2020-03-08 - The World's Most Extraordinary Homes

By the time Vyv's made it from the airport to GH, it's nearly 5pm -- about what he predicted, but it's definitely feeling late to him right now, even with some effort put in to avoiding excessive jet lag. A brief nap on the flight, for example. But it's nearly 1am in the time he's just got properly used to, after all.

Once he's dropped Hyacinth off and returned to the car, he leans back in the seat for a moment, eyes closed. His hand rests on the gear stick, fingertips tapping absently against the knob, then moves to claim his phone.

Hopefully the rolling turns out to have been in the right direction, because it's another several minutes before a text arrives with the appropriate restaurant noted -- with address, presumably just in case there's somewhere around here Grant doesn't know and that turns out to be it. Tonight is, apparently, Chinese.

There is a knock on 808 Bayside Apartments' door. Yes, the door person got a high five and inquiry about the Seahawks draft picks. Really Grant has a way to make friends with all sorts of other working folk, and in fact leaves the spare fortune cookie with em.

The knock comes on the door with his first and first and last knuckles and back in a tat-a-tat. He checks the tag like he's the delivery guy now and hooks his fingers through the trucks on his board to pull it back up . At least his face doesn't show any lasting damage from that spider. He might benefit a bit from a shower having been in workshop all day. Status back to quo it seems.

Is it possible the security folks already recognize Grant as someone who actually has a periodic right to be here? Maybe. Is it likely Vyv called down to tell them a probably-purple-haired delivery 'boarder would be arriving with food and should be sent up before it gets cold? Yes, definitely. But friendliness and spare fortune cookies don't hurt one bit in making it so.

If they called up to warn Vyv he was on his way, it doesn't translate to an immediate opening of the door. No, there's distinctly a pause, maybe as much as a minute, before the knob turns and the door swings open to make room for entrance, the man himself standing half-behind it, out of the way. And he really must be serious about being rather worn out, because he's definitely changed out of whatever he was travelling in, and hasn't bothered to put on real clothes to replace it -- well, not by Vyv standards, anyway. Cream silk pyjama pants and a knee-length silk dressing gown in navy, the latter embroidered with a decidedly japonesque pattern of trees and cranes. An observant person -- which Grant generally is -- might notice the television is out, though not currently on, and that there's a glass that still holds a bit of something amber on a coaster on the coffee table over there. He might also notice his painting on the wall of the dining area, in a floating frame, facing the view that arguably led to its existence.

Vyv looks slightly distracted when he opens the door, but the focus sharpens as it falls on the new arrival -- a flicker to the hair, then noticeably the bite location, down over clothing and bags and board and back up, ending at the eyes. Something in the regard softens faintly, then, and one side of his mouth curves upward in a manner that's hard to describe as anything but fond -- and maybe just a tiny bit rueful. "Not bad. A good ten minutes before it would have to be free," he remarks in lieu of any proper greeting.

Arches an eyebrow and looks around. Do doors open themselves? Yes. Yes they do. Still, he looks around and finds the slacken chef hiding from world view behind the door and takes this moment to assess all the tiny minutiae. This is the most hunkered down he's seen the man answer a door in the short tenure of their socializing. Weirdly this is sort of a new level of trust? Maybe? Some might read this in one manner answering company in night clothes, but this? This is oddly different. It's Vyv without all his armor, and this is its own emotional sensitivity.

Blinking he looks up at the room and doesn't miss his Door hung on the wall in frame proper which pulls his expression of curiosity into an easy, wide grin. Rolling a look back, food held up in the bag he says, "Well, it's not. You got my quarter?" Smart ass.

His backpack is unshouldered and board left in the walkway actually mindful not to scuff the guy's walls. Shoes are heel-toe removed. Looking up in case Vyv says something he might miss he greets, "Welcome home."

Well, not hiding per se. Vyv's only halfway behind the door, and almost certainly making room for Bax and the food is part of the rationale! On the other hand... generally he's standing in the space when he opens it, and only then moving aside to make room, so yeah, that's different. And even when there are larger likely causes for certain changes, Vyv is nothing if not a creature of details. Wise to assess them, if one's trying to put together the bigger picture.

"One can't demand quarter; that's in the bill of rights," Vyv smartasses back, nonetheless closing the door behind his visitor and reaching over to flick at a bit of half-dyed hair as he passes by on the way to the edge of the kitchen, and the smallish decorative wooden box on the nearest bit of counter. Flicking it open, he palms something, then turns to lean against the counter itself and watch the de-shoeing, arms loosely crossed. A tiny smile for the greeting, and he allows almost reluctantly, "Much as I love the place... it is still good to be home."

He waits until the painter's finished and straightened up again before entirely lying, "I seem to be out of quarters, in any case." Turning one hand over and opening it, he adds, "But I did hear this might be of equivalent worth. Will it do?" It's just one of those super-bounce balls. A purple glittery one, specifically.

Grant doesn't mind his hair being futzed with , nor the hopeless endeavor Vyv makes trying to shevel him back into shape. The bag is set down and the quip on the Bill of Rights gets a snort, "The Englishman is schooling me on the Bill of Rights. Very well, you can take it back since we clearly have no idea how to fucking manage this mess." Does he ignore Vyv's actual legal status? Yes. For the sake of satire and comedy, absolutely.

