2020-02-14 - Door to Door Delivery

It's more like 35 minutes. Did he fall down in the snow? He did warn he has no idea how time is supposed to work. The rare and elusive Baxscicle shows up. There's a mind there, and feelings like a anvil made of anxiety hanging over them. There's a hesitation and a knock. There's a Bax with a knit cap jammed down on his head and over his ears, insulated green army jacket and something carried under his arm that looks maybe 2'x3' of a flat rectangle wrapped in two interlocking garbage bags to protect it from the weather. Face pale and ruddy from the cold and slightly out of breath it keeps him not from grinning, "You returned your page so I've come to haunt your doorstep."

Vyv is extremely aware of how time works, and virtually never late. Not usually particularly pleased when others are, either. He doesn't generally worry, however. He just gets annoyed. And this is an odd day as far as the base level of annoyance goes. Valentine's Day means one of the shop's busiest times is complete, and there's a good month this year before things really ramp up again. A bit of rest. It also means Valentine's Day, however, and this year that's more irritating than usual.

But it's long enough that there's coffee, and long enough that he is in fact drinking some of it, by the time the knock comes. Vyv almost certainly wasn't intending on going anywhere, because he's actually barefoot. He's wearing jeans and a sweater; has Bax observed long enough to conclude that suggests he probably changed at least once after work? Dark, flawless jeans that fit perfectly, and a cream cashmere cable-knit sweater that skims exactly right, with the sleeves pushed up halfway up the forearms, which is about as casual as Vyv gets, bar work-out clothes or pyjamas.

He's holding the mug of coffee when he opens the door, chin lifted and head slightly tilted in imperious irritation, but almost annoyingly itself, there's something oddly disarming about Grant's grin, those signs of trudging through the cold to get there. He can feel the line of his lips softening faintly despite himself, the ghost of a smile trying to move in.

"Of course you're haunting it: you're late." A beat, watching him, and the chef's eyes flick up and to the side, head making a slight roll the same direction; if he had his own sign language, it would probably translate to something like, 'oh, all right then,' and it comes along with a step back, a wider opening of the door, and then, "You'd better come in. Did you manage to retain all ten toes?" He steps away, toward the kitchen, letting Bax handle closing the door and, presumably, remove snowy shoes and excess layers while Vyv goes about pouring him a fresh mug of coffee.

Grant takes a deep breath warming up and says through the tired grin on his upslept face that is somehow still wide awake. "Well the trip takes longer , turns out, when wheels don't want to go through snow." He step in though careful to stay on the may. Whatever is under his arm is having the consistency of wood paneling. Heel toe. He really shouldn't take his boots off like this when he moves inside, but he's force pulled the laces already so there's less damage being done. Still.

The question from the bristled chef winds in translation to a sort of endearment. Maybe it is projection or maybe he's reasone Vyv is not a man afraid of saying 'No' and would have on the call or said anything else than what is entering the loading dock of conversation to bypass the niceties of the counter area to get the information he wanted of his well being? "Heh Dunno, but you can em if we need to check. I mean the cold is fine. This year's been damp like-" The expression and the signing exaggerate the extreme conditions which are to be emphasized here

The coat slides off with no snow. Anything that blew up at him melted in the internal neat of the hallways. He slides his coat off and looks around. "Ummm" He expression does the Ah! and finds the hook. The pin line around his neck is healing in colour as the same rate as a natural scar or bruise, but is improving. from the ugly marks last they met. He's wearing what might be same or similar jeans that graced the floor on last visit. Same layers. Different hoodie that might still be considered more of a coat. This one has cogs and gears, less steampunk and more industrial machinery on it.

He steps in and says a ad proudly, "Ghosts gotta be good at haunting things. I need the practice." Sparrow told him to stop talking like that. He's trying. The...whatever it is stays in the entry way as his hand reaches for the mug looking, eh, less focused? No. Less confidant? Evidently.

His eyes look back to Vyv noting the little things and notably, like Corey, an exhaustion. "It's like a open gallery season for you. Ya did great though. I mean, world's happier for it, so there's that." He sips his coffee and takes a deep breath leaning into being entirely casual about this to try and bury the wyrd. "I um... the plastic's kinda damp so if you want me to open it I get not wanting to touch it. But it um..." He points to the spot he's standing and surely not meaning this very space but expecting Vyv to just know "It's supposed to go here. So I had to...bring it back?" It's not necessarily a complete thought. Yet.

"You may need better wheels for Winter." Whether this would be literally or metonymically is unclear. Maybe both. Vyv slides the mug that had already been waiting nearer the coffeepot, and picks up the pitcher to pour, watching the liquid as he does. "Or possibly skis."

There's a glance back as he sets the pot down, watching the comments on dampness he can't actually translate but can probably imagine; the smile's still faint, but allowed to exist, this time. "Mm. You probably ought to be certain. I hear they're important for balance." Grant may well have read the question more or less correctly. The coffee's doctored similarly to how the skater seemed to prefer it before, at least within the bounds of what Vyv's willing to actively enable; if one wishes to adulterate it to lengths he deems 'ruined', one needs to do so oneself. On the other hand, if that's not sufficient sugar... well, there does seem also to be a tidy plate of pastries and chocolate at hand.

Both are brought along with him to the edge of the kitchen that borders the entryway, and the mug handed over. The coat has been hung; this is good. What the lack of it reveals is assessed and inevitably found wanting, alas, though the pattern on the hoodie does spark at least a little interest. "I hope that qualifies as a long-term ambition," he says, arching a brow at the need for practice, "And for the record if I end up enmeshed in any complicated machinations to banish you I shall be decidedly miffed. There's been quite enough of that, thank you." A small, sudden pause, brow furrowing as if that thought's sparked off something else, but-- perhaps that's for later.

For now, there's the simple fact that the professional implications of the holiday for him occur to Bax at all. It's unexpected, perhaps less from him specifically than from anyone at all; he blinks, expression almost quizzical, and then it clears to a still-small but genuine smile, softer than the ones that more often slip free. "Thank you." His attention's inevitably drawn to the Large Rectangle when it's indicated again, and he hesitates, then sets the plate down beside his own waiting mug and strides over to pick the object up, moist or not. It's probably in deference to the fact that it is that he brings it back into the kitchen and rests it on the counter before he begins to unwrap it. Curiosity is not an attribute he's somehow lost in the last month or so.

Grant blinks and takes the coffee with sign of Thank you. Both eyebrows go up savoring the heat and warmth for now. Then there's a pause, "Practice banishing ghosts have you?" He doesn't press it but he does with glimmer probing the curiosities pick up that tang. His eyes flinch faintly, "ooooh thaaaat does not spark joy." While there's concern he doesn't press him into dealing with that now.

He notes Vyv laying hands on the damp thing and the willingness to be seen in dress down attire which might be... more relaxed than previous which really takes some effort? Cool. it's in the little things. The skater pads behind him shoving his sleeves up a bit from his hands to reach over and help pull the plastic back. The thanks is simply rewarded with a smile and the faintest of nods.

Dark, nut brown eyes watch the curiosity at play. Does he try to read the sub-context on his emotions? Oh fuck yes he does. He made something and while he trusts Vyv to be brutally honest (beyond reason) there's a want to really fell how it is interpreted through exterior source.

He sips his coffee holding it with both hands (still thawing) and with elbows in reclaiming as much warmth as he can. Inside is a plywood board, edges tapped. There's another paper over it and cardboard taped in place. A bit rudimentary but absolutely common if one's transporting - ah, paper. There's almost as big as the 20" x 30" painting of watercolour and ink on 200-Pound Water Colour Cold Press. (That's press weight, not cost, Vyv). The scene is decidedly i darker midnight blues and greens of space in liquid colour. Sparks of white swirl in the starry landscape. A small figure in coat and scarf stands atop the cloud gathering on the edge of some imagination and stratosphere. In the center of the page against the chaos is ta perfect, tall, silvery frame acting as a portico. Beyond the nebula in dawn orange with a huge sickle moon hanging up being viewed from the figure in the foreground. Waiting? wanting? Longing? Maybe just torn in awe. The relationship is unclear but the figure is drawn at the space through the door as the eye is drawn up the portrait to wonder what else is up there?

"Not as such, no." It's a quiet, dry murmur, clearly a response to the observation rather than the putative question, and Vyv seems no more inclined to go into it further just now. Quite possibly less. After all, even if the subject itself were one he felt eager to address, there'd be the matter of the Interesting Parallelogram at hand, and that's very much where he'd prefer to focus just now. ...even if the plastic is damp. But it's only residual snow, after all, isn't it?

Still... the chef is nothing if not a creature of details. It often is in the little things. So it's almost certainly fair to subject clearly intentional choices to interpretation -- after all, there was surely time to shade distinctly more formal if he'd wanted. And evading the need to toy with questionably moistened surfaces was an option. "Ta," he says to the assistance with that, more of the attention on what he's doing -- carefully, with the assumption that if this care has been taken in the transport, care should be taken as well in the unveiling.

It probably isn't any surprise that someone with any talent along the mental prong of glimmer focus, and that deep an aversion to appearing anything less than self-possessed, has a fairly strong instinctive bulwark against anyone trying to poke around up there. It should perhaps be more of one to find that apparently there's a vulnerability in the firewall today, because that probing finds a leak. The curiosity is the most obvious, of course; there's no attempt to hide that even to mundane senses. Others peek up over the next couple seconds to claim the most dominant spot before subsiding again, like waves cresting and crashing one after the other onto shore: intrigued, surprised, charmed, intrigued again, longing, which lingers a bit longer than the others before giving way to something harder to put a name to -- warm, pleased, perhaps a bit like gratified? -- and then quite suddenly shocked-violated-hurt-angry, the flickers so brief and fast as to nearly blend into one, a tension subtly stiffening his neck and shoulders. "What are you doing?" he asks quietly, without moving his eyes from the painting.

