Logs:Spectating

Spectating
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Eric
In Absentia	2019-02-10 "And I thought my coming out story was dramatic."
Location Evolve Cafe, Lower East Side
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 plentiful 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. There's a busy crowd in Evolve tonight, the cafe full of lively chatter. Near the back, someone has brought in a large television that does not usually live there -- it's tuned in to the Grammy awards, people watching with intermittent but eager attention as the awards are presented and the musical acts play. Dusk is taking up more space than he needs to in the crowded shop, casual in faded black jeans, a deep red v-neck tee, beaten up old Vans, sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair, sprawled along a couch at the back. His enormous black wings fold down behind him over the arm of the couch, clawtips propped against the resin floor. Though he's positioned himself with a good view of the television, he isn't watching it currently, dark eyes turned down to his phone screen. When he does take his attention off of his text conversation, it's mostly just to pick at the food sitting on a nearby table, the remnants of a chicken sandwich and a generous helping of fries. Bringing in a gust of cold air as he steps through the front door, Eric joins the crowd of people inside the cafe. His fashionable-but-definitely-not-motorcycle-safe-despite-the-best-attempts-of-the-design-to-look-like-it-could black ‘leather’ jacket opening as he unzips it to reveal a heather grey sweater with a skin-tight midnight blue turtleneck underneath that matches his black jeans. It takes some time for the police officer to weave his way through the crowd and to the counter, but a few minutes later, Eric is once more making his way through the room looking for a place to sit. (Preferably, somewhere with a table for him to put both mug and plate down.) When he spots Dusk, a smile brightens on his face and he steps in front of the other man. “Got room for one more?” Eric asks, flashing a toothy smile. Dusk tips his head back, dropping his phone to rest against his chest. He looks at Eric -- looks at the length of his couch (occupied only by his stretched-out legs) -- looks back up at Eric. "Maaaybe, but there's a toll." He's reaching one hand out -- fingers grasping in the direction of Eric's plate and the fried food on it. "A toll? A heavy price, I'm sure," Eric drawls, rolling his eyes in a exaggerated, playful manner and extending his plate towards the other man. Once the metaphorical tollgates -- Dusk's legs -- have raised, Eric plops down on the seat next to Dusk and takes a long sip of his hot chocolate. He puts the plate with his grilled cheese and soup to one side, but he removes the side dish of coconut tofu bites and puts them on Dusk's legs where both men have easy access to them. "Here for the show?" Eric asks, letting his head briefly, gently, fall back against the edge of one of Dusk's wings in a tiny head-butt. "Don't underestimate my appetite." Dusk yoinks a coconut bite, dunks it in sauce, munches it down before curling his legs back in to give Eric space. "You aren't careful, I'll clean you out of these. My fries are long cold." He rolls his shoulders, wings shifting and flexing with the motion. "Here for him, mostly." He flicks a thumbclaw toward the screen, where Ryan Black has just been announced for a performance. Flashy, fierce, the number he's starting -- "Native Tongue" -- is not from the hit album that has been nominated tonight, instead a no-holds-barred political piece unsubtly about the ongoing mistreatment of immigrants. "He lives in my building, you know. I'm totally going to be able to say 'I knew him when --' now." Eric turns and looks at the TV with a surprised expression, tilting his head to one side and studying the screen. "You have a real live celebrity living in your building and you ain't makin' lots of extra money on the side workin' for some tabloid? Why Dusk, you do care!" He flashes Dusk another grin, though it is brief as he keeps watching the television. "He seems good, though I'm a bit surprised they nominated him if this is the kind of music he sings. Ain't it a bit... too political for the old fucks?" "Real live." Dusk's grin is sharp and sharptoothed. "And I know, fucking scruples getting in the way of a fat payday. He's a good guy, though. Real good." His eyes are fixed on the screen, his smile softening as he watches the performance. "I'm sure there's already a horde of reporters shredding him for that. Fox will have a field day. His shit's not not always so fiery but I guess when you got a stage --" One wing lifts, falls. "It's a good time to use it." "Amen to that," Eric says, lifting his hot chocolate in a salute and takes a long sip. He wrinkles his nose slightly, letting his head fall back against the fabric of the couch (and partially onto Dusk's wing) and lets his head roll to the side to face Dusk. "Scruples. Fucking always trippin' us up, eh?" His tone of voice makes it clear that it's a joke, eyes flicking over the winged man's face before turning back to the television. "If you live in the buildin' with him, you must get a free concert every time he takes a shower." "Psh. Nah. I've gotten mad good at slaloming my way around 'em." Dusk's answering tone is teasing. "Haven't kept good track of his shower schedule, but I do overhear plenty of practice. No autotune, he really is just that good. If Post fucking Malone gets it over him I'm gonna storm