2020-05-31 - Strange With You

The twins' birthday party was fun. Vyv popped out for a double-booking for a bit in there, but came back afterward, hung out more, took Bax home. Well, Vyv's home. He seemed to be in a pretty good mood, all in all, and nothing, not even breakfast, was particularly out of the ordinary.

Except.

Somehow over the last few months, a sort of routine's developed. Quite a bit of texting during the day, in their spare moments, about anything and nothing. Lunch at least a couple times a week. Invitations to the flat a bit more often than that, sometimes after work and sometimes unpredictably a good deal later. Once in a while the tossing back and forth of thoughts or mental images.

And starting that morning things go quiet.

Not silent, mind. There's still the occasional text, though more responses than initiations. But that seems to be... it. The first few days are the quietest, with a bit more texting showing up after that, but nothing like it was, and nothing else.

Until fairly late the next Sunday night. Still before midnight, but it's definitely gotten dark outside a good while before Grant's phone lights up with the first text (well, from Vyv) in a good eight or more hours at least:

Grant has noticed this shift acutely. He hasn't done anything about it but bug Alexander, but he's absolutely noticed the inevitable distance. Sure he's wandered off to do other things, and catches himself glancing at his phone from time to time to the point of noticing he doesn't need to until finally impulse is countered with: The guy is running a confection empire. Leave the dude alone he's clearly busy. So it's kind of just pulled into a threadbare correspondence.

Late in the evening while Grant's laying in bed in his loft; no not apartment (his trailer is not the stacks from Ready Player One), he checks his phone pausing the Twitch stream he was following. Midnight caking. His phone drops onto his chest screen down, eyes fixed on the ceiling above him a few feet away. Fingers idly pull at the quarter on the string around his neck contemplating that answer.

Finally he texts back.

Well. Not quite midnight caking. Not even with the time it takes before Grant replies, regardless of how long it might subjectively seem on either end. But 11ish is close enough.

Vyv is in his kitchen, as one might guess. Not, currently, baking in it, however. A movement to check whether that cake is cool enough to frost has subconsciously turned into pacing, until the buzz of his phone faintly startles him. He stops, leaning back against the fridge to read it. And the next one. And the third. That's the one that gets a breath like a wry laugh. He drums his fingers absently against his leg a couple times, and then texts back.

There's a pause of several more seconds after this one than between the others.

There's some odd comfort in regular nuisance. The mundane is a terrific anchor and craft is always a solid go-to. He's staring at the phone for who knows how l- oh... there's a clock at the top... awkward. He stops idly sliding the quarter on a string with the handy hole in it from one side to the other. Idle takes a new turn when his text moves up. He bites the quarter with a laziness the sloth lord of Hell might aspire to achieve broken by the admission and a half smile around the bit of metal, and slightly more at the invite.

He's about to type a sure no problemo before logistics come into play. This causes a delay as he fishes over for the recharge box his hearing aids are in and puts the left in, then the right. After he pokes them in proper tucking them behind his ear he calls out, "Yo, hommie, you still awake bruh? Need a ride cross town."

When in doubt, bake. All right, it might not be effective in all situations, but it's a pretty decent first rank effort, particularly when it comes to eternally hungry skaters. Still, that delay for logistics feels at least as long as the first one, regardless of the fact that it almost certainly isn't. Vyv doesn't pace this time, though he does close his eyes and let his head drop back against the refrigerator behind him while he waits.

The phone finally buzzes, and he glances down at it. And laughs, a proper startled laugh that may possibly owe something to relief as well as terrible autocorrection.

Yes there's an 11 am drop off. NOW there's a side trip to the Safeway assuaged by buying said driver In & Out on the way over and a bag of Chips Ahoy. Bax stole three because yes they were absolutely opened in the car before anyone got home or anywhere else. He also grabbed more non-dairy creamer because the likelihood of there being a beverage accouterments varies between under and over caffeinating. He had no idea what the hell the status is here.

He tells his buddy, "Nah I'm good. If I need anything I'll call."

"And I wont' answer and you can walk."

There's a pause and Grant just grins, "Yeah, that's fair. Don't eat my tacos in the fridge tho. I'm coming back for them."

The driver perks shaking their head, "Well now that I know they're there unloved and undefended they're forfeit."