Grant watches and it takes no mind-reader to pick up on the anxiety and nervousness of showing this to the source like bringing magical portents to align with moons. There is a low key relief and elation i the small afforded details that it's never occurred to him that he's also technically stealing.

The longing hits and echoes around the entire reason Bax had to paint it to begin with. That being torn out of the things he loves, that separation, and the having to look across a great distance to see wonder and be inspired, but also be reminded acutely of how great that distance actually is. One possibility got damn close again to make a bridge and leave him with some hope, and then-

In the thunder of a moment Vyv's bulwark slams skyward and whirls on his intruder with such alacrity the painter is left... scared and unarmed. The question comes as if it physically strikes him across the face and he doesn't mean to but takes a half step back. Heart shaking in his chest he goes to answer but it hesitantly comes out in sign. It might be apology. It's likely the explanation he asked for in unreadable format. The signing stops mid-story, and while there are no tears there's a lot of emotion up behind that wall and the words come quiet.

"It's... It needed to come home. I just had to know... I'm not... I'm...I'm-I'm sorry. I didn't think.... It was important to me." Does he expect anyone to really understand any of that? Probably not. Does it make sense to him? Absolutely. HE takes a half lean back away chest tightening with a lift of his hand and tries to make it make sense, "It's not mine anymore."

Vyv takes a deep, slow, silent breath, and then another one. The half-step back has him watching from the corner of his eye, even if it still looks as though his focus is on the painting; the first couple signs have come before he actually turns his head to watch properly, studying the other artist. It probably doesn't help that the closing down's been a vehement enough thing to leave his face virtually unreadable. He can't interpret the signs, though to a certain extent he can interpret the other sort of signs -- the hesitance, the retreat, the expressions -- and he waits.

The words that eventually come may be disjointed, but they're a language he speaks. They're followed by another moment of silent regard, and then Vyv looks back to the painting, head tilting slightly. A hand lifts, fingers extended, and the tip of the middle one drops slightly to slowly trace along the light that limns the lower clouds, where the figure stands. He doesn't seem to quite touch the paper as he watches the finger move.

"Don't," he says softly. "Not without permission. Do not read me like that. Ask first." The finger reaches the bottom of the portal, and skims upward, though mostly by lifting and extending rather than moving his hand much farther. "I might not say no. For that." Parts of the explanation, at least, seem to have made some kind of sense. But then, he's an artist too. Surely anxiety over the reaction to his work by someone whose opinion matters for one reason or another isn't precisely foreign, no matter how much effort he might exert not to let it show.

The rest, it's harder to tell. Does the coming home make sense? Does it not being Grant's anymore explain anything? His hand is still now, and though the shifts in his expression are subtle, the priming of that reading suggests a sort of longing again, perhaps. Another silent second or two, and then, "Tell me about it." He probably isn't talking about the transgression anymore.

Grant has been tweaking a bit hard and riding on little sleep. It's the life of artists though; you put everything out there and have nothing left in reserve to hold on and rally to. It's necessity when the opinion is going to matter. Really there's curiosity without caution which seems, clearly to have pros and dons. For all the infraction leaves Vyv's emotions sitting off hinge the guy looks fairly miserable in contrition for it. His fist comes to his chest, pauses, and makes a circle in apology. His hands close around the mug with a nod of agreement.

His eyes lift up watching his body language and when the words quiet and the fire dies down, tentatively, when asked, his weight shifts forward and there is a step and ... well shit. How does he explain it. "Be easier if I showed you but... you remember I told you what kind of day I was having? it left me feeling like... what do I want to do with myself. I mean I woke up and it still hurt and I realized... I had no like... zero fucking idea and like that's it. That was... my story." He pauses and waves a hand skipping forward thoughtfully, and maybe too honestly. "Then, I was convinced to go out anyways, and had this conversation that kinda made me fall in love with ...what I do. I got inspired in a way I haven't been in a while."

He sips his mug and says, from the ache of his soul, "And the? I get shot into space and could see infinite possibility in things humans haven't even touched before. I felt like... I have a purpose. I can see that something else where everything is new." With a faint wince his words get quiet and matter of fact with passive resentment. "Then we returned home and it was quiet... and it was over. and nothing was the same and everything felt heavy... and it hurt and no one got it." Dark eyes finding Vyv again ask him, "How do you express to someone tho can't see past their menu you just lost the universe? How... do you express to someone who has to be told how to feel you're grieving the endless catalysts of potential that were just made into nothing?"

There's a longer pause and he finds himself looking around the room. "Didn't... feel like that standing here though. Here I felt I could still touch the sky. I don't know what it means, but it feels I guess in grief mourning the loss of a part of myself there's still hope. There's still a bit of light left and maybe I'll see what it is. Not all gone."

Vyv's emotions were askew to start with today, so it's handy he's got a good couple decades of practice pretending they don't exist. Shame it doesn't actually make it so. He's probably watching Grant in his peripheral vision again, now that his direct focus is back on the painting -- probably enough to note the sign, even if he can only guess as to meaning, and the nod, which is at least a little more certain for him. And the reversal of that shifting away, as well.

For his part, he stays still, but it's clear enough he is indeed listening. There's a faint nod to confirm that he recalls being told about the day, perhaps a fraction later than one might expect, but it's the next bit, the not knowing what to do with himself, that has him turning his head enough to clearly shift attention from the painting to the painter again. The regard is sidelong, almost wary for a breath before it settles into something more thoughtful. Gradually, the iron hold on his expressiveness loosens; it's not to where tipsiness and other influences had brought it before, but it's at least easing into his version of normal. And that's enough for a faint but perceptible softening in both the glance and the line of his shoulders when the inspiration is mentioned, the tension finally ebbing again.

'Shot into space' would be a metaphor in any other town, or a hallucination. Here... well, here he's inclined to take it as more or less literal. Not that it entirely matters. It says what it needs to either way -- not only the actual explanation, but the ache that underpins it, as well. Vyv's eyes fall on the painting again, and that sense of longing returns, like a quiet echo of the words, even if it's fairly unlikely space exploration has thus far been on his personal menu. Metaphors can be enough; that's part of what they do. Image and words both strike a chord somewhere, one way or another.

"Not all gone," he repeats after a moment, and there's another slight nod. "...I've known what I wanted to do with myself since I was nine." And for some reason, that gets a bare breath of a laugh, wry rather than properly amused, and a shake of the head before he looks to Bax again. "It's important. Having purpose. Knowing who and what one is and where one wants to go." He means it, definitely. It still feels as though perhaps there ought to be a 'but'. If there is, it doesn't come. Back to the painting for a breath, and then, "I'm sorry." Sympathy, not an apology. Maybe even empathy, of a sort. "But still light."

This time when he looks to the painter, the studying is more intent, and the pause lingers an extra moment. Then he turns, reaching to open a cupboard an extract a small plate, then moving to the fridge. The plate ends up set in front of Bax a few moments later, bearing a perfect dark-chocolate-covered dome no more than three inches across, speckled with gold. There is also a fork. No comment, neither on it nor the fact that there's already that other plate of things to eat; there isn't one of these on that.

Grant shifts his feet from one side to the other; one hand warmer now, rubs a the back of his neck. There's a small nod at the reiteration of 'not all gone.' "Hope not." Though the agreement that there's still light in this dark hour of inspiration brings the faint smile back. Dropping his hand from teh back of his neck he points to the various areas, "Weirdly it's a bit reverse turns out than the apartment with the darker teal and jade broken up by the white instead of the other way around. But that column of light the moon makes over the water, or the column of chaos through the static doorframe... Or that well of energy and emotion you keep boarded up in a suit?" His eyes move back from the painting to Vyv with a head tilt signing with his hand pulling back, and back again, and once more as if accentuating zooming out. "We can keep pulling back on that one... but I think... I think it's kind of all of us."

He's tired. he's been up for three days running on adrenaline, and caffeine and who knows what else to stay upright. Eyes follow Vyv curiously. "You turned up at a time I needed a muse so... thanks for that." He pauses with a wry grin of amusement, "Nice...punctuality." Amusement turns to curiosity falling on the art in food form, eyes widening a bit. "Dear Lord it's like-" his hands make an invisible box over the small plate as if indicating small glass museum case.

He doesn't touch it so much as turn the plate around and around to look at it from all sides trying not to be a giant with a gingerbread house. Looking up he smiles, "Do I get to ask how long it took you to make it symmetrical on all sides?" The fork is taken up and he murmurs, "You're making me feel like a little mayor you know that?"

"Still, the same colour families," Vyv murmurs. And that's probably a positive -- in fact, the switch in predominance might be too -- if it's meant to be hung somewhere in here, really. There's a fleeting sidelong glance and lift of a brow suggesting perhaps some objection to the 'well of energy and emotion' characterization, but he actually cracks just the barest smile again, adding, "And I'll have you know my suits are expressive, not repressive, thank you." Scarcely there, and only for a moment, but at least his sense of humour's still lurking.

"Mn. I'm always punctual. You're welcome." No hint of the smile on that one, except perhaps in its absence, as he moves swiftly through his kitchen. He's generally rather graceful, but here in particular the movements are smooth and exact, as if the whole area were simply an extension of himself. The smile does return faintly at the reactions, and he leans slightly against the edge of the counter nearby, watching. "About five minutes, about five hours, or about five years, depending how one looks at it," he replies. "A mayor, mm?"