The skatepunk turns and leans against the counter because it's just in his nature to be too lazy to stand up like an adult unless necessary. The amusement is abundant. He blinks looking to his hand and not actually expecting a quarter. Really he's still wearing the first one on a string because he can and he wants to. When the small rubber ball falls in his hand his fingers close, catching Vyv's leaving briefly in passing, and then looks at the sparkly OSHA violation in the making.

He's silent but his free hand signs out W-O-W. He holds it up to see the light trapped inside bounce around the glitter and, yes, plop-drops it right right there in Vyv's kitchen before catching it as it falls out of the air. Pushing himself off the counter he takes a step across the space and catches a hold of the bouncy ball benefactor briefly to spin around with him like cotton candy in thank you. Leaning over his cheek next to Vyv's he whispers, heartfelt, "This...is...so badass." Pressing a smooch to his cheek and then stealing a proper one because, yes, he's welcoming himself to be so bold, "Thank you." For one or the other. Maybe dinner. A side nod he says, "I can plate stuff if you wnat to sit. You look... like you've earned rest and leg room."

Vyv has not yet begun to shevel. Just you wait, mister. But that's for a day he isn't exhausted and has access to a good colourist and clothing that properly fits someone a few inches shorter and a good deal more straight-up athletic than he is. Just. You. Wait.

"I'd say it's about time you lot came 'round," Vyv replies, perfectly willing to ignore his actual legal status as well, "but I'm forced to admit we're not at peak Managing This Mess levels over there at present either. Maybe if I, specifically, take it over... but imagine what it would do to my scheduling." A smirk. "Regardless. I'll school you in anything that seems necessary."

Even just at the edge, there's plenty of counter in that kitchen to support multiple leaners. The smirk's faded away by the time he's offering the little gift, and the hint of smile that appears at the brush of fingers and grows at the signed reaction is a good deal more sincere. And also disappears at the testing, which he absolutely ought to have anticipated, but while it's a subtle shift in his expression, it definitely suggests it's only now occurred to him there's a small sphere absolutely full of kinetic energy and ricochets in his house right now, under someone else's control. Someone also occasionally full of kinetic energy and ricochets. Getting spun around should absolutely not be a thing that manages to distract him from this fact, but it's surprising enough that it briefly does, and there's no way not to be quietly pleased by the whisper.

Possibly the kiss, too? Certainly there's no remonstration against the boldness; there's a fractional hesitation, and then a sense of sinking into it, the fingers that had been holding the toy resting themselves lightly against the back of Bax's neck for the duration. They drop again when it ends, and he glances off toward the cupboards, nodding once before he points to the one that, it might be recalled, contains the relevant plates. "We could do with drinks, as well. There's options in the fridge and the bar." He straightens properly and starts to head toward the living room, a sidelong glance suggesting the tactful phrasing is both appreciated and amusing, and his fingertips brush the hand holding the superball as he passes. "Don't break anything."

Poor Vyv who is suddenly reminded that Bax's id has no chill and will is the sort to open the toy before they even get to the proverbial car. Now if the 'small sphere of kenetic energy in the kitchen' is the bouncy ball or Bax remains to be seen. Likely right now with how jazzed he is over it? Possibly and likely both.

Still Grant should be watching Vyv, but his love of shiny shit is bringing his attention to what is one of the few absolutely perfect gifts in the world (along with pancakes, or a segue with a crash helmet...because you know he'll try to race it, or drift it, or...something). Fingers touching his hand get a look and his focus snaps back as he speaks not to miss anything. A finger in mild surpruse signs 'Really?' Huh he wasn't thinking that'd fly. In a single gesture he pockets the ball and flap-waves Vyv to go sit down.

"I promise not to somehow burn your building down with a bouncy ball." And somewhere Byron is likely a tad concerned. Just wait til the rebellion! Just you wait. "It's okay I got this. There's been more than one day where I've been absolutely toasted and crashed out on teh couch while Corey's doing a food network marathon..." Don't say it... don't say it Bax. "I know better than to think putting parsley on a pop tart is plating it." A small mercy.

"... you have to toast it and use an actual plate too or it doesn't count." Goddammit Bax.

Still he's careful with the plates. He may live like a drug running Bohemian, but it doesn't mean he lacks a proper upbringing or art style. Now he's gone a while re-familiarizing where things are. And to no comfort, he's certain, sings Tom Petty to keep himself entertained, "She's a gooood girl, loves her llama, love Cheeeese-its, and America too..." Growing up with hearing hurdles means you don't always hear it correctly, but at least he's not terrible? Let's be honest it's hard to fuck up Tom Petty.

Will there be backseat driving? Yes. He absolutely expects it. he has no illusions that Vyv drives Vyv's world and he's a feature and executor. Really if people know what they want it's really easy to keep them happy. People are not hard to figure out really. There are a few "Yups' and a nod-sign of his fist in yes to placate any little instances coming up.

What happens in the end is a skill not too oft talked about with Bax and that's in the form of attention to detail and some actual good taste. He is an artist, people just tend to forget this often. Vyv doesn't though, and while he doesn't talk about it it's appreciated. Appreciated enough he's taking the time to make a paper napkin into an origami crane which shows up as he walks Vyv's carefully arranged plate that has the rice arranged in pressed loops like a rice flower with dumpling center. Ta da. He's pleased with himself.

