Logs:Tolerance

Tolerance
Dramatis Personae Desi, Lucien	2021-03-13 "Assuming both of our livers last that long, that is."
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. It is perhaps not so very late on a Saturday night for Greenwich Village in the clutch of premature spring fever, but late enough that much of the Tessier household has turned in, if likely not all asleep just yet. After a rather long fumbling at the front door than is usual for anyone who lives here, Desi lets herself in and closes it behind her. Leans against it for a moment as she wiggles her feet out of her soft brown boots. She shrugs out of her lavender suede jacket, a seafoam green blouse in petal-like layers underneath, and a long, purple A-line skirt with lacy tiers. The steps that carry her to the kitchen are slow and unsteady, but despite that not much noisier than usual. She smells of vodka and clove cigarettes, with a lingering trace of soft floral perfume. Her eyes skate aside to the tea cabinet, but she walks past it, fetches a squat crystal glass, and plucks the bottle of Reyka vodka from the freezer, pouring herself a generous but not ludicrous measure. There's a light on, still, underneath Lucien's door. It takes some short time before the door actually opens; Lucien is dressed for bed, in lightweight black pajama pants and a black t-shirt with an ace of spades playing card design. He has an empty cocktail glass in hand; he passes by Desi to set it on the counter, getting a mixing glass to measure ice into it. "There is still salmon in the fridge, if you care for any." Desi salutes her brother with her glass as she goes to sit down in the breakfast nook. She glances toward the refrigerator at the offer of salmon, but finally just settles instead. "How did your auditions go?" Her eyes track Lucien sluggishly across the kitchen. She takes a sip of her vodka. "And the rest of your day, for that matter?" Lucien only huffs a sharp breath out through his teeth. "Honestly, I don't even know why I call myself an actor still. I suppose at the least I get some practice pretending to be a human being, down at the Club." His head shakes as he mixes Scotch, vermouth, and Angostura bitters into the glass, leaning against the counter facing Desi while he shakes it together. "Will you be joining us long, this time?" "You've been an actor for as long as I've known you," Desi replies evenly, "and you will probably be one for the rest of our acquaintance, whether you are working or not." She rests one elbow on the table and props her chin up in her palm, something definitively Matthieu-esque in her languid slouch. "Until Monday morning. At least, that is my plan." Her gaze dips to her glass, a faint crease developing between her slender brows. "{I suppose I could stay drunk the entire time, but probably I ought not. How you tolerate her day in and day out, I...}" She swallows hard, takes another slug of vodka, but does not finish her sentence. "{Your liver is still hale and hearty.}" Lucien strains his cocktail into his glass. His eyes flick towards the fridge but he ultimately does not get up from the counter, sipping at his drink as his gaze levels back on Desi. "{I have not tolerated her. We've been getting to know each other.}" His words are just a little clipped. "{...I've had quite a lot of work, besides.}" Desi's soft huff is almost, but not quite, a laugh. "{I've been working to change that, lately.}" She looks down at her drink, but does not lift it again just yet. "{That is what I ought to be doing. But I can't--I can't even look at the poor girl without wanting to scream at or embrace her and...}" Her hand presses to her mouth for a moment while she gets her breathing under control. "Neither is fair to her. She's a child, and she doesn't want to be here any more than we want her. I know perfectly well what it's like to be in the power of adults who see me as an inconvenience, when they see me at all." She draws a deep breath, closing her eyes. "She deserves to feel safe, at least." Lucien angles his glass toward Desi's. "{You'll never get there by dawdling.}" He's lifting his own, taking a generous swallow as he sinks back against the counter, weight settling heavily onto an elbow behind him. "Do you? See her?" Desi does laugh this time, sputtering slightly and not nearly as dignified as what she would permit herself in public. Then she takes a long swig of vodka, rising to her brother's goading. She rolls the tumbler in one hand, watching the clear, cold liquid within cling to the smooth glass on its inside. "I don't think so," she admits, her speech finally slurring with her rapidly escalating inebriation. "{All I can see is Sera.} I don't hate her, but it's a near thing, and she can tell." "She can tell." Lucien pulls himself up from the counter, a slight sway in his steps as well as he moves to sink heavily down into a seat opposite Desi. "{And so what? Will this be it now? You hide from us to spare you both the pain? Perhaps we see you on cross-quarter days and perhaps a drunken new moon every so often, if we are lucky.}" His hand turns up, fingers uncurling elegantly. "{Twenty years from now you'll be choreographing a revival of Lost. The premier will be the first time in years we've spoken. I won't have had a role in a decade but the performance I give when we're talking to the reporters about all the memories it brought back working on updating the show will prove I have not entirely lost my chops.}" His hand thumps back down onto the table. He takes another swallow of his drink. "Assuming both of our livers last that long, that is." Desi's shoulders slump even further. Her hand presses across her mouth to stifle some vague noise of distress. "{You'll never lose your chops. And anyway, in four years she'll be off to university--or gods know what. She'd make a splendid therapist. Or...cult leader.}" She manages to keep the vehemence out of her voice until the very end of this sentence. "{But no, I don't want that.} I want to stay in your lives--our lives. And I do want to be decent to her." She reaches for her brother's hand, but stops short and drops her own hand to the tabletop. "{I have so much anger. But, for this, it is worth overcoming, no?}" "{Do you expect we shall cut ties with her then? I've no idea, really, what might happen in four years.}" Lucien traces a slow circle against the tabletop with his forefinger. "Please. Any of us would make excellent cult leaders, but if anyone is going to indulge that particular foible my money is on..." He trails off here, eyes drifting down to his glass. "{Worth it? I suppose that is up to you.}" Desi does not answer at once. When she does, her voice is heavy, weary. "{I don't expect so. She hasn't got anyone else in this world.}" Her gaze drops to the tabletop. "Guess we kind of know what that's like, too. Anyway, I'd make an awful cult leader." She snaps her fingers in Lucien's direction, then gestures upward, her eyes lifting unsteadily for a moment. "Could probably advise one, though." She falls quiet again. "{I don't know if she's worth it. I don't know her at all, and I've only myself to blame. You're worth it, though.}" She blinks away her tears and drains the glass with a faint grimace. "{So. I'll stay.}" "You undersell yourself. Schedule management? Event coordination? Consistently drawing a robust turnout? How is cult leadership so much different from shepherding a blossoming young group of heathens?" Lucien is slumping back in his seat, lifting his glass to stare at it a long moment before taking a swallow. "{That is a start.}"