The chocolate coating of the entremets is thin enough to give way to the fork without excess pressure and without undue cracking. Within is a series of straight-edged, contrasting layers: a just-slightly-thicker disk of the dark chocolate at the bottom, below a light spice cake, all cloves and cinnamon and molasses. A layer of small chocolate shards, these pink and with a faint berry-like taste to them, beneath a mulled red wine custard, a thin layer of mint and clover jelly, and a light mousse. That's the most difficult to fully identify; there's hints of the same spices, of clover and berries, but the base is a smoky, earthy flavour. Altogether, it's complicated, spicy and bittersweet, lifted by the lighter notes but quite definitely a dessert intended for an adult palate. If food can reasonably be intended to express or evoke feelings or contemplation in the way that paintings can, this might well be making the attempt.

Grant shrugs and says in glib ease, "I enjoy ribbon cutting and unboxing ceremonies." His eyes lift from the confection to the creator with a wry grin. Aside from the sharp rebuke which still had alarming impact the artist seems to be at ease with the many up-kept formalities of the less-than-formal Chef. It might be mutually understood there's a creative process one uses to get shit done and stay in sync with one's medium.

The fork twirls in his fingers like a drumstick (music not food). Maybe it's tribute or that his first true love affair was food (not like his usual faire shows this) but he gets eye level to see the fork press into the surface, the outer layer bend, not break or collapse, The press becomes a puncture and there's a small appreciation like spelunking the unknown. The texture shifts and he waits for each one to lead into the next like a curious clue. Slowly he pulls the piece off in careful removal and takes the bite.

His eyes roll up and closed as he takes the time to let it melt against his tongue rather than inhale it (compliment numero uno). It's after a long silence and some slowly chewing that the fork makes a tiny circle in the air and his other hand makes a gesture or more. He murmurs, "It tastes lie a damn forbidden secret." Then comes either the dumbest or most considerate question looking to Vyv with some concern, "Have you tried this??!" Bite two in broken off and held up for him still bewildered at how it keeps shifting, but gives the creator of it an encouraging nod. His hand reachs out faintly flapping as if it will move air currents and move him onward.

"Mm. Do remind me to lay in some ribbon." The way Vyv watches the examination of the sweetmeat and the care taken in the cutting and tasting, he may well be regretting not asking whether it would be all right to tune in to the emotions himself. Maybe next time he'll think to do that. Instead, he has to depend on the old-fashioned analogue version and simply observe every detail as though the slightest one might be key to saving the universe. Or at least his self-regard.

Bax is, at least, demonstrative enough to make it less than the deepest of mysteries. The chef's eyes brighten considerably at the murmur, and while the following question is probably a fairly silly one, it still makes the smile there spread to his lips. "Yes," he replies, already leaning in as he adds, "but all the same..." and accepts the offered bite, gaze staying on the skater. It's possible it might taste slightly different right now than when Vyv tested it before... but whether it does or not, the experience is different. Being given a bit by someone trying and enjoying it is inherently unlike the way he generally assesses something he's working on himself. He eats it similarly, taking the time to let the flavours bloom and blend, and for a moment near the end the focus of his eyes changes, a touch of that same look the painting elicited passing through them, along with another faint smile, bittersweet as the outer chocolate. It's brief, and when it's gone and the focus is back, the tiny smile remains, but warmer.

"Thank you." A pause. "For that, and for bringing this to me." There are more thoughts, but not yet more words; instead he settles comfortably against the counter again to continue observing the eating.

Grant holds the fork still with a small smile forming. Sparrow once said Bax is magical because because he's in love with the world. More precisely though, it really is every moment in it, and more specifically that feeling of getting people to discover something. That's what really sells him on living. As a ghost that potential got lost and really it's what bummed him out. This moment though? Watching someone fall in love with their own creation again? Bad. ass.

Arm folds on the counter so he can watch all the details as he pokes it again taking his time. The small smile holds like a gift within a gift within- His brow furrows a bit looking to Vyv as his sifts through his minute layers of comfortable and sharing his personal space hat is his kitchen. "Well, thanks for answering the phone and...reminding me some things on Earth are still pretty cool to stick around for. I'm pretty happy with it."

Looking to Vyv his eyebrow arches pushing his luck sharing the observation with some regret, "Worry I spoiled some of it for you but... I'm taking it you dig it?" Small bite number two while he lets Vyv expound on the answer for the question left there.

Surely a ghost could get people to discover things! All the same... there's probably no one here who'd be inclined to argue for the merits of Grant not living, at present. For one thing, ghosts rarely seem to eat or properly appreciate flavours, and that's what's letting Vyv appreciate this particular delicacy from a slightly different perspective than before. "I started working on this one about a year ago," he says, "but it's never been in the shop." No elaboration on why not, nor on why he feels inclined to mention it at all. Simply that. Perhaps it supports the 'forbidden secret' impression.

The little smile stays with the returned thanks; even grows a touch at the second portion of what for . "For all its many flaws, I do tend to find the Earth still has things to recommend it," he agrees. "Some of them expected. Some.. perhaps less so." And if the mention of the earlier misstep does have him glancing away, it is at least to the painting.

"...yes," he says, after a moment of contemplating it again, before returning to watching his guest eat. Thankfully, he doesn't end up just leaving it there. "I do like it. It's a little more," he considers, "hm. Magical realism, I suppose, than my usual choices. But it does speak to me. I can see some of what we've spoken of in it, as well as that... potential. Be it lost or merely waiting. And..." Trailing off, he watches silently for a breath or so, head slightly cocked. "I'm not sure I've really been a muse before. I think I rather like that, too. I want to see what other things bloom from your mind."

Grant listens and has the audacity to say with a serious, thoughtful expression, "Really moist for a year old." Looking down at it he says "Happy birthday. You're going in my mouth." and he takes his time, though efficient, at repeating this process but keeping Vyv involved. It could be there was just one. There might be more. On the off chance it's a singular creation sacrificed for the sake of sharing in that way the creator never gets to know what it is to consume their work for the first time being the primordial forge of its idea? It's remaining shared.

Arching an eyebrow with some amusement he curiously signs, <<Oh? Example?>> Like what he seems to invite. Fascinating to see what his... uh... companion(?!) finds of interest. He's got to imagine it's quite a bit as he scrutinizes the world pretty regular. There's something of a kick he gets listening to the very particular man talk about the things he likes.

As Vyv talk about the painting and the process and finding himself as the source of an inspiration rather than the instrument of it there's a wry, benign grin that forms. Sliding forward on the counter he stick his fork in the diminishing confection and holds it out arching that eyebrow, amused. "Well maybe we should work on that and see what's up there. I mean-" He pauses and breaks off the thought with a small look of consternation working on how to complete that thought. "Look I don't... really expect anything or know where we stand or anything but... I really like talking with you and..." Dark eyes hunt the ceiling for answers, but as it's a flat eggshell it offers none. Sigh. Returning his fingers work as he talks to fill in gaps, fork still in hand. "I like you as part of my creative process. Sooooo if you want to see what else blooms up there? I would say then, sure. I'd dig seeing that too."

Looking around he blinks and looks back, "Got plans, now?" it's a fair question. He's not assuming.

Vyv gives Bax a look as though he's assessing whether or not that 'year old' comment was or was not a joke, but any potential clarification is headed off by that next comment, which gets a quick, near-silent exhalation through the nose, the barest scaffold of a laugh. "Can't imagine that getting many complaints," he murmurs. And as long as the bites offered to him are small and occasional, he'll accept them. He does like how the entremets came out. But he likes seeing it eaten and appreciated, as well. Maybe more, right at the moment.

The way he looks at that signing, Vyv may be beginning to consider finding a way to learn it. If it's going to keep happening -- well, he likes language, and he's not a huge fan of failing to understand things. Still, the sense of 'like what' does get through, even if it may largely be via Grant's expression and the question in his eyes. "Well, as yet I've not heard of them discovering any of the foods I like anywhere else, to eat or to work with. For all that talk of the music of the spheres, I've yet to hear anything that wasn't composed here. We've got some rather good scenery, though that... I suspect might have some competition if we could reach it. The scent of the air after a rain. If fiction can be believed we've done a far better job with apparel, at least in the last century or so. Cats. Art, of course, in various forms. Plus, there's a handful of people I rather like, and they do tend to make the place their home." He considers for a moment, then allows, "That isn't to say there might not be quite a bit to recommend elsewhere, as well. But there's things we've not done too poorly with here, all in all." He could probably be more specific, yes. But the day is only so long, and he has only so much positive assessment to apportion on a given day. Handily, he's used very little in the earlier hours of this one.

He watches again as the younger man works through that thought, faintly amused himself. "We seem to stand in my kitchen," he says, which, although obvious and clearly not what was meant, just might also obliquely suggest something at least slightly closer to the matter. A slight pause, and he allows, "I quite like talking with you as well. And I've no plans for the immediate moment that didn't include you." So 'now' is, presumably, available.

Grant has had less than lucid moments where he might be serious. For right now he's happy to not explain the humor back in his mood as he just enjoys this and now. "Someone should know." He doesn't quantify that statement.

There is an enjoyment in the mood shift as Vyv comes up with positives to Earth and really? They're kinda helpful, the benefits. It stands to reason that his space withdrawal/homesickness may never entirely go away, but it's nice to heard positive reviews from someone very particular.

The blunt joke doesn't fall flat though. Hey, he's comfortable enough to wear jeans, lose a vest and crack a joke? A win is a win. He offers, "Well I was planning on sitting at home alone with a pint of Ben & Jerry's. I will argue this was an investment worth the walk." He looks back to the painting and wonders, "Were there any specific plans because at the risk of sounding entirely... forward?" Drawing a deep breath the words that follow might make sense to few. "I really...really want to paint with you still. But I left everything at home.might have to wait, but, suffice to say I guess?" He takes the last bit and cleaves it in half carefully and lets Vyv have that pleased with not being put out onto the curb. "Happy Valentine's Day then I suppose."

