2020-06-20 - Chalk It Up to a Good Idea

Vyv is, by nature, something of a planner. And arguably, he plans this out too, even if some might argue 'under an hour before leaving' doesn't really count. Still, within that period he's made sure the shop's fully covered, packed, worked out the timings, and arranged the various reservations, which means that within three and a half hours of the decision the Jag's sitting in a SeaTac parking garage and our heroes are sitting in what the arbiters for shortish domestic flights consider reasonable comfort, which is to say there's sufficient legroom for Vyv and a slightly superfluous amount for Bax, who has a window as well, and the promise of actually fairly decent drinks and possibly even snacks that don't come in a pretzel packet.

The chef's finally relaxing, as well, having been slightly keyed up over the drive and the irritating pass through security; he's got a pass to expedite his way through, but Grant doesn't, which means he ends up going the long way as well, which is invasive and annoying and most of all slower. Now, though, there's no question as to whether they'll make the flight on time. They have. Carry-ons are stowed. And everything else the evening requires can be worked around if need be. He stretches out a little in the seat and glances over to his companion, looking reasonably satisfied. So far, success. And fewer distractions now from observing Bax, which is almost always considerably more fun.

Someone (Sparrow) once asked Bax: If you could go anywhere where would you be? And he said travelling Switzerland on a cheese and chocolate tour. Later a strange dream led to him seeing the nebula of space leaving a hole of longing to travel and see anything and everything. In sleep he sees worlds. A few hours ago Vyv decided to spin the world on its ass and decide that Bax should see the chalk art festival. In California. Tomorrow.

Now factor in cost of hotel for two nights and $150 round trip tickets all last minute without planning well in advance and that adds up to Grant. For him that's a lot. For Vyv? That's what you have the money for to do the things you want. This is less impressive than the fact that Vyv wanted to do whatever he must to connect Grant with his medium in a way he's not before. IT could have waited until next year . They could have flipped through online. No, what he was lacking became personal to Vyv to become his need to fix now. He made room to make this happen and give him this to share and that has not been lost on the vandal even as they sit on the plane and those brown eyes take in all the early evening details out the window.

That curiosity though. One doesn't have to have telepathy to know what's going on from are all those bags ours? Where are they going to put them all? Are there snakes on the plane? Can there be? Where are all the people around us going? I wonder if I can get a set of those light up stick things... He's watching them all. His hand, however, slides over top of Vyv's and closes on it. It's not because he's afraid when the plane taking off, but rather that excited about it, and the person making this possible.

The tickets might be a touch more than that, last minute and up out of coach -- another thing to have the money for is to help avoid the things one doesn't want, after all -- or perhaps there were air miles involved or similar, but these inner workings are not things Vyv was inclined to allow a peek into. Partly because he prefers not to have his shoulder looked over, and partly because, well, one simply doesn't.

But none of that matters, anyway. What matters is that every now and then it's exciting to sort things out under time pressure, and more so, that... well, he wants this. He wants to show this to Grant, and watch him explore it. And the incidental things that come along with it, like the baggage handling out the window. He smiles faintly when the hand finds his, and spreads his fingers to interlace them with the ones above, then curl them down to capture the first knuckles. As things have gone so far, this qualifies as a non-trivial level of PDA. The hand gets a squeeze, and he leans to peek out the window as well, more to see just what the skater's looking at than anything else. Non-powered mind-reading is a lot simpler with more context than less.

"Comfortable enough?" he asks, "I believe we're entitled to a little pillow and a blanket if we like." And from the sound of things, everything they're not personally in charge of is just about ready to go.

Bax never tried to peek.Weirdly, and it may have absolutely everything to do with who he lives with, he never wants to see or be responsible for that stuff. His eyes watch the people outside, but when fingers separate and hold his there's a smile, and then a glance over that holds. Though he has to ask, "Depends. Is the meme right? Do we have to chant Skybird Skybird to make the plane take off?" Here's to hoping the answer has changed. Alas. He considers the question though and wiggles Vyv's hand that tiny bit. "Got everything I need. I-" He can be nice even when he's not hungry apparently. Finish a sentence? Less so. At least he looks terribly pleased? Nervous? Maybe. Taking a deep breath he pulls his feelings and focus to a middle point against the tides of ADD. "This is exciting. Thank you."

Considering everything he muses relaxing in his seat while still leaning to see out the portholes, "Sooooo you lived in Cali since you were ish-a kid, but you still go home-home to see your grandmother who drives you up a wall on occasion." Nodding his head wobbles, "So what'd you like about Cali while you were there. The sky, the surf is a given. You ever been to Pasadena before? The little old lady still there?" Because if the Beach Boys sang about her she must be a real person.

Vyv would probably be pleased with the lack of peeking if he were more prone to automatically thinking of how things could be worse rather than how they could be better. As it is, he probably hasn't thought much about it. But the next time someone's nosy, perhaps...