Grant sighs and just...stares... "Fuck you too buddy. Thanks for the ride."

Getting out of the Grand Am he looks at the building. Taking a deep breath and still pushing back the idle concern of should he have done this tomorrow or not gets shoved to the back of his mind. Deep breath. What was that Alexander said again? Do your taxes. ...no wait he did but that wasn't it. Oh yeah, don't, like, scan his brain. Right...

And now for knocking on the door, fingers pausing back through cropped purple hair glancing around at the other doors on floor 8 of Bayside idly while he waits.

And some people'd doubt Alexander would give any useful advice! Both of those are probably good plans.

As far as non-dairy creamer, chances are Vyv doesn't have any; he has actual cream. And milk. And very shortly, more of both! Meanwhile, he's been finally frosting that cake, which -- although it's a small cake and a simple covering, no real attempt at the visual aspects yet -- is still a reasonable way to occupy one's hands and mind for a bit. He's just finished rinsing the last of his tools and putting them into the dishwasher when the knock comes, and pauses there a moment, looking toward the door.

Just a moment, though, and then he's heading over to open it. It's not a particularly long wait before the door swings open, revealing a Vyv, and the apartment behind him. Both look... well, the same as usual, really. He's in light blue trousers and vest over a pale purple checked shirt, rolled neatly up to the elbows. No jacket, and he's barefoot, as not-too-unusual around the flat. No tie, either, and instead the first couple buttons of the shirt are undone. There's the usual flicker of an up-and-down assessing glance, and then a half-smile. "Not kidnapped by rogue frozen dinners, then. Good. Best come inside." A step back and aside, drawing the door along with him to make room to enter.

Waiting at the door has become weird. The week is weird, and Grant's normal well whatever attitude has become one fueled by confusion and manifested in slight hesitation. And then it opens and there's the act of trying to make it seem casual like nothing's changed, nothing's weird, nothing's wrong with the hurdle that Grant wears his heart on his damn sleeve so there's not a great deal of good hiding the fact that he's bee holding his breath there, or remembering to halt any subtle nervous ticks like rubbing the back of his neck nonchalantly as he's doing right now. There's that long pause before the door is opened and he can find the mind inside though he's not prying into it. It's there, and for a long moment everything is stasis so long as the door remains closed. Schrodinger's foodie call.

The door opens though with a flood of small flags and indicators: Lack of shoes, day clothes still on past eleven, dressed down, guarded posture which is... not entirely unusual. Grant is not in his general attire. Jeans, loose, and a white baseball jersey with red and black in it unbuttoned over a t-shirt. Ye quarter on a string that's now worn smooth with wear and darkened from the nickel alloy in the coin. He already knows Vyv hates it. It's a given. It promotes sliding in dirt and other people wearing the same uniform unstructured garment. He doesn't even need to ask. He could have changed, but didn't. This leaves a take me as I am statement, or one of not wanting to futz around instead of just making the trip to a cake in need.

The half smile, however, relaxes Grant's posture a bit falling into usual, and helpfully informative, cadence. Holding up the bag with the groceries in it he shakes his head with a convincing rueful tone, "Had to do battle with the Proper Penguin for em. Ne slapped the shit out of my knees. Got the business end of a beaking a couple times. Brought creamer too since I know you don't have any." He steps in to notice absolutely nothing has...changed? not really? There's that slight moment where he has to wonder if he's hallucinating his reality again or what. For now it's take things out of the bag and stating the obvious, no less impressive fact, "Well it smells good and not like an exploded pineapple in here"

The jersey? Yeah, Vyv hates it. And the oversized jeans and the t-shirts that are always too big and his hair needs redyeing again... Not the quarter, though. He doesn't hate that. His gaze drops to it as Bax passes, and the fingers of his free hand twitch, but go nowhere. Instead he closes the door and turns to follow his guest the few steps necessary to qualify as 'in the kitchen'. There's a meaningful glance down at the shoes, but they're allowed to wait during the unpackening.

Really nothing does seem to have changed in the flat over the week. Everything's where it belongs, everything's neat. Grant's painting is still hanging where he saw it last. There's a small cake on the counter, along with two plates, a knife, and a couple forks, but that's only to be expected. As a sort of edible rough draft, the white chocolate ganache he's covered it in is simple and uncomplicated. Isn't it nice that something is?