It's really only fair that someone else should make Vyv less than 100% sure they're joking once in a while. The rest probably settled it for him, but all the same. He quirks a brow a touch as far as knowing, a sidelong glance as he reaches for his half-forgotten coffee and considers the benefits of their home planet.

"Mm. Not terrible, Ben & Jerry's, but I'd like to think we can do better," he says, taking a sip; he'd like to think he already has done better, even in the purely edible realm, but the potential for other areas is likely not unintentional. Either way, he looks quietly pleased himself with the verdict of worthwhileness. A bit thoughtful, at the self-declared forward request, but it isn't addressed immediately. Instead, he leans in again to accept that last offered bite, still watching Bax while claiming it unhurriedly.

No hurry in savouring the bite, either, and it's not until he's finished it that he gives the painter another small smile. "Happy Valentine's Day then, I suppose." He leans in again, this time a bit closer, moving a hand to catch the side of his finger and tip of his thumb beneath Grant's chin, tipping it up to kiss him. The taste and scent of the dessert is faintly there, and the slight smile returns as he draws back. "The best I've got handy is food colouring. ...but I'd planned to take tomorrow off. We could pick up the supplies then, perhaps. If you'd like to stay." A small pause, and one corner of the smile shifts up a little farther. "I'm fairly sure I could find another quarter, in a pinch."

Grant has had bad days. He will again. With how easy his mood sits it leaves it challenging to imagine; not when he's encouraging someone else to talk about the things that make them happy. Think differently is the life goal in play here as he observes the small details. If we're all being honest he's taking high stock of all those purely superficial details for his own self-interest as well. He might be busy for a while. Well, until he's being spoken to again. There's a second delay as his brain tries to grasp context and make sure he heard what he heard. He admits, "I was honestly worried you weren't going to pick up."

There's the kiss, and while Grant doesn't press his luck but he capitalizes on this. The fork rolls in his fingers to face down, and his hand slides to Vyv's elbow to keep him from leaving too quick. He steals one more and he may look entirely pleased with himself for doing so. He doesn't let o of the loose hold on the sleeve shoved up to the Chef's elbow.

No paint, buuuuut there's the offer to extend the creative process out? This gets a grin, "You giving up your day off to me? I'll let Greg know something came up then. I think he and Lex and Harv can cover." I'm not passing that up. It's not like his job in particular is difficult or that anyone's really skating much in February. Winter's what he calls a dead season.

Eyes drift to the cabinets and oh- there is math going on in his head there. He squints and asks the dumbest or most rhitorical question ever, "Well if you can make frosting we could have some fun with that or-" As awesome as the thought is he gives the mercy, "I can not make you do work after this week and we can hang out and paint tomorrow. BUT... at some point I'd kinda love to learn to paint on a cookie. If you're game cause... that could be super cool and I seen Corey do it but I keep eating...them..." Okay he looks a little guilty. There's a sigh of regret "I can't help it. You guys are too good at what you do." It's not his fault he's a foodie, yo!

The arm is given a bit of a squeeze. There's a wry grin that turns to utter bemusement as the quarter is brought up. Fuzzing he shoves a hand down into his t-shirt to fish around and the Coin Operated Boy(tm) pulls out a string with knots added into it, and on the string is a quarter (same) with a hole now drilled in it. Glibly he takes on, "Break, in case of emergency."

Last time, that kiss might have been stolen right back, or perhaps denied for a second to claim his own terms. Maybe it's not being keeper of the quarter today, or maybe it's just a different mood, but this time Vyv just melts into it for those few moments. Bax gets entirely away with that self-satisfied look for now.

"I wouldn't say giving it up. I'd say... inviting you to partake in it. It's still my day off, after all. But I can do with it as I please." That little upward curl at the corner of his mouth again, "And that sounds as though it might be pleasing. Though I can't say I'm sure how well things might translate to a less edible canvas." Still, he's apparently willing to find out. In front of the painter, even! Maybe he's more certain than that sounds? Less worried about doing poorly than one might imagine? Hm.

Of course the assumption is that the 'if' is rhetorical; depending just how you define it he can make more kinds of frosting than this room contains fingers to eat them with. So, "...ye-es, we could probably have some fun with that." The consideration as far as 'making' him do work, that gets another little smile. "Mm. But yes, possibly not tomorrow. Later, though... we could likely arrange it. And you are generally intended to eat them, so arguably if you can't resist it, we're doing our work properly. Just try to wait until you've finished decorating them, first." Trying it before he's finished would probably be an even worse idea.

A subtle lean into the squeeze, and when the coin's drawn out, he blinks, then laughs. It's quick, quiet, but audible this time, more than just a breath. "Well prepared," he says, reaching out to catch the quarter between finger and thumb, lightly and temporarily reclaiming it, "...but what for, precisely? Are you self-operating, now? Or just ready if someone else hasn't brought one along?" It's asked quite matter-of-factly, but does little to make the look in his eyes seem less than delighted with this. Oh, there's an appraising glance at the string that may not have a wholly positive verdict for it, but the general fact of the coin's new lot in life... that appears to be approved.

Grant lets his hand slide from elbow to seal that hand at the end. His other hand steals his fork back from himself and puts the last bite in his mouth to stay silent to listen to the great diabetic art plans unfold. This pulls a promising response from the oft distractable artist.

"For what?" The question about the quarter pulls both eyebrows up; head pulling back eyeing Vyv curiously. "Wow. Hurtful." He's trying to sort out how to process that which is read through mild insinuation and the fork's set down, and his grip on Vyv's hand wiggles in that about to have a rather frank conversation, "First off, Uhhhhyeah I don't, um, I don't operate like that."

Fingers rub at his forehead trying to find words for this and elects to start with "It's yours. It's mine now, but because you gave it to me... if that makes any sense?? I don't ... That's not for other people. No. Just... no." Taking a deep breath there's a shake of his head trying to convey all the mess upstairs to have some sort of organized thought and being awake for three days is not helping. "Anything else would feel like stealing art and that's ... gross." And apparently bothering him. He's not sure if that's defensiveness talking or intended insult but he's stopping at addressing it for what it is.

The weariness gets to him and laughs informing, "I can guarantee that offer would not have gone as far for someone less interesting. But hey I figured if I tied a string to it you can use it again." There's a pause and a reluctant admittance of, "Aaaand I kiiiinda wanted to hang onto it more than I wanted a super bouncy ball from the Cracker Barrell- which, I promise you, is a high compliment."

Vyv's fingers drop from the coin and he looks straight-up confused at first, which is not something terribly many people have likely seen unmasked any time recently -- certainly not without taking a backseat to irritation. It says something, either about his mood or his reactions to Bax in particular or both, that while it does shift into exasperation for a couple entirely visible seconds, there's a sort of wry amusement in it as well, and that lasts longer.

He is not, generally speaking, prone to apologies, and this is not an exception. Not in words, at least. But there's a faint, self-mocking smile and a breath of a laugh so tiny it makes his more usual ones practically seem like guffaws, his eyes closing and head dropping forward for a beat. When chin and eyelids lift again, his gaze stays on Grant, listening until he finishes. The delight's left his eyes, of course, but it's gradually replaced by a a subtler warmth as the guy goes on, joined by a slight spread of the smile on that final note.

And then... there's at least something of an attempt at explanation. "I was teasing," he says quietly, "I didn't really mean--" It breaks off; he can't honestly say he didn't mean to imply, because he absolutely meant to imply. He just didn't mean anything by it. "Well. I didn't genuinely think it might be general-use. Or a standard sort of situation. I-- like that you kept it." Close, at that, not even just in a random drawer somewhere. A hesitation, turning something over in his mind. "I think... I rather like that it's mine."

He looks abruptly to his coffee, the now-free hand moving to pick it back up and bring it in for a sip. If that creates a sort of barrier, a transitory closing off of things that could theoretically have felt too open, surely that's entirely coincidental. "In any case." The verbal equivalent of the mug, as he watches his hand set it back down. "I'm certainly suitably flattered to win out over the super bouncy ball." The phrasing could easily be sarcastic; the tone's the bland one that leaves the point on the sincere-to-snarky scale entirely in question. But there's still a warmth in the sidelong glance, the hint of an upward curve at the far corner of his lips, and there's the barest squeeze from a hand that shows no inclination to try to extract itself.

Grant is a tad frayed and his perceptions...customized. When the not-apology-but clarification comes there's a sigh and some relief in his shoulders. The explanation comes and an amused grin forms easy head tilting,. With some pride his head tilts back informing, "It was super glitter balls too. Coulda been purple." This is an important investment missed out on. Super high quality possible feature there!
"But no. Eeeeeh I felt it had a better investment."

The squeeze gets the brush of a thumb across the back of the hand in his. "You know, you ever want to hang out or just not talk and draw and whatever of whatever you can call. I won't even stick my finger in my ear and hang up on you." Which sounds funnier than the process really is of pushing a button on his hearing aid. Go bluetooth tech.

In the pause he leans off the counter and into the chef's personal space and wonders, "So," His eyes sweep the open floor of the space looking for signs of recent habitation and activity and back, "what was I interrupting before showing up to install a doorway in your wall?"

"Super glitter balls," Vyv echoes, quiet amusement in the phrase, and his free hand reaches over to tweak a dyed lock. "Fan of purple, are we? Tyrian or violet or grape?" It might be a subtle relief, the apparent acceptance of his not-actually-apology; there are times and places and people where he really couldn't care less if what he says is taken amiss, but this seems not to be one of them.