"Sorry you're feeling run down." There's a paused and he almost says something else. There is silence and stillness from his hands shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Tongue running over his lower lip as if chewing on a thought that doesn't fully form he lets it be what it is and let Vyv take from that what he will.

"A good start," Vyv allows, though burning the place down is probably not what he was worried about. Well, not what he was worried about. Now his brain's probably trying to work out how Bax might manage it.

Or at least, it is until he goes into the intricacies of presentation of toaster 'pastry'. "The proper way to plate a pop-tart is directly into a rubbish bin. Parsley notwithstanding." And the idea that one might think otherwise might well be more responsible than the potential for creation of conflagration via super-high-bounce glitter-ball somehow for the moment of hesitation as he glances back to Grant, watching the younger man head for the cupboard.

The watching continues once he's made his way to the couch, though it's possible that's not entirely out of concern for the outcome... even if, yes, there IS some backseat-driving there. "Cheez-Its are terrible; they're probably why he doesn't even miss her," he opines idly, though he doesn't seem inclined to correct the painter's lyrics. That, apparently, can drive however it likes at the moment, currently more amusing than annoying. Though this might depend on the song, and the fact that Bax is, in fact, not terrible outside the lyrics. Up to the hearer to decide whether it's encouragement or discouragement when he offers, "I could put on music if you like." No, the instructions are reserved for dealing with the food and drink, but even they aren't nearly as micro-managey as they might be some other day. Well, no, some other day he'd probably just do it himself.

And as it turns out, they don't need to be. The plate he's presented with in the end gets a slight brow lift that those in His Kitchen (as opposed to merely his kitchen) would recognize as a quiet but genuine approval, and the hint of an actual smile at the napkigami. He hasn't forgotten Grant's an artist, no, but it's neat to see it expressed this way. "Ta," he says, accepting it, "...and, well, travel will do that sometimes. Particularly if they will insist on allowing infants on board with the rest of us." He gives a slight inclination of his head toward both plate and (not quite empty) glass, adding, "Don't forget yours."

There's a small pause, watching Bax again, this time in his silent shifting stillness. "Well, you're clearly thinking something," he observes, "but I'm afraid I'm not quite psychic enough to know what." One corner of his lips quirks up, along with the opposing eyebrow and an upward glance to the standing man. "You may have to resort to saying it."

The reminder and the prod at thinking something snaps him out of whatever thought it was like his head suddenly clears. The bit of impression the presentation leaves the graphic artist satisfied. Still there's this looks he's getting expectant of answer and he shifts his weight to his back foot with an easy smile and a shake of his head. "Just... good to have you back is all." His hand falls to Vyv's shoulder and gives it a supportive squeeze and happily agrees, "Yeah, lemme go get mine. What're we watchin?" If he's learned anything from Sparrow it's that it's easier to keep things simple than needlessly complicating things. "I'm always thinking everything. 30% of the time it's based in reality so there's a plus." He heads over and the fridge opens, he pours himself a glass of something, then it closes again and Bax brings himself back a drink and food that is less decorative and an unfolded napkin. The effort was not put on his plate. The human garbage disposal has no need for such garnishing! Also he's hungry. Settling in he does ask in sign in reference to his PJ's, <<Those you find in Japan? When you lived there?>>

Vyv looks a touch dubious at that being what Grant was thinking, certainly in so many words, but doing any more than look dubious right now seems like actual effort, and it's been a very long day to be thinking of mustering up actual effort. The more so when the possibly-less-than-pristine-truth comes along with that squeeze. And, of course, dinner. Really, is he up to prodding more determinedly and then having to deal with whatever ends up falling out right now? No. No, he is not. Ask again post-dumplings.

Right now, simple is seductive, and he goes ahead and lets it lead him off somewhere quiet where they can get to know each other better. "It's nice to see you without two screens and a few thousand miles in between again," he replies instead, and picks up a pair of the chopsticks that came with the meal. He probably has nicer ones somewhere in that kitchen, but these will do; cheap wood is more acceptable than cheap plastic. He's pretty good with them, too. Holding them and the plate does leave no hands to sign when Bax returns, but he hasn't been learning long so there's not much he could say even so. Since he is chewing, though, he uses that hand to simply tug a pinch of the robe and pants in turn, alternating with the appropriate movement to end up with what's reasonably clearly: <<This, yes; these, no.>> Swallowing the bite, he adds aloud, "I found the robe in a little antique and vintage shop in Nakameguro." A slight pause brings a slight smile along with it, and he adds, "If going farther than the kitchen didn't sound exhausting right now, I'd almost be tempted to try to go back in a few weeks. It was beautiful with all the cherry trees blooming."

He leans back a little, looking up toward the quiescent television, then back to Bax, and giving a small shrug. "Something that doesn't require too much thought, I suppose," he replies, and that probably isn't what leads to the moment's pause and inquiry of, "What do you like to watch?"

Less-than pristine, but not complete mostly. Thoughts take a lot of pieces some day by evidence. "Should bring hose with you if we hi up the moons of Saturn and might be a bit. They look nice. Comfy. Keep those." When he is asked what he wants to watch this is a thought process. He signs, keeping it simple to follow so Vyv can grasp content through context, <<You. Lazy. Here. We have N-e-t-f-l-i-x?>> Fingerspelling is a lifesaver for names and beginners. He doesn't wait for the answer but hunts the remote out like a techno seeking truffle pig. He's not one for bright decisions, but he's clever enough to find a way to get what he needs.