"Well, I should hope so," he replies to the note about the fragrance in lieu of thanks, picking up the creamer when it's set down and giving it a dubious look. "I don't need creamer, though. I have cream," he points out, setting the package down and lifting the smaller of the dairy cartons in illustration. "And neither of us are lactose intolerant, thank god." He hefts the milk, crossing to the fridge to put them both inside, and hesitates a moment there, eyes apparently caught by the (familiar, not particularly fascinating) interior. "...thank you," he says more softly, probably not actually to the box of dinner's leftovers.

Turning, he closes the door and leans back against it, arms lightly crossed. His head tilts and the little half-smile sneaks out again as he regards Bax, faintly wry, like it can't quite help itself. "I do appreciate you going up against well-dressed waterfowl on my behalf. How are your knees holding up? Do they need some sort of care? I'd hate to see you lose them."

At least it's his jersey. It has his name on the back anyways. Is he going to defend the creamer? Yes. yes he is by helpfully pointing out, "Yeeeees but is your milk vanilla caramel flavor? A-no. No it is not." All he needs is that flash of a look from Vyv in 3..2..."-well yes you can but I can't. Anything with sugar in it is your personal bitch, not mine." There's a faint satisfied smile in the compliment but also defending his coffee indulgences. Also V can't have a problem with ev-...well yeah. yeah he can. Nevermind.

Bax wades back over towards the door and heel-toe takes his shoes off and leaves them there to protect the carpet. There's a pause with a stillness when the thanks comes. Quietly he holds onto that and offers in return the genuine truth, "Eh, no problem." Because while it was a process there was nothing unpleasant in it. "I like being able to help you out. You know that." That's not changed either.

Right. The weirdness. Interrogating either one of them head on will only be met with it's fine, nothing's wrong, or in Vyv's case, an artful dodge anyways. Of the penguins he admits, "Nothing I haven't done to myself working on a full cab cancel heel flip so... we good." Those were all words in English. Separately. Together... skating really has its own language with all the verbs and most of the adjectives removed. His eyes follow Vyv, curious but approaching this conversation from the side. This is probably NOT what Alexander had in mind when he said Talk to him. "Tell me about the cake." Sometimes the creation is easier to talk about and the underlying message of the process understood. It is one of the sub-contexts of Vyvlish really.

No carpet per se, but the hardwood and occasional rugs thank him! Vyv would too, if he were that polite with his people. Probably a better sign that he doesn't, all in all.

Grant does indeed get that flash of a look, the one that says 'vanilla and caramel are not precisely difficult, you know', and the insistence that the skater has no option and attached compliment earn an eyeroll-with-barest-hint-of-smile that falls somewhere in the vicinity of 'fine, you can have this one, if you must.' No promises that's actually the end of it, of course, but he has the proper options to go put away, right now.

You know that. Vyv gives a small nod; he does. Good to know it hasn't changed. Strange how weird things can feel with all this not-changing involved. No, probably not what 'talk to him' meant.

Maybe if they just ignore the situation, it'll go away?

Worked so far.

Sort of.

Vyv blinks at the skating term. Ought to be used to those cropping up by now, but the language's still more opaque to him than ASL. At least he knows the concepts for that. "I have no idea what that is," he admits, "except that I'm fairly sure it involves a skateboard and apparently it's hard on the knees. Or failing is." But Grant's turn of focus to the ostensible reason for his presence has the chef hesitating half a second, then straightening from his slight lean, arms dropping as he moves toward the cake on the counter, giving it a look like maybe the baking process will have somehow manifested answers as well as cake.

"When I get to a proper version," he answers, "it should look like waves transforming into birds, broadly like the sketch. But it's a matter of flavours right now. Which ones, how to balance them..." Picking up the knife, he cuts in, extracting a nicely-shaped slice to lay on its side on one of the plates. The cake itself is pale green, four slim layers with a thin layer of caramel and an equal-sized layer of yellow-green jelly between each layer. The former seems to have a very faint green tinge to it as well. "Bears notwithstanding," he says, looking up from the slice to Bax with a raised brow and fleetingly impish look, "it's a pandan sponge, with salted seaweed caramel and a pineapple-yuzu compote. It's topped with a salted whipped caramelized white chocolate ganache. If it works, it should be..." he trails off. "Well, you know the inspiration, I don't want to bias you beyond that."