The brush of the thumb has him glancing down to their hands again, until the mention of sticking a finger in an ear; he glances up again with a lifted brow. The interconnection of bluetooth and hearing aids is not a thing he's particularly familiar with. "Pleased to hear it," though, regardless. A small pause, and he adds, "I might. And if you like, you can probably send me a text without having a doorway that needs installation..." He glances toward the painting. "I'll have my assistant get it properly framed." So yes, it's accepted, then. It can make this its home.

There's not a lot to show what Vyv might have been doing before the text, really. He did have 20 expected minutes and 15 extra to tidy, if there'd been anything that needed it. The patissier glances toward the living room area, however, where it might be noticed that unlike the last time Bax was here, the prints over the fireplace have shifted position, revealing the existence of a television between them. "Nothing important," he answers, "Mainly debating whether to have another drink, about then." The truth, nothing but the truth, but probably not the whole truth. He turns his gaze back, letting his personal space remain invaded. "What were you up to, before you decided it was time for door delivery?"

Grant finds no minute satisfaction in answering quietly and truthfully, "Plum. It looks just as it tastes and feels. It's kinda like that last touch of the sun in midnight sky man and like... I dunno. I don't think the bouncy ball would be that colour. But yeah I like plum. midnight blue. Acid green. Teal's nice. I mean hell I've done all of those with my hair before." Definitively he assesses, "Orange doesn't care for me much, but I made for a killer Leeloo one year when my friend Daisy went as Corbin Dallas. It was groovy."

Bax finds himself casually not letting go of the hand. He nods and picks up the undertones of likely tired and having pretty much zero actual plans. He's scoping the living area when the question is put to him and he genuinly has to fight to remember. It's not the events leading up to here, the memroies walk back as if to reach source.

"Uhhh it was cold. Almost lost a shoe. Oh! I came from ...karaoke at the Pourhouse where I made my best friend like ever laugh again and traumatized a few people. That was pretty great. Ate some stolen waffle fries. A chicken wing. Was parked at 7 Oak before there where I spent three days awake trying to sleep again and have been on... I'll be honest I don't fucking know. It sorta helped." There's a shrug. It's not glorious but it's honest and unapologetic. "Dream woke me up. Threatened to consume me and my whole family. Probably not the best topic of conversation when it's Valentine's Day and right now absolutely nothing is fucking wrong." He pauses and tacks on, "It's a nice change."

Setting his jaw on the side he shakes his head swelling his chest in a sigh holding it before letting it out. "Yeah it's been kinda like... a bad week and I needed some sort of... I needed something to improve. So I thought I'd cheer her up and... see... what you were up to and maybe improve something for you. Seems that was successful."

Vyv studies Grant for a moment, looking over his skin and particularly his eyes. "Midnight blue and teal must love you," he decides; possibly he finds the assessment of orange a likely one. Acid green isn't getting a call-out either, though neither is plum, and he clearly can't object too much to the purple. It's probably even better darker. "Six or seven months until we get really good plums again. If you go with that one anytime soon, you'll need to watch out no one tries to bite your head."

Yes, he's tired. Not 'three days awake' tired, at least, but 'long hours at work and not enough sleep and irritatingly unruly/existent emotions' tired all the same. If he did have any plans for the rest of the evening, they clearly didn't originally involve other people. Right now, he's equally clearly okay with this change in plans. Somewhat less okay with that 'three days awake' thing, if the dubious look is any indication. "We'll have to see about that sleep. How did you inflict the laughter and trauma?" Definitely a flicker of interest in this karaoke situation.

There's interest in the dream mention, as well, and a moment of effort put into not pursuing that when it's deemed not the best topic for now. Success, but the odds are good that one's coming back up when the stated criterion of 'Valentine's Day' ceases to be in effect. Say, tomorrow. Instead, he latches on to a familiarity in there. "7 Oak. That's where Corey Jones lives, isn't it? With the Oh Jesus Christ lamp. And the not-quite-gooseneck one." One of these appears to have made a better impression than the other.

As far as the success of the goal, "Seems so, doesn't it." He might be slightly surprised about it. "Improving things for you any?"

Grant nods sideways with his head, takes his coffee, and leaves the plate now barren and bereft of crumbs. The fork its only evidence of the battle of willpower lost to cake. On noes! He looks to Vyv, Vyv's coffee cup in a silent suggest that he may want that. and listening drags him toward the living room at least to sit. To the observation he's stealing as a compliment he preens, "I might have been informed once or twice. " He pauses looking pretty damn pleased with himself. He signs a thanks with coffee cup in hand.

The grin just widens ear to ear and erupts into a laugh that lights up his eyes with no small sense of amusement, "Corey showed you the lamps??! You see the panda lamp or the baby doll head lamp?" He does a glance for coasters and uses an unnecessary bit of glimmer to flash one over into place stopping it by setting his coffee cup down to arrest its momentum. "Man I have known Corey and his sister, Phi since grade school."

Making himself comfortable he answers with a pause, "Uhhhhh Pretty sure Karaoke was me making a total ass out of myself singing MC Chris. You know what though? She smiled and therefore? I win. Worth it." He considers this and wonders, 'If you were waiting for Dresden Dolls, the answer is no." He sits back leaning sideways into the couch tucking a leg up and moving in like some decorative, strange and affectionate invasive plant.

The amusement holds with some affection and he admits, "I know I'm more scattered than a damn puzzle but I have my method and I like things like I like them. Certain things to me have meaning and context and I don't like to dilute their meaning with, like, over-saturation of colour and shit." There's a pause and his hand flaps before propping up the side of his head once more, elbow finding the back of the couch. "I know you didn't insinuate it. I'm just stuck on earlier. you do karaoke ever?"

Vyv could possibly use more coffee, at this point. Warmer coffee might not go amiss either. But, eh. It's still maybe half a mug and still the right side of lukewarm, so he allows the dragging, mug and all. Really, there's a benefit to it being less than full: he's able to snag both the mug and the original plate of small delicious things with one hand, without spilling either all over, and allow his other hand to be kept in the process. He only reclaims it when they reach the coffee table, setting the plate down and, with a small arch of a brow at Grant, picking up one of the coasters by hand to set it beneath the mug before he settles himself on the couch.

Eyebrow or not, it doesn't extinguish his own amusement from the compliment-theft and ensuing self-pleasedness, stoked further by the grin and laugh. The latter brightens his eyes in return, even if most of the smile stays there. There's a touch of it about his lips nonetheless. "'Showed' isn't precisely the word; I was there and so were they. Though not, as I recall, the panda or the baby-head. There was a fairly hideous bear one, though it didn't appear to be a panda. Interesting little pair with switches for noses and bulbs arranged as though they intended to re-enact that 'Danger! High Voltage' video. I thought he'd said his sister was called Sparrow, though." Or implied? Well, he'd gotten that impression, at any rate.

The bit of a smile goes somewhat crooked at the answer about the karaoke. "It honestly hadn't occurred to me that Dresden Dolls might be traumatic," he replies, "Not when there are so many awful choices out there one could go with." He's not tucking a leg up, but he does shift position to sit a little more sideways, better facing the other man. Does a decent job of making it look casually elegant, even. "I don't think I'm familiar with MC Chris. But congratulations on accomplishing what you set out to do." He reclaims his coffee, taking a sip as he resettles. "I expect we all like things how we like them." Certainly he does. Of course, the ways he likes things are always the right ones. Funny, that.

As far as doing karaoke himself? "No." A pause, glancing aside, and he modifies it: "Well. Not here." Technically accurate; he's never been seen to do it in Gray Harbor, after all. "I did spend a year in Japan; I suppose I ended up doing my share."

Grant listens to the tale unfold about how his oldest friends, and the guy sitting next to him actually interact outside of a shoppe setting. Mind blown, man. When Vyv asks about Sparrow there's a lazy ease to the grin as he stays settled in watching,observing, and picking up the other half of the story the hearing enabled generally miss.

"Her first name is Philomena. So she gets called Mena a lot by him. Usually Phee or whatever by me. Sparrow's her middle name though." Which explains a lot apparently. He ticks off the others from memory, "Agent P., Ms. Baxter once." He pauses with a wry grin and says in only the we live in Gray Harbor way makes sense, "We had a Dream house in a black and white movie set. Poodle skirt, I worked for my dad at his law firm. I had a tie and a briefcase, and saved Oak Street with rocket pops." He's quiet but there's an overwhelming fondness for this memory. "Getting to introduce people to new colours through food was pretty great. Made the neighbors trying too keep the status quo pissed." His head tilts and hi s once purple hair, now the colour of faded denim past where the brown is growing back flops to one side. It's a thought getting a lot of consideration watching Vyv's response to that running some math in his head. "Makes me wonder if it's always like that for you. Next time I go though? I think you should come with me."

He takes a moment to just let the feeling marinate in memory. Both eyebrows go up, "You got to live in Japan?" There's the rupture of laughter in fond delight, "No shit? You did karaoke in a little noodle bar? Is there a 4 drink minimum to do this or special occasion to make it out of there alive, or what? When was this? How long ago?" He pauses realizing he's shotgunning questions...one more, "What's your go-to?"

Vyv listens in turn to the remarks about Corey's twin, something slightly odd happening to his expression as Bax goes through her various names. "Philomena Sparrow Jones, a.k.a. Mena, Phee, Agent P, and once Ms. Baxter," he says, "I've just realised: I've never met her and yet I now know multiply more of her names than yours." Okay, it's somewhat amusing, but perhaps at the least the ratio there ought to be changed.