Clicking it on he squints one eye shut and types in World's Most Extraordinary Homes and shrugs once, "Since we're talking about Japan and I ain't ever seen it or... anything past Seattle really. Lets seee what today's Frank Lloyd Wrights are up to in Japan?" The eyebrow arches and he goes on to explain with a pause in his drawl, " This awesome lil old lady and her buddy cruise around the globe and talk about marvels of modern domestic architecture." Yes. He know all these words in a sentence. Together even! "I always wonder how someone gets a job like that." He clicks the button and scoots over settling in.

"Might not be quite warm enough there," Vyv replies idly, "...though silk is warmer than people tend to think." He focuses on the signing, then, brow furrowing a bit; 'lazy' is not a sign he knows yet, though he gets the rest all right. And he might even get the right meaning from the 'you' and 'here' portion! However he interprets it gets a fleeting little smile, anyway. There's a silent question, then, mirroring the sign he doesn't understand with an inquiring look. The movement changes to a non-ASL one a moment or so later, pointing out a round, smallish, intricately carved cinnabar lacquer box there, definitely antique. That, apparently, is where the remote lives. One doesn't have a television that hides and then leave the remote just lying around! Or anything much just lying around, really. There's a smaller remote in there that might actually be how one controls whether the television shows at all, too.

"We do," he confirms once he's got the spelling sorted, still new to this; it's not really necessary information at that point. Still, there it is. Any immediate reaction to the show suggestion itself is headed off by the remarks that come with it. "You've not been past Seattle?" he asks, taken aback. "How far the other direction?" ...south, presumably. "Not even so far as Canada? I mean, all right, it's not the most exciting of international destinations, but really, it's practically next door." This may need to continue being processed in a background thread.

The actual show, however, gets a tilt of the head, and a small lift of brows that might have been more pronounced if the other information hadn't come along with it all. "Sounds promising," he decides, and shifts position just enough as Bax scoots to be considered a subtle invitation for said scooting to end up nearby. "Know the right people," he murmurs, picking up his glass and glancing toward the television again as the intro begins, "...helps to know one's stuff, too. But it's not generally quite as imperative."

The show begins and the hosts Caroline and Pierce start in a stroll down a street in rural Japan near the coast while she remarks about the landscape with passion and excitement. "I don't think think this woman's ever had a bad day." Grant stretches his short, lanky limbs out away from the couch to settle in with dinner. Really with the way his day went (don’t ask) he is famished for all of three good reasons. Also there’s something just zen about this damn show that invites everyone’s inner lazy cat in theme to sprawl and stay a while. The cult of Bob Ross can expound on this further. Right now? Right now is Caroline’s turn to provide the hole of entertainment for time to fall into.

Vyv snorts softly at the appraisal, taking a first bite of his peking duck. The building that appears on the screen gets some quiet consideration, but it looks like something one’d think he might like. Fairly sleek, seemingly thought-through. His first actual remark, however, is an idle, "I didn't know one required a workshop for fishing gear. All the more reason not to have any."

It’s not until several bites later that he notes in a more directly house-related manner, "I do rather like how those windows are done." There are a lot of them, maybe as much as the flat overall, though the setup makes them much smaller, like long thin horizontal panes. A few other features get brief mention as well, though there’s more eating than chatting going on as yet.

"Well any craft done right has tools. I mean there are ovens beyond the toaster variety" Bax’s brown eyes light abso-fucking-lutely up with amusement as he’s able to anchor that concept home. Aaah the joys of concrete examples and the rarity for him of getting to be the one to apply sound logic to things. Still, it’s a point that everyone’s got to have utilities if they’re going to do their job properly. And they? Well these two can certainly respect someone using the right tools… right? Maybe.

"I want them to do a homes in space one." Awww, Baxy. Keep dreaming on that one, duder.

Vyv looks over from the television to his companion, arching a brow at the oven remark in one of his myriad variations on the theme of ‘really?’ This one suggests neither of them have or require a workshop (as though the kitchen doesn’t count and he wouldn’t have one if it didn’t), and in any case is fishing really a craft? Look, it’s an eloquent look. It’s the eyeroll and next bite of food as he looks back to the screen that say ‘fiiine maybe you have a point’, though. He’s still not going to endorse the fishing thing.

"First they'd need to find some homes that were in space. Which generally, one finds tricky."

"Yeah... it's a little roomy." Looking up Grant helpfully informs, "That's where 'space' gets its name, you know. No one could figure out what to call it and you name things after what you have in abundance so... space."

This is a dubious etymology and Vyv looks appropriately dubious about it, but the claim as to what things get named after is more amusing than getting into a debate, right now. "So, Lapland, very popular with cats, is it?"

Grant replies in staunch certainty, "Laplandia is huuuuge. Having been lap-sized once let me tell ya, there's an appeal to this." Now there’s an idea forming, and God themself only knows where it is coming from, but he stuffs the rest of his dumpling into his face like the human trash compactor he is, and politely keeps his mouth shut while he chew this over thoughtfully.

The current house is another sleek one, this one with a tree-filled terrace enclosed from the street with glass bricks that turn everything beyond it into a quiet, colourfully moving blur. The actual decor is spare but not boring, and in some ways reminiscent of things in the flat around them. "I like this one,” Vyv remarks aside, “I could quite happily live there. ...well, probably, we've not seen the kitchen yet."

