Logs:Push
| Push | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
a long summer (immediately followed by a clumsy overture for reconciliation) "You're late." |
| Location
New York and DC | |
june 12 The rubbery yellow-white substance in the frying pan could only be called "scrambled eggs" in the loosest terms, but Matt is gamely pushing it around with a spatula anyway. Wisps of smoke start curling up from the lumpy heap at some point in this process, and he turns off the heat with a dismayed moue. Almost as an afterthought, he shakes some salt and grinds some pepper over what passes for breakfast while swiping out a text.
For quite some time no answer comes, and when Matt's phone does finally buzz, it's entirely underwhelming.
--- june 24 It is late enough that the house is at least still, if not the neighborhood. Matt is slumped in his armchair nursing a rather generous glass of whiskey, his old, beloved copy of "Night Watch" tucked against his side, but closed. His attention has been for some time trained on his phone and the latest in a long sequence of texts he's composed and deleted.
Once again, it takes a long time before any answer arrives. When it does, this time there are no words at all. Only a photograph -- one Luci is conspicuously not in. Taken from a rooftop or balcony, perhaps, it's a sprawling panorama of the nighttime city, laid out below glittering and serene. --- july 09 Matt is pacing the kitchen, agitated. There is far more breakfast laid out than would be necessary to feed four, and it's unclear whether he's fed even one this morning. His own plate is practically untouched, likewise the mess of pans and utensils cluttering the counter.
This time, the waiting stretches on -- and on -- and on -- but no answer comes at all. --- july 14 Curled up in bed long before his usual bedtime, Matt is pale and shivering beneath layers of blankets. His bloodshot eyes and trembling hands alike move slow, little though he moves save to drink tea. His laptop is tuned to breaking news on the resolution of the hostage crisis in Latvos, though he's not paying so much attention to it now as the blinking cursor in the empty text field beneath his last, unanswered message. When he finally does start typing the words spill rapidly from unsteady fingers.
Unlike previously, today, Matt receives answer quickly enough.
--- july 24 It was a bit more of a production than usual for Matt to get backstage, but after a few enthusiastic vouches he's slipping, quick and unobtrusive, past the weary yet wired ensemble dancers as if he knows exactly where he's going. Though the fine black tuxedo hangs a bit loose on him, the rest of his ensemble is beyond reproach, and in any event his poise would likely cover a multitude of sartorial sins. He sports a cravat in the same rich green and silver paisley as his vest and pocket square. His hair is freshly cut and combed and pomaded for want of a naturally healthy shine, and he's softened his pallor with a subtle touch of makeup. For all that, his presence falters when he arrives at the door to Lucien's dressing room. He shifts the bouquet of red roses to his left arm, lifts his hand and hesitates for just an instant before he knocks. Lucien's presence is, as ever, an easy thing for his brother to feel, an intricately layered clockwork carefully ticking away just so. He is far more casual than Matt when he comes to the door, half changed out of his costume into jeans, a makeup wipe in hand (most of his makeup gone though some around his hairline still stubbornly clings.) His eyes tick up to Matt's face and then sharply away, locking instead on the flowers. In his expression there is none of the emotion he's been garnering praise for of late; just a steady blankness. The careful mental rhythm he's been internally maintaining has fallen into a jangling chaos. His fingers curl slowly, tight, crumpling the makeup wipe into his palm. At length, very softly: "You're late." | |