At present, he can't help smiling back a bit, so it's handy that he doesn't bother to try. It's a small but entirely genuine thing. And faintly confused when the chanting part comes up. Apparently this is a meme he's missed. "Well, if any of the planes I've been on have required chanting as part of their pre-flight checklist, I presume the pilots have handled that in the cockpit themselves," he replies dryly, "...and I think I prefer it that way." He gives Grant's hand a little squeeze in silent reply to the wriggle, and the little smile gains a level at the assertion of excitement, or perhaps the thanks. Either way, "Good. You're welcome."

He continues watching Bax watch while he considers the questions. "We moved there when I was, mn, twelve? Late enough my accent didn't get promptly quashed. Though I can do a decent Californian if I want to." Which he does, for that sentence. It really isn't bad, and realistic rather than stereotype, but it almost certainly still sounds just... weird, on him. "And my grandmother is... yes." A pause, studying Bax qua Bax rather than Bax-watching-things. Is he imagining that introduction? Almost certainly. "Right up a highly baroque wall with silk damask paper and fussy gilt detailing." He leans over and brushes a fleeting kiss to Grant's temple in what may well be sheer defiance of her. Momentarily, at least.

"I've been to Pasadena a lot, yes. My family live in San Marino, which is adjacent, and smaller. One of the smallest cities in the area, actually, not that it's always easy to tell when one's gone from one to another down there." As far as what he likes, "The ocean's nice, yes. The mountains and desert and having all of them relatively close together isn't bad, either. I've not generally wanted to ski and surf on the same day, but the fact one fairly often could is pleasing. There are a lot of good museums, good restaurants, strong arts representation, architecture ranging from figuratively fantastic to almost literally fantastic and down to absolutely abysmal, though I could do without that. Virtually any sort of shopping one might feel the need for. Quite a lot of attractive people, though of course by no means all." A small pause. "I always rather liked knowing where the places mentioned in most songs were. And the weather's quite conducive to convertibles, even if the traffic usually isn't." He lets his fingers shift a little against the skater's. "If that song was about a real little old lady, I doubt she's still about. She'd have to be pushing at least 120 now, and not miles per hour. But I doubt the city's lacking elderly women these days. Surely at least one's a mad racer. If I were a little old lady there I might become one on principle."

Grant signs back with free hand curious "Accent? You have one?" Now he's being a smartass. His focus goes back to the window giving Vyv his ear really so he's speaking directly into the mics on the one side really. The smile is damn enchanted as they taxi and get ready for lift. The kiss to his temple though has him closing his eyes and just remembering right now. Very non-trivial PDA. He doesn't know what that was even for nor requires it really to have a reason.

The plane lifts into the air and there's that link still, the mental one hat lingers around, though as they accelerate away from the Harbor and its sphere of influence and it flickers there is still that rush of excitement that washes away from him that's not giddy so much as a condensed joy field.

There is silence while the harbor gets small and they cross back over it from the airport. He murmurs, "I can't believe we're doing this." Satisfaction, though, there is no shortage of that as he settles back in his seat. "Your grandmother sounds kinda intense and fancy." There's a pause and he considers the math, "I'd think she's got to be damn proud of everything you'd done."

There's a pause and he declares, "We should go meet her." And oblivious to the small heart attack he may have induced with his non-sequitor train of thought carries on, "We should find Pasadena's little old lady and give her a high five and see what she's driving these days if we can locate her."

"Everyone has an accent. Mine's just better than most." Is Vyv also being a smartass? Probably at least a little, but if so it's one of those times where part of that's making it damn hard to be sure how much.

He's been on more flights than he could remember without some genuine concentration and possibly something to make notes with, so short of either some problem or a spontaneous chant of 'Skybird! Skybird!' actually arising, the take-off wouldn't generally trigger much more than a satisfaction that they're on their way. Generally, however, there wouldn't be Grant in the next seat with his radiating excitement, and condensed joy is a contagious thing. It's subtle from outside, but Bax might feel it quietly echoed back, like light bouncing off a half-mirrored surface -- or maybe he just knows Vyv well enough at this point to start picking up the tiny tells in the faint way his weight shifts or the particular brightness in his eyes. It's been years since watching the world fall away as they rise was a can't-miss, but he watches it this time, past Bax and the younger man's own regard of it.

His mouth starts to open with a reply regarding his grandmother before it's cut off at the declaration that, though it may not quite have hit heart attack territory, certainly whacked a recalibration button in there somewhere. The hesitation is silent but clear as Bax carries on, and the silent breath of a laugh carries a hint of relief when it comes. "It's about... mn, 8 to 10 times the size of Gray Harbor?" he estimates, "On the one hand, may be tricky to find any one person. On the other, we're talking type more than individual, so I suppose there might be more than one. We'll keep an eye out." Why not? "...as for my grandmother, yes, intense and fancy are probably fair descriptors." That they've been known to be used for him as well is surely wholly coincidental.

Grant casually drops with a sideways glance, "Oh I wouldn't stop there." Not the only thing of Vyv better than most, certainly. There's a brief flash of a wink. It's not long before a curious expression engulfs the overall thrill of spontaneous acts of adventure. Troubled. Not the flight, but curiously something. Looking back to Vyv, head tilted to the side and occupied hand remaining occupied he signs, *"You feel this? It's like....being underwater?"