He glances over again, taking a sip of his drink before he sets it down again. "I suppose we've all been lap-sized once. Not anymore, then?"

Bax leans over and drops his head in Vyv's lap. Pauses, and announces, "Still partly." Turning his head up he shrugs an expression too pleased with himself. "When I was a fennec I was very, very entirely lap sized. I'm still trying to figure out what that's inferring."

Vyv blinks, giving a near-silent laugh, and a hand drops down to pet Grant's hair, thankfully keeping the food-end of the chopsticks out of it. "...partly," he agrees, looking amused with that self-satisfied expression. "Are you sure it's implying anything?"

The next episode moves on to houses in the mountains, one specifically in the alps, and he hehs quietly at the phrase 'frilly oompah houses'. Might well steal that, should the need someday arise.

Bax considers "I think mom's got family in Vancouver north edition, buuuut if I been here I was like 3 or something. I don't talk to them so no idea if we went or not. Kitty'd know." For a man passionate about everything here he finds detachment warming back with a wry grin and eyes sliding shut soaking up the attention like a pumice stone. "Been to Disney and NoCal a couple times to go surfing. mostly? yeah I mean... life here. Dad had two kids to raise and school to deal with, so, not a lot of cash or time. " Looking over at the show as it moves to Cali and the aeroplane house he says, "I did go to space once."

"'Maybe I'm too English'..." he repeats after the narrator. Bax looks up to Vyv with an eyebrow raise, "That a thing?!"

Vyv sets the chopsticks down on the plate, and the plate down for the moment as well, in favour of what remains of his drink in one hand and idly toying with his pet skateboarder's hair with the other. "Mn," is his comment on the Canadian family issue for now, though all of that is something at least. "My parents live around half an hour from Disneyland." Random facts.

"What, being too English for things? Yes, absolutely. Being too English overall? I suspect that depends on whom one asks." A pause. "Going to space once being in the library, or? --Oh, good bathroom." Well, it is. And the view from that bath’s not a half-bad way to imagine starting a day.

Yet another homeowner references their brief as having essentially been ‘I want it here, otherwise surprise me’, and the chef gives another soft, amused snort. "This show's not secretly subsidized by the Coalition of Architects for Just Letting Us Do What We Want, is it?"

"Wait did she say the bugs broke in to turn into geese on the lights?" Bax's eyes pop open and try to catch up with the saguero retreat home that is on the screen and looks back to Vyv with some distress. "Yes space in the library. Also the bottom of the ocean. I have a friend there. I should visit at some point." His dreams are things of adventure of Travel Channel legend. "Yeah I kinda like it. The things I'd do to those stairs with my board, man." He considers the conspiracy and offers, "I think it is. A conspiracy to get people to stop accepting things as they are and impose themselves on their reality. This is how revolutions and innovation is born. This is why we are not eating oatmeal for every meal."

Eyes get larger murmuring, "I'd so live in a box of chocolate." Because that's what 'chocolate box chalet' means to the man that will eat anything.

"No, to feast on the lights, I'm afraid. Not that it makes terribly much more sense. Space in the bottom of the ocean? Whom do you know there?" This is a strange thing to just mostly accept, but... well, Dreams and the Veil.

As for the conspiracy, that gets another headtilt, thoughtful. "Mn. Well, perhaps more to get people to allow architects to impose themselves on their reality, but the point stands. Letting the art come through the craft uninterrupted..." He snorts softly again at the murmur. "Not for long you wouldn't. It'd just be just 'a box' within a month."

The interior of one house proves to feature what looks like exceedingly knotty pine, and a brow goes up again. "That's a very spider-abdomen-like wall there."

Bax answers as succinct as one can, "Seahorse. We rode around like Hidalgo and blue Child for a while . I dunno why but my appliances didn't short which is nice. Some dudes robbed this poor merperson and we had to like... help her out it was a total bummer." The accusation (sorry, just observation) of him eating his way out of house and home were it a box of chocolate gets a wide grin. "Maaaaaan you ever just get to snack your way around Europe? That seems like it'd be the best. Turn the Swiss Alps into a snack bar. Chocolate tour. Maybe Mexico. Daaaaaamn... now I'm hungry and we're still eating." this has not stopped him, nor will it.

"Ah, the seahorse," Vyv says, hand dropping to the shoulder where that tattoo sits. "...nice they didn't, yes. Maybe things work differently on that side." He eyes the screen, taking in the latest house. "...rather industrial, this one, isn't it. Mm." He looks approving of the state of its detail, though.

He's reminded about eating again, setting the glass down and getting back to actually eating, though he helpfully offers a bite down between the sticks. Can't let anyone starve. "Snacking my way around Europe would be one way to describe it, yes," he says, amused again. "You ought to try it some time." A tiny pause. "We've shifted from Europe to chocolate worldwide, have we?"

Bax smiles at the bite and accepts it chewing happily. He's kinda like a stray pet. He turns up on the porch now and then, survives on snacks and can usually keep himself pretty occupied. "Well, when and if by some miracle I like get famous and wealthy off Etsy yeah I'll take a vacation and just hitchhike or backpack through Europe." Which isn't a no at all. The question gets only an eyebrow waggle as an answer and a question in curious retort noting the locations Vyv is favoring, "Soooo do you love architecture or hate stuff or one cause of the other? I'm wondering if this minimalist thing has to do with someone for linear geometry or if it's that clutter detracts from the art of the construction by burying it in details not intended by design." Sure, now he asks questions like this.