It is not an observation that prevents him from enjoying the description of that Dream, or maybe moreso the clear affection for the memory of it. At least one or two stray facts are tucked away, and the slight smile spreads subtly. Rocket pops may not be quite his speed, but, "Introducing people to new colours through food? Yes, that sounds fantastic. I've introduced people to new tastes and scents and possibly textures through food, but colours...? Mn. I could only hope." The corner of the smile rises, "Shame there aren't photos. I'd quite like seeing your tie and briefcase ensemble."

Again the laughter seems to please him, and the questions get a little laugh out of him in return. "I lived there for just over a year. Mostly 2018, to be precise. Learning Japanese patisserie and wagashi. The shops I worked at, it was a thing they did -- karaoke evenings with one's colleagues. No little noodle bar, though, not for that. Karaoke boxes. One goes to a building and essentially rents a small room in it for a few hours, there's a machine and microphones, sometimes coloured lights or instruments like tambourines and maracas if one wishes... and always food and drink. One's generally required to buy at least one drink, but ours was usually nomihodai. All-you-can-drink, as it were." The last question requires a bit more thought. "I wouldn't say I had a go-to per se. But people did tend to like me to sing Be Prepared. You know. From the Lion King." It's fairly matter-of-fact, but there just might be a hint of fondness in that memory as well.

His head tilts a little as he regards Grant, an earlier comment quietly clearing its throat somewhere in his mind. "...'Next time you go'? Can you go to a Dream again on purpose?"

Grant slouches into the couch with that lazy amusement holding at Vyv's association. It's really occurred to him how really true that statement "Heh, yeah. I, um, I guess you do." But does he offer up the information? No, he's going to make Vyv go digging for it. He will toss him a bone and offer, "There's like at least nine that come to mind right now. I mean, my people will come up with a new name for crazy shit. Most common? Bax or G-Bax." He pauses and adds with a snicker, "Or I guess now? Crotchbiter. There are worse and less interesting battle tags. What about you? VYv short for something or just Vyv like Val Kilmer?" Nosey? Yes. Very. Interested for certain but persistently nosy.

The story of the karaoke gets his eyes to go wide "We should find a place that does this. Or hyjack the shop after hours. Something. I think I need to be a part of this so I can witness it for myself. I'll go with you. I'm fuckin terrible. I hear all the wrong song lyrics and drive my sister just like... batshit man. It's pretty great."

He pauses when Vyv asks about the veil and dreaming on purpose. He blinks and looks around confused, "Yeah. I mean... It's the best part of camping in the Firefly, man. GO trippin out on mushrooms and see what happens It's never the same thing twice but, I mean... it's over There so sometimes?" He takes a deep breath and watches Vyv, "Sometimes you're a ghost and you can't come up for air. Other times? You get to roam around on Seahorse-back. You can't find that here."

"Well, the one it says on your--" A flicker of a pause; the guy did walk here through the snow because his skateboard can't handle it, after all. Vyv recalibrates, "--birth certificate would be favourite, as the mysteries go. Bax I had. Crotchbiter, too. G-Bax is new to the collection. And I don't expect the other things I might call you are on the mystical list of nine?" A slight smile, "I'm fairly sure I told you what 'Vyv' was short for last time we met; I generally do. But I'm willing to offer a reminder in trade. I might even throw in a middle name, given proper incentive."

The enthusiasm about the karaoke gets a soft laugh, and an arched brow at the mention of the lyrics. "But they've got them written on the screen," he points out. While nonetheless looking slightly intrigued and possibly tempted by the concept, or by something about it, anyway. He considers Grant a moment, then allows, "I believe there might be karaoke box venues in Seattle or Portland." So that's at least a solid maybe.

"The best part of camping anywhere is not doing it and finding a nice hotel instead." Vyv might well be slightly more outdoorsy than people would generally guess, but only because most of them would generally guess he'd teleport from climate-controlled space A to climate-controlled space B if he could. Which, to be fair, he probably usually would. "...I've never gone tripping out on mushrooms. I'm not sure I'd like it much, really. Nor being a ghost who can't breathe. But the seahorse-riding does sound appealing. Not back to a specific Dream, though? I'd still rather like to know what was actually going on in that one before... Colonel." Faint smile, and then something a bit more thoughtful. "I've never tried to go there on purpose."

And he asks. That he does wins the most satisfied look from the vandal. "Shit, so long as you call you can use whatever name you like, Vyv." Hi attention floats to his coffee and back up. He drinks setting his coffee down afterward and points twice indicating for Vyv to do the same. Pointing might be rude for some but he really is using his words. His variety anyways.

Once accomplished he reaches over and takes one of Vyv's hands, pauses and motions for the other one not elaborating further. He forms both of Vyv's index fingers and thumbs to sign 'G' on both hands and then demonstrating the sign for 'Fast' and pulls both 'G' hands back almost like a snappoint in reverse. Casually he points to himself signing <<My name sign, me>> He doesn't explain any part of this audibly, but takes some fascination in watching Vyv try this out. he said he likes languages so, really, here's one more to chew on.

"It's a g for my first name and...well... 'fast' cause I'm kinda a spaz. I guess I'm kinda like a shark; always in motion." He considers the rest and finally gives up, "Uhhh my full name? Grant Avery Baxter. Middle name is after my grandfather. Uhhh Bax you know for the obvious reasons. G-Bax, Baxman of the dynamic duo Baxman and Sparrow. Like our own Batman and Robin parody. Let's be real, my bestie makes the plans. Hawkeye- personal avenger of choice, also deaf, a mess, and hella cool." He considers more recent history adding, "Lotta people still call me the Colonel." He pauses and tilts his head with a wry grin, "The lady I hit on in that dream turns out is also my old therapist Vivian Glass. Not weird at all. She was cool." he considers and wobbles his head considering the others, "I got my Hebrew name and the many things my bubbe calls my sister and I., and most recently? Uhhh Jolteon and Coin Operated Boy which, ya know, I'm okay with."

He pauses and looks to the painting in the kitchen, hostage on the board but not yet on the frame. He looks back and shrugs, fingers motioning with purpose leading his conversation, "Like that? Could probably walk into that. Easy. I've been in many my drawings before. Sometimes it is how I finish them. If not literally falling into one's medium how would you know yourself?" For him this is natural part of the process, clearly. He considers and words fade quiet, "I suppose outside of the city it's different for people." He blinks at it once more, thought arrested, and a wry grin, small at first spreading fast. "We should go find this singing box. Go out, hunt food. " It frighteningly sounds like a real date.

"Really? There's an awful lot of names out there," Vyv notes with the kind of bland innocence that definitely isn't, and hides another tiny smile behind a sip of coffee. Being asked to set it down like that has him intrigued, though, and at worst is likely to lessen the odds of a spill, so he obliges, giving Bax a 'what next?' look before his hands are taken and molded into a reasonably unexpected position. Some fascination there on his part as well; this too can be filed under things that don't happen every day. Not to him, anyway. It doesn't take long for him to cotton on to what's being done, and he does in fact practice it a couple times, the last of them ending in a single point toward Grant and brows lifted in a silent request for confirmation, either of fact or that he has it down right: you?

There's a glance down at his hands, making the first part of the sign again and eyeing them when he's told it's a G; it would seem he's automatically decided the other part's the fast bit, which is fairly logical. And in this case even correct! Yes, he likes languages. This qualifies. He looks up again as the other names begin to come, the full name getting a faintly amused look for some reason even if surely 'Baxman and Sparrow' should be objectively funnier. "So your initials spell 'gab', then. That's pleasing. Do a lot of people call you Colonel? No one calls me Vicar." A tiny pause and he amends, corner of his mouth twitching upward again, "Well, no one else." That little smile fades a touch. "I've known Vivian ages; we were in high school together. Odd to run into her here. Shame she's gone..." But that isn't really what he wants to focus on right now. "What's your Hebrew name? And I am pleased you're all right with that last one."

A deal is, of course, a deal, and while there may well be times he might renege, particularly from one largely simply implied, this is not one of them. "Vyv is short for Vyvyan," he says, "though not spelt the same way as Dr. Glass. Vyvyan Oscar Vydal. More or less after Oscar Wilde or his younger son, depending how one looks at it." Another slight pause. "Baxter meant baker, I expect you may know." Why this is mildly amusing is left as an exercise for the student.

The idea of walking into the painting has his brows lifting once more, looking in its direction. Into it? "You ought to show me some time," he says a little more slowly. It's hard not to be aware it might not be a good idea. But damned if it isn't one that calls. How should one even prepare for a thing like that?

That change in topic somewhat arrests his thoughts as well, the glance back to Bax sidelong before his head follows his eyes. Planned activities and proper meals, out somewhere public, mm? That does have certain date-like qualities to it. Is this one of the factors going into his current consideration? "I suspect we might be able to track down something palatable. But it's over a two hour drive, either way, and I don't think I wish to assume I'd be inclined to sing sober. We'd probably need to remain overnight." Whether this ought to be taken as a warning or a benefit is very much in the eye of the beholder, but it doesn't appear to have turned into a no.

"Awful lot of names." Grant agrees. People trying though and finding joy in new things? This is the best damn thing ever for a chronic enabler. He repeats the gesture for Vyv to work from and widens a grin with a few other gestures that sum up to support and enthusiasm. He laughs and pupped endless talking with his hand. "Yeah. Seems they do."

"Vyvyan? Isn't that a little... French with all the Y's Your family's from the UK yeah? I'll give your parents this much: You will never need your last name. Something good about art when you can sign only part." He thinks about it for a moment and nods, "I think it's working for you." He considers something for a moment, making a V with his hand studying Vyv for a moemnt not speaking and signing a few things with no expectation that he knows what he's talking about. There's a deliberate agility to his method instead of letting his hands go further than they need to and definite 'shorthand' used.