He picks up the creamer from the counter, eyeing the ingredients label even as he turns to open the fridge again. "I'm afraid it doesn't have any micellar casein or dipotassium phosphate in it, but I'm sure you'll make do," he adds archly, but tucks the offending container in beside the milk before closing the door. It's surely at least partially to get it off his counter, yes... but it does suggest it can stay.

Grant listens to the story and the layers of the cake unfold, and the creamer wasn't moved to be safely stored in the trash. He's heard stories from Corey. His arms lean on the counter getting eye level with the confection in its beta form. As to the skating term he murmurs, "There's video. I'll show you. Continue." invite to, not really an executive order. Speaking food parts is the edible equivalent of skateboarding terms. It's...science and art colliding to create, "Balance." he answers.

Slowly he looks up from the food. That's the one element this week's not had. He notes the other fork and takes one up and asks, "You tried it yet?" There's a curiosity there but it might as well be asked. His weight shifts from one food to the other still in the awkward distance of being in the same space but interacting at arm's length all the same. He murmurs, "Well then, from Hell's Kitchen, I stab at thee." He waits though for the answer. With a sigh he invites tired, and weary, in a casual, "You might as well join me. What's the sense in creating something if you can't enjoy it?" With that nimble fingers pick up the fork and present it.

Trash was a possibility. So was 'just outside the front door' if Vyv was feeling considerate of investment and also willing to allow the eventual consumption of non-food as long as he hasn't got to see it. 'Fridge with snarky commentary' is pretty much best case scenario, really.

Turning back, he looks at the offered fork, and despite there being a second plate he could be cutting a piece for, accepts it. There's a glancing contact of one fingertip to another in the process, and he drops his attention to the plate, giving the slice a critical look. "Not yet," he answers, "I've tried the various bits, of course, to get them right. But not together, yet." He lifts his gaze from the slice to Bax, a very faint pause before, "I thought you should-- I wanted you to be here." Equally little delay, then, "Do you want a drink with it? Milk? Water? Non-dairy creamer?"

Grant is less interested in the fate of his coffee confection and more in the answer this is, well, very telling. Grant Baxter has no poker face though, least of all now, and the answer while a possibility does catch him by surprise and carry some weight with it. So many mixed messages. Still that it means something is worn plain on his face. As guarded as he's trying to be subduing his usual gregarious nature it escapes as Vyv stops himself to correct.

Grant answers, "I don't need anything else." He looks at the cake on the fork and back to Vyv and searches for that ans finally just agrees with him for lack of better expression, "I want to be here for it too. Drink after, I just want to know what this is without all the other things." Sometimes simplicity is the best accessory.

Vyv is adept at mixing. Batters. Patterns. Messages. Whatever. He's also got an inherently better poker face, which surely doesn't help... but Grant is nothing if not perceptive, and the searching finds a mirror of itself, not quite fully masked and less so at the reply. Surface level, or is there subtext intended? It's hard for Vyv to be certain, from where he stands right now. But he can catch the look of that answer mattering that escapes, and maybe even the surface meanings are enough at this moment. "Drink after," he agrees, "and... good."

Looking to the cake, he cuts himself a bite as well, and lifts it on the fork, the half-smile coming back as he 'clinks' his fork lightly to Grant's in a mock-toast, then tastes. And... it's good. Quite good, really, especially for a first run. The salt and sweet and sour all set each other off at the right levels, and the textures blend well; the taste is a fair if subtle fit for the intended reference, slightly tropical with a light salt tang, but not quite any normal sort of 'tropical' blend. Vyv eats his slowly, carefully assessing, but it doesn't take his focus off Bax and looking for his reaction.

Grant clinks his fork with a faint grin that wears easy. there's a nod to the agreement and he puts the first bite into his maw. Unlike the doomed Chips Ahoy that got stress ate in the car on the way over he takes his time to figure out the story and that is the artist on the other side of the cake standing in his medium reshaping a moment catalyzed by himself who was invited back to be a willful part of this. Well, Vyv does like symmetry, he'll give him that. Still, he can't help but wonder if this is his painting or if he's giving things way too much context.