"I'm fairly sure one needn't be famous or wealthy to hitchhike and backpack through Europe. Masochistic or slightly insane, possibly, but not famous or wealthy. There's even rather decent discounts on train passes for those under 27, as I recall." Vyv's nose wrinkles a little, "And there's hostels, I suppose. Hotels are better. I recommend them." Some of them, anyway. He watches Bax instead of the show for a moment, then picks up another bite of the food, this one for himself.

His turn to seem to think about something, though it's pushed away when question comes. An arched brow as he chews and swallows. "Of course I like architecture. And I like... properly chosen 'stuff', properly placed. A thing should be beautiful and functional, or it should be hidden or not exist at all. Sometimes the beauty is the function, the way it acts as accent or counterpoint to what's around it. But details matter. Design matters. The way things flow and balance matters. I wouldn't say I was a minimalist per se, but-- it's a matter of contrast and composition."

Bax actually looks optimistic as if this was somehow suddenly achievable, "Hey I'm both those things!" There's a market for all skills, apparently, "So you're saying there's a chance? Huh." While he's not put off course easily the guy has absolutely no poker face. This is hopeful and there's wheels turning as if devising some great plan for the same of making more things possible.

Still the theory helps understanding. For a man that doesn't explain himself often Bax finds it helpful to do so when it's offered up. His eyes shift to the remote and he wiggles his finger over it allowing a tiny butter dish lid to appear over it. It's hard to tell if this is in help or in humor really. "So since you haven't put me in a box should I assume I'm where I need to be?"

"Are you, now." Yes, that has Vyv looking amused again, and he lowers his hand to catch a lock of purple hair more firmly between his fingers this time, and give it a teasing but definite tug, as if testing the first part of this claim. "Mm. Some might claim that explains why you're here on purpose." His humour doesn't skirt 'self-deprecating' often, but apparently when it does, it does it lightly, skipping along to whatever's next. In this case, "Of course there's a chance. You've not even had the opportunity to be internationally banned yet, so I can't see what would stop you."

Tired though he is, his mood seems actually not too bad right now, and the fact that the sudden illusion gets just a 'tch' of chiding is one of several indicators of this. Protective of his reality, but it was, after all, not done with intention to mislead. "The one it came out of is right there, you know," he notes mildly, nodding to the little carved box, but having the remote where it is must not have been bothering him too much at present, since he's done nothing about it himself. Not even complain.

"A Bax in a box. Sounds rather Seussian, really. But... yes. I suppose you're well-placed enough at present." He's content to leave what else this may imply as implication for the moment. "And I don't seem to have any boxes that properly fit you in any case."

Grant offers, if not to undercurrent a 'You're welcome' "I try to make sure public and specifically you get the medicated me. Really I think my sister and Sparrow and like... my dad are the only people logically willing to deal with my world when it's thrown entirely off access." His hair is tugged and it brings an amused smile, "Still here."

Looking to the remote box and back he laughs, "Yeah but there's a difference between like finesse telekinesis and me chucking your remote and a box across the room."

"Well Fox was in Box at one point so I think they eluded to this. Good call though." The television starts the journey into episode 3: underground homes. "I can't decide if they want to be moles or hobbits."

"Knox on fox in socks in box," Vyv murmurs. "...hm. Lucky Knox." His fingers curl into a light fist and he raps his knuckles twice gently against the painter's skull. Mock knocks, if you will. The expression is a little more thoughtful than children's books explain, however.

Probably also not, "Why would putting it back there entail chucking it and the box across the room?" even if the puzzlement sounds sincere. "The box is well over a hundred years old; I'd rather prefer it weren't hurled at anything." As though he'd be fine with it if it were new.

As for what the burrowers want to be, he adds the options of, "Rabbits, ants, Wombles," rather absently, "...but probably hobbits, I suppose." A pause, one filled by another good bite of his actual meal, and then: "What happens when your world gets thrown off its axis? How does that happen?"

Bax smiles lazily at the word games. This is relaxing. This is what was needed. Well, it was what Vyv needed, and Bax is happy as a master of chaos, to force it elsewhere for a while and let some sort of hidden normalcy to quietly return to the world post being thrown around the globe for his... well... Vyv.

"Well yeah, I didn't want to actually hurt any of your things. Covering it up seemed the best way of achieving that without, ya know, creating more strive...or getting up-itude." Sometimes our lads thing ahead! There is 89.3 days before this happens again. Common sense is now on cool down.

There's a nod to rabbits. Distractedly he muses, "Yeah I was a burrowing creature but I never got to dig a hole. I should try that if it happens again." Then... then there's that big question and his face stills. It's a very simple question with anything but a simple answer on a question that Bax has dodged, historically, twice. His cheeks pull in as he gives the answer some thought and in the end he opts to trust Vyv, for better or worse, because lying just ain't his style. You don't do that to people you care about.