There's a gesture for Vyv to mimic him sticking his fingerwhere a dimple should be and rolls his hand over and back twice and then does it with those fingers making a V poking his cheek. Both eyebrow go up. he does it again and points to his companion. another gesture and then pointing to himself indicating <<This is you for me now. This Vyv- you>>

What he doesn't do is tell him what it means. He seems happy with this though.

The trip gets some consideration and he asks, "Well you have the shop closed on Sunday yeah? We can do a Saturday, go out there. Bars should be open. Hang out. See the city. In all of it find three things we like. hit the hotel, grab breakfast at Wherever we want, maybe down at the wharf, and... do whatever we want to do with or Sunday." He makes everything sound so easy, but in his world it really is. "You're the one with with a business to run and as much as I do love chaos it doesn't need to break everything in its process."

He watches the plan sink in and doesn't address the painting yet but admits working on approach. "You... tell me when. I will take you to space." Easily he shakes his head, "I think I'd honestly never get tired of seeing you discover things. Legit."

"Oh, no, very English," Vyv replies, with a small shake of the head, "....or I suppose arguably rather Cornish; some would make a distinction. They've a Vyvyan baronetcy, even. With the Ys. Surname in that case, obviously. The French version is Vivien," and it's striking how completely the accent changes for the length of that word, "...spelt V-i-v-i-e-n, in that case. I suppose that ought to go in the list of things I've been known to be called. But yes, one thing to be said for those Ys -- Vyv, Vyvyan, or Vydal, it rarely requires anything further to distinguish when written down. Unless my immediate family are also around, of course." Another little one-sided smile, just barely threatening to sneak freer, "Pleased it seems to be functioning acceptably."

The observation that, "You didn't answer about the Hebrew name," is an absent one, the signing a distraction from that line of thought even if not a total one. Much more focus on watching the way the hands move, the changes in expression. A tilt of the head and tiny hesitation at the apparent urging to mimic -- it's a touch less unmistakable than bodily moving his hands was -- but he does, mirroring that first gesture, and then again with the 'v' fingers. The question is wordless at first, a quizzical look and then a point toward himself, as though the silence were contagious, before English kicks back in with, "That-- refers to me? The V I'm fairly sure I understand. The...?" He does the single-finger version again, brows lifting in inquiry.

Another small shake of the head; the shop's open on Sundays as well. "But I don't often work then. So long as it's not just before an event, not the last minute, and I don't have half the kitchen out sick, I can arrange things more or less as I please." There is the occasional benefit to being the place at which the buck stops. Technically he could even in those situations! It would just take something considerably more emergency-shaped to convince him. This does apparently rate the non-emergency-shaped version, however, as he considers the proposal and offers, "Weekdays might rate consideration as well. Likely less crowded, many places..."

Bax gets an assessing sort of look as this is mulled, head to toe and back, and whatever might be being contemplated regarding that takes a back seat to that last offer and remark. The inside of a painting, space, the other side on purpose at all -- surely they're all a little dangerous to visit? But even just the idea is fascinating. His lips part a touch, then close, the little crooked smile making a reprise. "...all right," he says quietly, as if settling a trade. "I'll take you to the city. You take me to space. And we'll explore."

Grant waves a a hand in a gesture, "Well... shows what I know about Europe." He pauses and says with a wry amusement, "Other than it gets invaded from time to time. These things happen." He finishes his coffee and finds a certain amusement in the details being picked up and tallied finally answering him, "It's Mordecai. It is also my dad's so... I wanted it." There's a pause where Grant admits, in earnest, "He's pretty fucking great." He corrects the hand one more time and says "This..." He signs without the V to his hand, "Is candy. Not everywhere but I like it better. "

He is tired, soul tired, and somehow there's a second wind with the promise of someone willing to go to space with him for a purpose other than to make sure he remembers to go home. Also? Accidental date. Bonus score. His hand snags Vyv's and keeping the contact there like, no, you're human today, "Look, just... thank you. For wanting to go with me while everyone else is waiting to tell me to just come back. I'm really into discovering what's out there with you because I don't even know what we're going to find. I just remember how it looked and made me feel aaaaand the library." He pauses and clarifies, "It was a interdimensional library." Because of course it is.

"Everywhere gets invaded from time to time. Frequently by other bits of more or less the same," Vyv says, "...or always by other bits of more or less the same, depending how far one pulls out. And never, if one zooms in. I suppose that's the whole problem, really." That little quarter smile, "These things happen." His coffee's reclaimed and polished off as well as he considers the matter of 'Mordecai'; it ends up with a small nod of apparent approval, particularly when the reasoning comes out. The alleged greatness of Baxter senior is filed away with the rest of the compiled information, as is the meaning of the unmodified sign, though that one has him looking amused again, and making a vague gesture of offering toward the little plate of snacks as he sets the empty mug down. That plate does include a few chocolates, after all.

Of course it was an interdimensional library. Of course it was. Vyv's hand is easily enough snagged, and he seems in no hurry whatsoever to claim it back. "Well, I wholly intend to come back," he says, "and we ought to take whatever precautions we can to be able to do that without unreasonable delay. There's things to be done here, as well. But I do... want to know what's out there. What there is to learn and see." Another small smile, though this one's more even. "And I think I might rather like seeing you discover things too, actually." He pauses, then adds, "I have a card for a library over there. I believe it might be more local than yours, though. I wonder if I could somehow just decide to pop over near ours and... check."

Grant thumbs with his freehand over his shoulder. "Isabella and I found it at Bay and Pryce downtown. I mean, you now, later of course we can check it out. Compare library cards... I DO have a book to return. Not that I'm done with it yet but I checked two out so..." There's a long pause with a number of thoughts not shared. "really? That's a tomorrow-us problem. Just, I dunno, man. Stick around. I discover and fall in love with something new every damn day. It's a total trip. Today? Today it's walking forty minutes in the damp for this which is, admittedly, a surprise to me too."

"If it IS the same library, I hope you're taking some care. Those books were... extremely immersive. One truly could get lost in them; the library had a timer set at an hour at a time, for safety." A tiny pause. "But it was fascinating." And that reaction's never going to end up getting Vyv in trouble, surely. If he's at all surprised Grant reads -- not can, obviously, but chooses to -- he does a decidedly good job of not showing it. Maybe it folds right in for him with that desire to discover new things. There is one important question here, though: "What are the books?"

Today's thing to discover and fall in love with gets another of those tiny breaths of a laugh. "Walking forty minutes in the damp is why cars exist," he replies, "...but I'm suitably pleased to be worthwhile." Hey, Grant's not the only one who can steal a compliment here or there!

Grant warms a smile lifting Vyv's hand and biting the back of his knuckle before pressing it to his cheek admitting, "Would you believe I have an intergalactic library card but no driver's license?" The curious look stays there and he lets Vyv process that for a bit. "Sooo I checed out a book on Basics of Astropathy like... it's astro-navigation of sorts. Think telepathy but knowing where you're going so you don't ram into shit. The other book that reads like stereo instructions cause it turns out... it kidna is. It's on warp drive maintenance and repair." This seems to make him exceedingly happy. "I'm hoping to find enough where if I wind up on the other side of space I will be useful and not food."

If Bax hadn't already had Vyv's attention, he would now. Bites'll do that, even the friendly ones. Since he already did, it's simply further concentrated for the moment, blue-grey eyes following the lift of the hand and sharpening at the nip, that focus staying on the younger man's face as the hand's pressed there. He lets his thumb shift in response, brushing against Grant's jaw. "I've lived here nearly a year now; that sounds eminently believable," he says wryly. "At this point I find the first question coming to mind 'what do you show the bartender to prove your age?' instead of 'how does one obtain an intergalactic library card, or find an intergalactic library?' ...although I do still wonder those as well."

It really is remarkable what living here a while does to the things a person's willing to believe. A few years ago, surely the chef would have dismissed all of this out of hand. Now, instead, his brows lift a bit and he repeats, "Astropathy. Sounds more like space medicine, really. But I suppose if you can navigate by psychic location..." The warp drive maintenance and repair thing doesn't make him nearly as happy, but it add a touch more amusement, as does the rationale. "This seems like a fair plan. Thus far I think I'd prefer you be considered inedible, all in all."

Grant watches with that fox grin in his eyes, amused with the warning of trouble on the damn horizon. The question brings a laugh that leaves him, for a moment only able to sign the answer back. "Shiiiit I thought you said something else for a - bruh, I got a state ID. Like , for real." He pauses and snappoints and leans forward to reach into his back pocket for his wallet,; black bifold with the Avengers A stylized on it and 2 purple stripes behind on the black. "Soooo, here," you know the US. he's being helpful, "everyone's entitled to a State I.D. cause not everyone cause health issues like mine, can drive. Soooo there's this. State I.D." Sharing knowledge, it's what he's here for.

The idea of Space Medicine though brings him a pause. "Yeah might wanna bring some Tylonel with me." As Vyv catches on there's a nod and a look that is absolutely energized by someone catching n that this could be useful and not calling him a flake for it. "Yeah like Astronavigation meets telepathy. Astropathy. Read about them in the Space Marine novels, but they have to get the idea from somewhere." Because everything is true? Or maybe nothing is entirely original? He doesn't clarify which way his brain is subscribing on this. What he takes from the wish of not being killed and eaten, or just eaten on the other side of space without the courtesy of death first, is a compliment. "IT's okay. I like you too, it's okay, candy man. I promise to do what I can to not get eaten by aliens and leave you, Sparrow and my homies bereft of entertainment."