Right now? Right now is the time to focus on the present and the unusual but not unwelcome flavors. "This tastes.. like I imagine what it'd be like to surf the islands." Likely the seaweed talking but there's a squint there looking past Vyv into some plane of pedantic artistry. "Like it has a kind of weightlessness to it but not without substance like a meringue if...that makes sense. It moves and the flavor kinda flows together in waves. It makes me...want to do that. Like I got nothing to worry about. Just this."

The smile almost reaches both ears quietly and he takes another bite curious if it's going to be the same as the first. "I don't know anyone's ever thought of this before. Could go to a lot of places with this... thank you. "

Faint though it may be, that hint of the painter's grin brings the crooked little smile back. Vyv watches, and the inevitable touch of anxiety he usually hides well in these moments is a bit more visible than general. There's a bit more lift in his brows than most times, the eyes a little wider and more clearly searching rather than appraising. It might feel as long as waiting for texts did earlier, though at least he has his own opinion of the results to support him this time.

And then there's an answer, that answer, and the smile comes back, evenly this time, mostly-suppressed but sneaking out around the edges all the same. He doesn't go in for a second forkful of his own, just watching and listening. It is good, the cake, but right now the description is almost better, particularly as it's joined by that nearly ear-to-ear smile. His own fades over a following second of regard, and then his hand comes up, fingers gently touching the skater's cheek. The other hand absently abandons the fork on the counter as he leans in to try to claim an impulsive but quick and very gentle kiss.

Grant is honestly for a moment lost in trying to decipher the cake, but it's not just bite number two that gets interrupted, but the whole train of thought. Images and sensations of the cold surf and the salt in the are and the sun coming down are thrown sideways with that simple kiss. He's distract able like a- well he was a fennec fox in his dream for a reason. His fingers fall to Vyv's hip, and there's that moment where everything is their normal and everything else stops mattering... then a breath drawn in as reality collapses in crashing him to lean back and look as guarded as he did waiting at the door.

"Vyv... are...we okay?" Shit, and there goes ignoring everything. Eyes quint in a look that is equal parts concerned as scared of that answer, though his hand doesn't move. His hand is where it needs to be.

His hand is precisely where it needs to be. Where it needs to be for that moment of strange normality, and definitely where it needs to be once he leans away. It's a good portion of what keeps Vyv where he is, when that question comes. The "Of course," is automatic, but there's a hesitation, and, "I think. I--" Another pause, lips still parted to speak, as he glances off to one side, where nothing in particular interesting features in the kitchen. "I don't know," he admits, finally.

His fingers have left Grant's cheek, but only slid as far as the side of his neck, where it joins the shoulder. That's where they stay. "I don't know if I know what okay is anymore." He manages to draw his gaze back to the painter's face. "I want them to be?" It's not exactly characteristic, that tentativeness and uncertainty, and the comfortable familiarity of frustration takes over with a sudden, "We make no sense!" Overstatement, perhaps, but wouldn't most of the people who know them agree? His jaw shifts, the little spike of anger ebbing, and his shoulders tense rather than relax, a breath in and out. "...but I miss you when you're gone." It's softer, eyes glancing away again, though this time his head doesn't turn.

There's another shift of his jaw, and then it sets, and he meets Bax's eyes, searching again. "What do you want? ...from me."

Grant isn't sure what's happening other than he's standing too close to the sun. Hey, he wanted to go to space right? He might have thought he meant outer space, but it looks like he got personal space in stead. The dismissive answer is met with a skepticism and a very brief flash of not doubt but a flicker of anger. While Bax will readily agree to anything he is damn good at knowing when something reads false and when he'd being lied to. Thus the moment of ire fades as quick when teh messy truth is admitted.

There's a sigh and his eyes, wale they want to drift downward to the hand at his shoulder and up the arm of its owner to try to understand where this is going. One hip rests against the edge of the counter at rest and the skater's guard stands down a bit when at least it's declared that he doesn't want a conflict. Good.

Bax listens, expression slightly defeated and stealing his hand back to emphatically sign "I may never make sense with or without you, Vyv (name sign used). Not your fault. It's mine." while there's guilt in that it isn't a surprise nor new news to him, which makes it little better. The frustration tightens his jaw at the rest and that's a GOOD question that causes his eyes to drift down to the bare feet in front of his.