Taking a deep breath words fall to a murmur, but he answers, "It, um, sometimes there'.... like hallucinations. I can't remember things accurately and time is..." Looking up dark eyes brown, warm, guarded find Vyv's to get a good read on him as he wanders around his explanation like he's exploring the studio space. "Time goes right out the window. Sometimes I forget things that happened and can't... I don't know time's moving, or there. Perceptive reality kinda... it breaks. Two minutes ago becomes last month and sometimes I wake up with memory of things that didn't happen or... can't remember things until I'm in the same emotional state and it gets... super compartmentalized. Sometimes I just get..." He signs Stuck. "I get on a project and it just ... it consumes me and it's just overwhelming and I can't trust ... myself? It all gets fuzzy around the edges and everything's out of my control and I... I hate it." Less positive with a squint of apology he admits, "I'm pretty impossible to be around when that happens and sometimes I have to switch up my meds or just... ride it out and hope I get level again. It's... why my folks broke up."

The skater's hand watches Vyv, curious, hesitant but leaving the facts out there as his fingers comb back through his hair and stop at Vyv's giving them a squeeze and dropping his hand back to his chest. "My life's always been a fuckin mess, man. I'm just used to it. I'm not looking to like... stress you out about it. You got all your shit together. Not here to like... take away from that. . I worry about that sometimes."

Word games just might be Vyv's favourites, especially if he's winning. (What do you mean, they're not meant to be competitive?) Ordered rules and settled definitions nonetheless wrapped in ambiguity and multiple meanings are just his sort of balance in the world. And yes, it's relaxing. Words and dinner and middlebrow documentary tv and his... well... Bax settled partly across his lap: apparently this is what he needed.

"Fair, I suppose, certainly best we avoid an excess of get-up-itude." Which is presumably why, three episodes and various commentary in as he finishes off a final bite of what he's eating for now, he leans and reaches over the painter just far enough to set down the plate, rather than taking it back to the kitchen as he might otherwise do. But then, of course, there is that question, and thus, more relevantly for this moment, that answer.

The matter of burrowing or not is one that will wait, even if something at the back of his mind is asking itself whether fennec foxes really qualify and making a brief note to self of the realisation that he doesn't actually know that much about them and probably ought to look into that, which is definitely just wise planning and not in any way mentally trying to dodge the actual current topic. He wants to know; he does. But knowing is one thing. Processing and reacting is another. He's tired, and this is not his realm, and it shows a bit in his expression, that he's not sure what to make of this, or what to say about it. Maybe not even what one's meant to say about it, which is usually the saving grace when he actually cares. Which, somehow, and for better or for worse, he does.

So there's a delay before he says anything, which some might find stressful. His fingers faintly answer the squeeze, though, and comb through a bit more purple-brown hair when they're released, so there's that, right? And what actually comes out then is a tut. "And I've had you over thirty days now so it's far too late for a refund." The fingertips slide a bit farther down, one lightly hooking into the cord that pulls the quarter free of the shirt's neckline, as he sighs. "I don't believe I even have the receipt." Nothing in the tone itself sounds as though he's joking, though that's not exactly unusual. A beat, and he admits, "I'm not wholly thrilled when everything's out of my control, either. But it--" Another small pause. "Well. We seem to have done all right thus far. Does it happen often?"

Bax lays there watching for a long time. It's a difficult thing to process and a lot of baggage. This is precisely why Grant never talks about his shit. Why put that on someone else? Vyv asked in no uncertain terms on three separate occasions 'What is it?' and as his... well... Vyv, and if they were going to continue hanging out, which they seem fairly adamant on, he really did deserve the truth regardless of how unfortunate in situation it is.

It's a lot of trust, and to be fair to Vyv? Bax doesn't seem to expect a whole lot here. And the silence is broken, even in fraction. The humor in attempt to bridge the silence pulls a faint smile of gratitude for doing so. His tone amused and appreciative as the tension in his neck starts to let go answers, "Well you're not getting your quarter back."

He considers and glances wot where Vyv pulls the quarter on a string, or a Bax-on-a-string depending on perspective. His hand reaches back to rest on the Chef's knee and sliding to give his shin a squeeze. Thanks.

"How often? I mean it depends. Sometimes a lot of stress will make it worse. Sometimes things affect my meds. Sometimes it just... happens. Like... change is cool but it should, like, have a purpose, ya know? This? It ain't like that and it just... it wrecks everything."

We seem. There was a //we/ in that statement. The tension drops from his shoulders admitting with a laconic bit of pride, "I think we are, Vyv. I think we are, buuuuut, ya know half the trick of getting past it is keeping people around me I can trust too. For when I don't know which way's up. Keeps me from drowning and...I think we do pretty alright there too."

Let's be honest: Vyv probably should've replaced that 'everything' with an 'anything', even if it would've interfered with the echo. And yet, here they are, and appear bent on remaining. "Mn. Well, I suppose it's already been value for money," he allows grudgingly, releasing the string (be it considered to hold quarter, Bax, or both) and letting his fingers brush down along the t-shirt instead and remind him of the form beneath the cotton. It makes him smile very faintly, for one reason or another, even if the topic is still a serious one.

"Absolutely, change ought to have a purpose," he agrees, "If it isn't an improvement, it oughtn't exist. But let's try for a touch more structure on that 'it depends'. I do like to know what to expect... at least vaguely. Weekly? Monthly? Yearly? Are things like that for an hour or a week?" He doesn't understand, not really, but an attempt to wrap his mind around it better is being made, in his way. Okay, possibly 'his way' could stand to be a little less self-centered, but at least it's facing out? "Has it got a name, this problem?" Because that will make it a lot easier to look up later, if it does. And he's fairly likely to.