To be fair, Grant's probably not wrong: 'I would broadly prefer you not be devoured by strange beings from the outer reaches of space' likely is Vyvlish for some permutation of 'I like you'. He also has probably never been addressed as 'bruh' in his life, and chances are it's not the possession of a state ID that gets the raised brow right around then. "I am familiar with the concept," he assures, just a touch dryly, "...but I've not actually seen one before."

And does he truly want to now? The nice thing about meeting someone at a bar is you can assume they're at least of legal drinking age and think no harder about it than that! Of course, when one somehow finds oneself arranging future field trips in various dimensions, perhaps these things ought to be pinned down. Like proper names. Not to mention he'd be actively avoiding knowledge... There's an exhalation no more than two doors down from a sigh as Vyv turns his head to look at the contents of the bi-fold Bax's flipped open and accept the shared knowledge, even if it's not solely the bits intended. "Your birthday's six days after mine," he observes. More technically six days and 8 years. But who's counting. Card's various information filed away, he looks up from it again, back to its owner. "Why won't they let you drive?" he inquires, "...and what had you thought I said?"

'Tylenol at the least,' silently says the look the chef gives the skater, even if that isn't the point he'd been making at the time. It's nonetheless valid and he's filed it away somewhere for later consideration. Later consideration. When he has his hand back and fewer more immediately interesting distractions. But once 'attempting to explore Veil space' has been accepted as something one might really be able to strive for... well, attempting to prepare for it only makes sense. Still somewhat amusing sense, yes. But sense even so. "Well, someone had to think of it first. It could have been the novelist. And if people start calling me candyman I'll be obligated to obtain a hook and end up ruining all my suits with excess blood. Particularly if they start singing at me about rainbows and mixing things with love. So perhaps let's not. But... good. I'll hold you to that promise." How? Who knows. We'll build that bridge if it needs crossing.

Grant answers the observation of his birthday easily with, "Weeeeell you are a trendsetter. What can I say." He seems comfortable enough relenting all flattery to someone else. He doesn't need it. When he is asked why he doesn't drive there's a pause which he almost answers and says "I... don't." His jaw sets and his hand squeezes Vyv's reassuringly, "Nothing you.. have to worry about." The look is in earnest and there's a small smile with it and he assures, "You do, I'm sad to say, bring fucktons of joy to people, saved many marriages, and made a lot of people feel significantly less shitty." Sad, unfortunate news. Terribly tragic. All those happy people. Your fault, Vyv.

At the question he snorts with a wry grin "For a hot minute I thought I heard you ask 'How do you blow the bartender to provoke rage' I was like uhhhh I do not know and I have no actually tried and I don't like making people like... angry soooo that was probably not what I thought I heard." He admits, "The rabbit ears only work so well." Two fingers make a circle gesture around his lips not embarrassed by this but endeared to the difficulty, "You enunciate differently. Still getting used to it. Not a bad thing."

Does Vyv need flattery? Maybe. Maybe not. Does he like it, though? Yes. Yes, he does. Go on, say pretty things. He's listening. "I don't know about that; so few people pick the proper trends. Can't be much more than, mm, one in twelve." It calls up a half-smile, one that fades a bit at being put off. The temptation to push is almost palpable, but his gaze flicks to their hands at the squeeze, and he bites the urge back. Going on to implied compliments to his work doesn't hurt for distraction purposes. "Mm. I suppose I'll just have to live with that, if so. It's a heavy burden, but one I shall endeavour to bear with grace. Grace and as few twee lyrics as possible."

The mishearing gets an arched brow and a smirk, small but threatening to catch the next Greyhound out of 'wicked' and right on into 'evil'. "Unexpected teeth," he suggests, tone light, then glances aside consideringly; the tip of his tongue slides across the point of his canine tooth in a way that could well be described as 'absently' if it weren't so far a rather uncharacteristic sort of action, "...or arrange things so his wife walks in." A beat. "If it doesn't much matter whose rage. Neither's guaranteed, of course, but should one ever feel the need... that's where I'd recommend starting." His gaze returns to Grant's face far more innocently, then -- if one ignores the spark of mischief in it. "But I can't say rage is generally what I'd be aiming to provoke."

Grant is glad to let it go. He really wasn't in a fantastic mindset to blow open the landmine of what all his problems. Not when he's not slept and his mind's on short circuit and the buzz from that drink earlier and all the shit from this afternoon he was on was waning. This though? Right now was pretty damn good and he didn't want to fall out of the high he's on in it. He turns on the couch and digs out a tiny hardcase clam shell box, pushes the button and opens it. Right first , then left he pulls his hearing aides out and puts them in the tiny travel box with the mini brush in the lid and snaps it closed. There's a faint flinch. He's used to the adjustment but being plunged into the tonal warp of dampened silence still takes that small moment to adjust to. You are now on your own here, Vyv.

Grant pauses to say something but practice alone rarely helps him modulate his voice and too often it's too quiet for average folks to pick up or he's over talking and subtlety is lost. His eyes glance back with a canny look to Vyv to see what he makes of this and his fingers float and sign, not fast. Vyv is pointed to, then Bax, and there's some other manner of charades that follow suggesting cold?Maybe? Maybe it's rain but gestures move in circles and direction. The dance in pantomime ends with him standing and unfolding a hand to the chef in an invite not to take but to join. There's a question of You _____ me? And the implied query of do you trust me? which is asking a lot but, hey, nothing blew up last time.

Okay, yes, sometimes people don't want to listen to Vyv, but rarely badly enough to remove their ability to hear. Admittedly, it's probably a good deal more effective than telling him to shut up. And there might even be an argument to be made for improving the chances of retaining one's positive mood, albeit not a very nice one!

He doesn't look quite sure what to make of it, really, head tilting and brow slightly furrowed as Grant makes that removal. No question what he's doing, just why, and possibly how he's going to talk to him now. This is rapidly added to by how he's going to understand him now, since he's really not picking up anything much out of that signing -- a fact that has his brow furrowing further, and a strange combination of frustration and fascination flashing through his eyes. ...cold? Rain? Why would weather enter into this at all? He must be getting this wrong. And in ways far less amusing than spitefully blowing bartenders. The offer of the hand, at least, is one he can interpret likely-correctly; he looks at it a moment and then reaches to take it (even if that isn't quite what's intended). There are several words he'd be fine with putting in that blank, and 'trust' will possibly do. For now, at least. After all... nothing blew up last time.

Leaning forward, he snags one of the chocolates off the little plate of foods, pops it into his mouth, and stands. The hand could probably be reclaimed at that point if Bax wishes, but it's not otherwise released. Vyv's brows lift, a silent question: what do you have in mind?

Grant watches the frustration as control is stripped from the control freak in the room. As an agent of chaos he probably just earned his commission for the week. As a companion, and at risk of presumption, friend this test of patience is its own silent parade of what the other man is willing to do or put up with. This is the sort of act where he takes to see if he is granted permission to do said thieving of the man right out of his comfort zone.

His hand is given a squeeze and he's led to the bathroom? Not in, to. Bax turns and pushes Vyv against the inside of the door jamb, and leans in stealing a kiss like the thief he is. Lips murmur against Vyv's with maybe enough sound, but glimmer shifting and narrating an echo inside his muse's mind.

"V, I just walked 40 minutes in the cold just to see you and see if I could make you fucking smile. I'm cold. I'm tired. I want to forget about the mine field that was last week. I want a shower, and you. Then?" Fingers fall to the hem of the sweater in pause looking at the over particular one, eyebrow raised, "Then I just want to sleep like the dead, wake up next to you in the morning, eat some pancakes and make something new we ain't painted before. I'm not going to steal your kidney, just a lot of time." This whole explanation seems to amuse the skater more than a bit.

Sometimes Chaos has a plan.

Tch. Not very nice, yanking poor innocent control-freaks out of their comfort zones with no warning. Probably smart to do it in a way that makes it actively difficult for Vyv to complain effectively, though; between the mental arts being a newer development for him and his natural tendency to keep his thoughts locked down tight, the one truly effective way around the matter doesn't occur to him immediately.

In fact, it doesn't occur to him until it's happening the other way around. He's perfectly willing to be walked to the bathroom, and more than willing to be pressed up against the doorjamb for that kiss, like a reprise in reverse of a recent memory; he wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him in. Sinks right into it, until the voice registers inside his mind, and there's a flash of tension through his form, perceptible but not enough to make him push away. His mind must have been receptive enough to allow it despite himself, after all, and speaking isn't quite the same as reading... and perhaps also despite himself, that first sentence makes his lips twitch against Grant's in what surely qualifies as a fucking smile, even if it doesn't break out of his usual range.

It still seems to take some intentional effort to let that tenseness fully ebb -- at least, until Bax hits I want a shower, and you. That somehow takes what's left all at once, the chef's back sliding an inch or two down the doorway as though his knees might have lost partial cohesion for a breath there, one that emerges as a muffled but decidedly emphatic noise. If not heard, it's likely felt. And of course it's purely-- okay, no, it's not even slightly coincidental that the shift happens to increase the contact between them a little more, nor that his hand slides up to tug that quarter back out of the shirt and wrap around it to draw the painter nearer as he kisses back. "Good. I have long-term plans for these kidneys," he sends back. "And short-term plans for helping us ignore the last week and sleep like the dead." He tilts his head to nip an earlobe, murmuring there at the same time he 'thinks' it, "Well. Maybe not all that short. Now, take that shirt off; I hate it." And while it's quite possible that's actually true, there's warmth in the amusement it mirrors back that isn't entirely heat.

Maybe Chaos-with-a-plan is Balance. Either way, tonight it's near enough for Vyv.