Fingers start and stop almost immediately trying to find words or concepts to transmit, and start again. "I didn't want to be gone, V. I don't want to hurt you or complicate you/this." There's a pause that so clearly conveys that he has no damn idea either. "Be honest. I want... to explore things with you. I want to try new things. I want to watch you create...whatever. I want you to watch bad TV with me. I want you to complain about things not because you hate everything but because you care and it means something to you; it matters."

There's a pause and a pained look, head tilting askew trying to figure out where the hell all his words were signing off to. "I... I feel like I matter." His hands might be operating without him here. Maybe Alexander's right an he's got to state the truths for himself. His shoulders slump, but the one leans into the hand on it as his posture shifts. "I like changing things /with/ you. It's just... better. I don't know. I don't understand...this...either." At least in all the emotion while he's signing fast he's making a point to sign clearly.

"I seem to like the sense you don't make," Vyv murmurs ruefully, which frankly doesn't make an awful lot of sense itself, but the sentiment might make it through anyway.

He may not have thought to try to sign his answer before, but he's watching closely to interpret Grant's. He'd be watching closely anyway, but having to focus on the language itself intensifies it, trying to understand the words while still reading the smaller hints of his body language. Keeps him from maintaining that eye-contact, which he won't admit even to himself is a relief right now. Easier, letting his gaze drop to the hands.

The general practice seems to be paying off. The shifts of his expression are subtle as Bax speaks, but there: the flicker away of his gaze at the mention of not wanting to hurt him, the softer tilt of his head and twitch of jaw at the list of desired things. No interruptions, though, no comments, not until I feel like I matter, which gets a surprisingly immediate «You do» in return. Vyv looks faintly surprised himself. When Grant finishes, by contrast, there's no instant response. The chef is silent a few seconds, focused on nothing in the space between them, though his fingers shift against the slumped shoulder in a tiny stroking movement.

Then they're reclaimed, as his gaze lifts and focuses again. "Those are-- I think I want those things also," he says, this time remembering to sign as well. At the moment, the less-fluid qualities of it seem to come more from the difficulty of the topic than his newness to ASL. "I don't want to hurt you either." Another pause, and another glance away, "But I will." But he has. "Sometimes I get... Sometimes I have to think." He meets Grant's eyes again, brows raising a touch and a corner of his mouth lifting wryly. "And I'm selfish. I don't usually consider that a particular flaw." Maybe a little right now. "But you do matter."

He looks down at his hands. «Sometime when we weren't looking. I think we stopped being--» It's not the language that delays him there. «I think we started dating. It's strange.» It still doesn't make sense. His chin lifts, and he looks properly at Bax again. «Do you want to be?»

A shift in stance, the hand at his shoulder brings up a tired eyebrow. He still doesn't know where he's going with all this. The insistence that he does still matter, to Vyv in this particular case relaxes a faint smile. Small island to land on in a lot of chaos and emotions and what have you.

But I will. Yeah. He did. He did and Grant still answered his phone and went grocery shopping at 11:28 in the evening to show up here. "Thinking is good. I hear it saves lives. Have not tested this theory." Look he tests Gryffendor House for a reason when he takes those damn Harry Potter tests. It's not usually a flaw... "sometimes, though, tables flip," He gestures between then the one gesture that means "Same." He's a walking landmine. That happens.

The question causes him to watch, intently watching the rare fear in his eyes. It's not common but it is there where the vests stop and the actual emotion starts. Leaning that inch off the counter into his personal space there's a faint, wry smile as he admits, quietly, and audibly, "Yes, Vyv. I absolutely want to be strange with you." Though now it's his turn to steal the kiss and he suggests, "Let's try to not overthink it and fuck it up too badly. I'm not good at it either."

Vyv blinks once at the reply, in the fraction of a second it takes to replay his own words through his head, and then laughs, a sharp breath of a thing that comes briefly with an actual smile, head ducking and eyes closing. It'd be there and gone regardless, but the stolen kiss makes quite sure. He leans just a little bit into it, eyes opening as that suggestion's made.

His turn for the faint, wry smile. "Oh, I don't know, historically I'm quite good at both." Don't expect him to take the blame for the latter when it doesn't serve a joke, though. Maybe not even the former.