the academy myself." Eric's grin widens at Dusk's reply, but he doesn't break his eyes away from the screen. "Ugh, talent. Always the worst, when other people have it." He slides the pleather jacket off of his shoulders and lazily tosses it over the arm of the sofa, stretching his arms briefly up into the air with a grunt and then a sigh. "Post Malone... isn't that the guy who looks like he went to a tattoo artist and told them to do their worst?" Dusk is in the middle of snagging another one of Eric's tofu bites. "Mmmp!" Eyes wider, hand emphatically gesturing toward Eric, this is not a noise of pleasure at the food so much as a resounding agreement with Eric's assessment. "He looks like you went into the character customizer for a video game and were just like, damn, how crazy will this let me get?" "Oh, I can put 'Douchebag' all the way to 9000!" Eric, you see, is hip with the youth and their references. With another savage bite of his grilled cheese -- which oozes a bit of tomato down the side of his fingers that he has to lick up with a flash of tongue before it drips onto his sweater -- Eric chews thoughtfully while watching the screen. "Then again, this guy looks like he may have cheated a bit at chargen too." The sandwich is used briefly as an indicator, complete with a little shake at the TV screen. "I'm pretty sure actually he's been grinding a lot since then." Dusk's eyes fall away from the screen as the performance ends. "He's won three already." He sits up a little more, wings shifting restlessly and then pulling back to resettle behind him again. He snags a couple cold fries, dunks them in some garlicky sauce. "You ever want to be famous?" "He could grind on me any time." Eric says with a brief smirk. He doesn't answer Dusk's question right away, chewing his sandwich thoughtfully and considering the television as if it was showing some complicated puzzle. "Nah, not really," he says, eventually, once he has finished both mastication and cognition. "I never thought that big, ya know? I don't think I'd ever even have made here if I hadn't gotten sent here. Probably would have just stayed down Colquitt County, maybe moved to Atlanta if I got bored...." Trailing off, Eric turns to face the other man and nudges him with one knee. "How about you?" Dusk snorts, head shaking at Eric. "Now and then. When I was a kid, you know? I can't say it's the wings that stopped me," he admits glibly, "I was always a shit bassist. Still am. It's nice to dream sometimes, though." He waves a hand toward the screen. "When I think about it, though, that looks exhausting as hell. Cameras in your face all damn day? I'd be in jail so quick for smashing them." "Stopped you? I'd think they'd've helped. Got that whole vampire thing goin' on -- you could have starred in Twilight instead of that foot-faced fuck." Eric teases, nudging Dusk again with his leg, though this time the nudge is more like a nudge-and-press, leg staying against the other man's. "Amen to that, though. Nothin' gets me as annoyed as people stickin' their cameras in my face. And they always have the flash on, even when it's bright darn daylight outside," he gripes, taking one of the tofu bites from the plate on Dusk's legs and tossing it into his mouth. Dusk's dark eyebrows lift. The roll of his eyes is just a slight thing, staaarting to lift heavenwards (ceilingwards) but stopping instead to just look back at the show. "Yeah, 'cuz most of society is so kind to -- oh man." Someone has turned the volume up on the television -- and a hush is falling around the previously lively cafe. On screen, Ryan, once more: "-- without all the amazing Latine and queer artists who have come before me. And I'm hoping I can make it a little bit easier -- for all the mutant ones who'll come after." comes through more clearly as the volume goes up. The hush is broken by murmurs, by a few whoops, by a sudden and excited wave of eagerness that rolls around the cafe. "--so thankful to the people who've been loud and brave in fighting for us up till now --" "Holy shit." Dusk's eyes widen. He shifts away from Eric as he sits bolt upright, plate teetering off his legs and threatening to spill the tofu bites onto the floor. "He's really doing it." "-- more important than ever to let the world know that we're here, and we're not going to be silenced." The cafe around them is bursting. Cheers, applause. Dusk just scuffs a hand against his scruffily-bearded cheek. "Pretty glad I never did go to the tabloids." "Really doing...?" Eric turns his attention to the screen, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. They widen when Dusk suddenly moves, hand reaching out with a snapping movement to grab the food before it all fell down, though he couldn't stop one bite from falling on the floor as Eric gave it a mournful look. "Did he say---" Eric's focus immediately turns back to the television, and as celebration starts all around the men on the couch, Eric's jaw just falls open. "Jesus." The police officer looks poleaxed for several seconds, making several attempts to start saying something and yet not succeeding in actually forming words. Reaching into the plate of tofu bites, he eats one slowly, nibbling on it as he stares at the screen. "Jesus. And I thought my coming out story was dramatic." "You clearly don't have enough eye for drama." Dusk slumps back against the couch, eyes still fixed on the screen even after Ryan has left it -- they cut to commercial break even as he's leaving the stage. "Damn. Got a feeling my building's going to be an interesting place this week."