He's been watching Bax instead of the program for a little yet, and still is, the faint smile returning as he contemplates the 'trick'. "I don't expect I'd make a particularly good lifeguard, but I'd broadly prefer you didn't drown. All that bloating. Terrible for the figure."

If Bax expects some sort of Huffelpuffian great outpouring of emotion it does not show. 4 months of close association has defined that this is not Vyv's strong skill set, and Bax seems disinclined to set the chef up to fail like that.

Smallest social carbon footprint seems to be the goal here and this is asking him to make it bigger. Taking a deep breath Grant considers the enormity of a simple question. The quarter is set back on his sternum and he honestly can't tell if it's heavier or just feels like it has some purpose, but all of which presses on him stay here. Don't run.

"I mean it varies? It's about as useful as asking someone how long depression lasts... which sometimes comes and goes. I kinda got a method for that though. " The helpful commentary on how drowning is bad for physique arrests a laugh "Eeeeeeeh you're not wrong?" He pauses letting the reinforced relaxed mode linger, "They have a couple names. Changes every so often I guess when the mental health community discovers a new word or gets bored or has to sound more pedantic than they did last year." Stretching he considers and says, "I'll write it down for ya. Look up STPD. It's... a great time. Nothing like reading Web MD when you have problems to make you feel like a walking timebomb."

His hand reaches up and pulls Vyv's hand slightly further down his chest to rest his hand over the top of. "You ever heard of that hospital upstate? It's where they wanted to send me. My... mother" he uses the term formally in this context, "decided she had all she could handle. My dad refused to send me away. Maybe they could have fixed it, but I'd rather be me than a potato. Maybe because we're different is why we can do.... what we do ya know?"

You're not wrong. "I rarely am," Vyv replies, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a way that suggests it's at least slightly a joke, if not so much as it perhaps ought to be. It's reasonably accurate, after all. At least from his perspective. "Anyway, asking someone how long depression lasts could be useful, assuming one's asking about them personally, not in general. One might be prone to episodes that are only bad for a week or so, but every two or three months, or might have episodes of two or three months every year or two, or some other arrangement. I'm not asking for precise dates to enter into my calendar." A small pause. "Although I admit that would be handy."

The acronym given is clearly noted, tucked away for later review, and he allows the repositioning of his hand, letting it settle there beneath Grant's. It doesn't stop moving entirely, however; the thumb continues to brush lazily across the fabric, pressing it against the musculature it hides. "No, I--" He breaks off, brow furrowing a little, and considers. "Maybe. I may have heard of it. I'm fairly sure turning you into a potato wouldn't qualify as fixing it any more than standing on a fallen log counts as having climbed the tree. " The final 'maybe' gets some thought as well, though he doesn't look sold on it. "Your medication keeps things under control most of the time, yes? And you can still do what we can do. I think it's unlikely there's a causal connection. Unless any sort of difference counts, and in that case, it ceases to mean anything. And still won't correlate very well."

Bax lets his eyebrow arch a titch at the modest boast. He doesn't argue it, but the amusement's not lost. "Yeah, naw it could be useful. I mean I've had it all my life and sometimes that has a gap of a couple months or just when things get too damn quiet- which, thankfully, given my many issues, is seldom. But yeah, handy. I used to see Dr. Glass, but... yeah I'm not thrilled with her replacement so... yeah."

He watches Vyv process the information given and offers, "It, um, turns out that 'upstate' is really across and over there. So... ya know less reputable. I'm guessing." The sigh fills his chest against the fingers on the other side of the fabric there, he considers all of the proverbial above and admits any and all fear to the agreement, "I... have had this my whole life. I just try to not make, like, my problems other people's problems." His eyes go back to the television as they are more taking apart a Boeing 747 to use the wings for some lady's roof. There's a quiet Huh! before looking back to the jetlagged and beleaguered Brit. "Just.. Yeah. I don't want to be your problem, just your coin operated boy or... whatever."

Eyebrows arch as if to punctuate that point, but the smile grows a bit amused, "You're the one with the fancy trip. I thought we were supposed to be talking about you?"

"Bit difficult to imagine things getting unreasonably quiet, around here," Vyv says dryly, and possibly thinking that should be giving him a flicker of concern rather than annoyance in the added, "I know things had been unpleasant here, but she didn't even say goodbye." Hmph. "Maybe there's someone better than that replacement available. Although I suppose it helps if it's someone who won't think interstellar libraries and the like are part of the issue." Just Gray Harbor problems.

"...yes, then. I'm fairly sure I've heard of it," he decides. "And I'm fairly sure you oughtn't be there." From what little he's putting together, at least. It's like a handful of puzzle pieces resolving into definitely the corner and probably a cat. He's not paying much attention to the screen at present, still watching Grant instead. "Mn. Puts you ahead of most people, then," he says, and for a moment one can definitely hear most of today's travelling in that tone. Not that he'd never sound that cynical on an average day. There's just extra good reason on this one.

What Bax does and doesn't want to be softens the expression a touch, one corner of his mouth curling upward more gently this time, and while yes all right maybe they should be talking about him then, or about random people's decidedly architectural houses, that can wait long enough for him to slide his free hand under the painter's head to lift it from his lap -- not enough to make him leave it, just enough not to require yoga to lean down and kiss him.