He does not test Gryffindor, however. Well. Wouldn't, if it'd ever even occurred to him to take those kinds of tests. And neither of the Houses he might get is known for its aversion to thought. He goes quiet again for a moment, and takes a breath. "I can't leave it there, though." The signing is more hesitant than the spoken words. "Well. I could, but there'd be trouble sooner or later." Again. There's a shift of his shoulders, subtle but determined. If he has to do it, he's going to do all of it. Okay, he's going to hesitate, and it's going to come out in sign because somehow it's apparently slightly less mortifying than saying it aloud, but he's doing it, with a mutter of, "Never been the one doing this before." «Are we boyfriends?» A pause. «Is it just us, or other people?»

Grant pauses and considers this. Ah yeah. That. His fingers on one hand reach to fidget with the small watch pocket on the waistcoat. Eyes meet Vyvs and he considers that for a weird moment before answering. There's a deep breath drawn, a pause and he answers honestly as he can, "I'd like to?" That's part one. The rest is a consideration and his weight shifts on foot. "Never really done anything real formal before but full disclosure? like Sparrows my bestie since kindergarden. There's sometimes gaps in time like cheese holes but we're always here for one another. Saved me from myself a few times. She's dating people, she loves her boyfriend AJ. We date sometimes but we're not...like dating." Which has not answered part two. Brown eyes fall a bit, worried and back up, concerned, "I might not have explained that all before the birthday. Hindsight? I get that might have been jarring... I'm not...great at being clear, so... sorry."

There's a small pause after that, picking his words carefully and admitting the failing of his own, Grant taps his back molars in nervous tick and comes clean with, "Been carrying that around all week. Couldn't... tell if I made you mad, or hurt, or what. Sometimes I just... get so into now I don't think. It was...kinda a really long week for me, man."

A sigh and he looks up, watching the tentative and particular chef with caution and concern offering, "What's good for you. She's got what's best for her. This? I want this for me. But..." Drawing a deep breath he lets it out slowly, "We're kinda back to safewords. I need you to be really honest with me what you're okay with because I kinda like the idea of making this work, but I can't be set up to fail if this is something you just like...really want to focus on, for us? I'm willing to work with that. I don't... want to hurt you. I can go wither way...pun intended." He smirks with a wry grin breaking a bit of the thoughtful tension.

Vyv watches that fidgeting a moment before his eyes lift to be met. It's allowed, it seems. The evening is, overall, being a really great example of Earth-bound time-dilation and probably should be thoroughly investigated by physicists, but he somehow makes it through the eternity of Weird Moment, letting out a tiny breath he wasn't quite aware of holding when the answer arrives. The corner of his mouth curls up a fraction and he gives a small, quick nod, up and then down. It Is Decided. Okay, That's part one.

What follows may not precisely be part two, but there's no way to know that at first... and even if there were, it's a thing he'd be listening to pretty close. At the suggestion it might have been jarring, he tilt-inclines his head, glancing up and away; 'yeah, a little' is probably the best translation. One of his hands seems to have ended up at the skater's hip, and gives a little squeeze at the 'sorry'.

It's something Vyv's not particularly good at saying himself, not when it isn't sarcastic, but there's a definite touch of guilt in his expression when the subjective length of the week is mentioned. And despite a brief return smirk at the pun, when Bax finishes, the chef starts with, "...it was rather a long week for me, too." It has the tone of an apology, if not the words. A pause, and the words are chosen like stones being placed in a path, which at least has the benefit of making them rather clearly enunciated. "I was... confused. By various things. That one was a surprise, although... mn. Not a shock. I've nearly always ended up involved with bi guys. ...or straight ones." That's maybe half a joke. Makes it easier, perhaps, to admit, "People were looking at us as a couple. We sounded like a couple. The way you touched my back was..." He trails off, and instead of the parallelism continuing, he finishes quietly, "Nice." A glance away, and the apology is back in the tone, "I needed to think." Which is probably to say he panicked a little.

"But as for the other." There is one benefit of getting involved with someone self-admittedly selfish: he probably isn't often going to lie about what he needs or wants. "I'm..." he picks his word, head cocked, "...territorial. I don't like to share. I can. I have. But I don't like it." That much established, he considers that question of what he is okay with. "Things like hugs are fine, of course. Platonic cuddling. Cheek kisses; I suppose I don't mind on the lips if it's like at the party." The hand at the hip slides upward a little, just beneath the hem of the (sigh) roomy t-shirt, enough for fingertips to brush skin. "That's what I'd prefer."

