you up with devil-face right about now." The distress stays etched into his expression. He wipes at his chin quite a bit after Matt has already cleaned him up. "Guess you'd know from relying on someone who..." His brows scrunch. "How do you work that out." Matt obligingly stares into Ryan's soul--or at least into his eyes, the bright clear green of his own almost unearthly when his gaze is so steady. "Nonsense." His tone is dismissive, but there's a longing ache behind it. "Whyever would I use my devil-face on you? Jax knows better than that. Wings, on the other hand..." He drapes an arm around Ryan's shoulder and squeezes gently. "Alas, this devil has only arm hugs to give." He goes still against Ryan's side. "I..." The startled perplexity in his voice isn't distressed, exactly; there's a kind of existential unsteadiness behind it, but he seems more curious about that than anything else. "I'm not sure. In some ways, it's always been easy for me to know what I want. In others--I've just relied on him to know, and luckily I don't think this is quite the same for you and Jax." He pulls back a little and studies Ryan, dredging his half-forgotten compassion back up. "But maybe this part applies: sometimes, you need to consider that outside of the context of your relationship with your uh, person. It doesn't mean figuring it out alone, but..." His gives a small twitch of a smile. "...it doesn't have to be him or no one." Ryan leans into the side-hug -- kind of melts into it, not responding for a stretch of time that makes it difficult to discern whether he is Seriously Thinking or simply fallen asleep. "My brain definitely thinks it's gotta be him or no one, sometimes. M'trying to work around that." He rolls his head a little bit to the side, cracking an eye open to peer up at Matt. "Who else you relying on these days, then?" Matt shifts Ryan's weight a little where he's leaning so they're less likely to tip onto the floor if the other man does fall asleep. "Mine, too." The words are quiet in volume, but to Ryan's senses they sing--in jarring contrast to the half-muted/half-contrived timbre of his emotions so far tonight--surprise and fear and solace, resolving into a tempestuous and unfamiliar chord of connection. "And so am I. With Jax and Hive, for a while. But when people have so many other stresses, I don't trust myself to..." He exhales the rest of that sentence in a breath of unspoken frustration. "These days? My long-suffering therapist, I suppose." He brushes the frustration away and struggles to reengage, awkward and still humming with unaccustomed accord. "You?" Ryan is only happy to melt into Matt along with the countertop. His eyes are more fully opening now -- though not looking at Matt but kind of unfocused at the air around him as the other man speaks. "Shit, I'm here leaning on you, aren't I? Fff. -- Woah. Maybe," he's saying this wider-eyed, now, intensely earnest as he suggests to Matt as though this is a new idea, "you should trust them. To know..." Though here he's just tumbling into a laugh, too-bright and colored over with a giddy mix of love and fear. "When your too-goddamn-crazy is too-goddamn much." "Oh, darling..." This time Matt's quiet words carry a similarly quiet regret at how readily that bright intensity sluices off of him. "If I didn't want you leaning on me, I wouldn't be here right now." Whether to underscore this point or to compensate for his uncooperative emotional processing, he gathers Ryan closer and presses a fierce kiss to the side of his head. "I trust people to know their boundaries, maybe even enforce them, but surely you know how hard it can be to refuse me." It's even harder to tell whether his arrogance is a deliberate effort to cover his dismay or vice versa, but either way he's not trying terribly hard. "You are right, of course. And you also know that wanting to request support in a fair and sensible and helpful way is a far cry from doing it when you're on fire." "The thing about being on fire, you ignite everything around you. Whether or not they..." Ryan exhales heavily, his eyes fluttering closed at the kiss. He wrestles himself vaguely -- attempted -- upright, but doesn't really make it very far before slouching against Matt once more. "I'm glad you're here," he finally says, soft. His wash of emotion is muted, this time; the same fear and love as before tinged over with exhaustion, relief, the fuzzy haze of booze. "Eat your soup." | |