In a situation someone has to be good at this part too often no one is. There is something to be said for talking to the person you want to talk to, however. Why it's the hard part Grant cannot say. He can keep shifting his weight from one foot to the other in case he has to run from feelings at a moment's notice. Small gestures of support, apology, forgiveness maybe? Not lost, and seem to help pull his focus back around. The admission that it was difficult while Vyv was off being Vyv, partly to Vyv's own frustration gets a small nod for the shared commiseration.

The confusion admitted he helpfully clarifies, "Get to know Sparrow. She's pretty much a walking exception to rules. That she's a chemist makes this wildly entertaining pretty much always." The joke that has a lot of truth in it gets a snerk and one gesture to suggest You and me both. The eyebrow arches as he considerations come in, which to a point suggests from the thoughtful look maybe he's never considered any of that before at all. A smile flickers on at the appreciation of small gestures.

And then the truths and this, for all his ADHD brain drifts; focus. Right. His jaw sets off at an odd angle as it does when the skater is listening and thinking. While Grant is reliably impulsive to react he has great restraint in not speaking to something offhandedly. This may be one of those long moments. Taking a deep breath he looks up from undone collar button to Vyv's face again, eyebrow arching slightly before a slow nod follows. "I think I can work with that, but... as a big ask in return I really need you to come to me when there's a problem instead of pushing me away. I don't... operate well under those conditions. " There's a pause and meeting him halfway on this assures the control freak with a small but easy smile, "We'll work on it. Goals, man, not miracles."

Hard to blame Bax for being prepared to run from feelings; Vyv's arguably just spent several days doing that himself. Yet this is where he's ended up. He couldn't say why talking's the hard part either; it just manifestly is. Possibly if he could identify why, he'd be better at this.

Still, he's doing his best. And it could be worse, right? There's a shift of his own weight as he watches Grant thinking this through. It's not quite as long a moment as others have been, somehow; he gets a bit caught up studying the younger man's 'considering' expression. 'I think I can' draws a tiny smile, but it subsides into something warier at the 'but', then a glance away and shift of the jaw when the but itself is expressed. And while he reacts impulsively to things rather less often, that doesn't mean his mouth isn't already opening to say something when that last addition comes. It shuts his mouth again, and this time there's a pause of his own before he starts to reply. "I can't promise," he warns. "I'll try. I will try." Another pause, and a bit wryly, "But if I succeed it might not be pretty." His eyes find Grant's, and he gives a small nod. "We'll work on it."

He lifts his free hand, letting his index finger hook lightly into the string that holds the quarter, fingertip brushing the coin itself. "Are we all right, then?"

Grant watches one eye, the other, the space between, the reflex to answer stopped and thought about. Caring about Vyv is a lot like tending a flash fire. It sparks, it flares, it burns hot at time, and if not minded can consume and destroy. Treated with patience it cooks, it illuminates, and brings a lot of warmth many may not consider it for. Handle with care to not get burned.

When Vyv struggles with the truths and starts to look away both of Bax' hands reach up and gently pulls his attention back; here. This. Small gestures come with a concern and scaled down but present intensity. "You can. We can. We will. We'll try. We'll fuck it up. I'm willing to work on that if you are." Agreement. Yes this -deep breath- seems to be their plan. Wow, that is scary as the weight is lifted off. That feeling of being knocked to the ground by a line backer who finally moves so he can climb back on his feet and breathe. World is rightside up again.

He glances down to his quarter being toyed with, which is...weirdly not a euphemism, and back up again. "I think we're a lil better than that."

"Mm, you're right: we're extraordinary," Vyv replies, the familiar tone of airy arrogance making its first foray out for the night, chaperoned by a tiny, mischievous smile. He gives the string a light tug, leaning in to kiss Bax again, and this time 'quick' and 'stolen' would be entirely inaccurate descriptions. There's just over a week of kiss-drought to make up for.

The one that follows when it breaks can use those descriptors instead, a fleeting little thing to the tip of Grant's nose, born of happiness and relief. The plan's a bit scary, yes, but they have one. And he's right, they'll fuck it up again... but not tonight. Right now it's all right again. Or possibly extraordinary.

"You should have some more cake, then," Vyv advises, remaining far too close to make that easy, and the impish little half-smile sneaks out again, "...and then come to bed."