That pull; the weirdness of the Veil and its staticy buzz staying there as they pull out of its sphere of influence. Banal reality closes in like, well yes, water filling a sensory deprivation tank. "V, you ok, you?" There's no hysteria but a curiosity and a small assessment of self. It'd be one thing if all things were average. When one's perceptions of reality are unreliable and at times purely deceiving it is always good to check with a source you trust.

"No? Where would you stop?" Vyv inquires with all equally-casual innocence... so, presumably borrowing someone else's. It does a good job with the tone and most of the expression, but really not so much the eyes. Innocence is supposed to keep its sparkle right up front, not leave it lurking in the corners like it might leap out at someone.

He's felt the closing off of that sense more often and more recently than Bax -- and spent much more of his life with that as the sensation that qualifies as 'normal', as well -- so that hint of troubled curiosity doesn't line itself up with the cause immediately, and puts a faint wrinkle into his brow as well. It isn't until the signing begins that it swiftly all falls into place, and he gives a slight nod, lifting his free hand to reply. «Yes. Okay. Normal,» he signs back, using the back of Grant's hand instead of his own to finish that last sign. His signing is still a bit awkward in general, and one-handed doesn't help in the least. But sacrifices must be made. And apparently right now that's clarity, not contact. «Home far, Veil thick.»

Grant considers the answer. Looking out the window his brow creases. There's more thought to it an d a quiet "Hmmmm," Looking back Bax shakes his head, "Don't think I could stop." Thought eh news about normal gets one smooth, conjoined sign of protest "For you!" Not normal for him. At least having some...reliable source is enough to allow him to relax and breathe a bit.

He lets that sink in, comic book images forming in his head of a chewing gum bubble forcefield. "Like living in Attilan with the Inhumans." There's a pause and he reassures, "Comic, not the show. These meta-human sorts living in a utopia sorta society that got this like... protective dome around it for defense and atmosphere. Hypo-allergenic too. It's pretty fly. Some of them get real sick and mundane if they try to leave so it's like... float or get better cell service."

Curiouser and curiouser he wonders out loud what is not really a question, "You must have went through a lot of trouble to call me from London." He pays attention.

«I mean difference normal,» Vyv clarifies, or at least, attempts to. He'd do better aloud.

Comic or show, he doesn't look as though he's familiar with Attilan or what sorts of meta-human sorts it in particular might house; he's got a bit more pop culture and specifically comic knowledge than people might generally guess, but the latter in particular still wouldn't qualify as any sort of specialist subject for him. "Protective dome," he muses, turning the mental image over in his head and bringing in references to similar things he's read or seen, "Mm. Bet it hasn't got all that much atmosphere." The not-question, though, gets a small, crooked smile. "It did give me a considerable headache. You might want to keep that in mind while we're away."

Grant rests his head against the headrest. It's not that long of a flight, but the action junkie in his is enjoying it and daydreaming about being a wing walker. What a great job that must have been. was that even a paid position; standing up on a plane?

The talk of the headache gets no sympathy from the skater who says, in all his righteous smug indignation, "well that's why I told you to face time me and I do believe it was worth the trouble." Trying to hide the wry grin he says only, "This time you won't have to. See? Problem solved."

"I already knew that would work from London." Vyv gives it a beat before continuing, "...but yes. I'd say it was worth the trouble." The corner of the tiny smile curls up a little farther, "Sadly where we're staying probably hasn't got walls as pleasant to touch and the tub at this one doesn't seem to be free-standing but I think we can probably make do." Problem solved, indeed. The train of thought glides along and has him stealing a fleetingly musing glance toward the jet's bathrooms, but-- no, no no. Some things are surely best kept to fantasy... or possibly international red-eye flights.

This one, on the other hand, is a mere two and a half or so hours, and they're hitting the tarmac around 10, carry-ons snagged and Vyv leading the way at a strong stride toward the car rentals, the last of the in-flight cocktails soundly back in legal-to-drive-again territory. A short wait and they've got a rather more recent convertible than the one they started the trip in, a late enough hour the freeways aren't doing their best impressions of a parking lot, and not too long after a valet politely taking the keys as they disembark at what's apparently their hotel.

It's fairly large, sprawling rather than skyscraping at eight stories tall and on quite a bit of land. Not a new place, but a very well-maintained one, proud of its five star ratings and luxury qualifications and strongly intending to keep them. Check-in is quick and smooth and Vyv is thus remaining in quite a good mood as he leads them up to their suite. It's on the top floor, and alas in the dark it's hard to really make out the views -- though that itself is saying something in a part of the country so built-up and light-polluted. There are hints of both mountains and palm trees in the darkness, though not in quite the same place. Inside their suite, the place has gone for what it likes to call 'timeless elegance' and 'our European heritage' which boils down in this case to dark woods, rich textiles, marble in the bathroom, and neutrals complemented by periodic deep but not overwhelming colour. A fairly traditional interpretation of luxury, but one that continues, generally speaking, to work. Vyv holds the door open and lets Bax head inside first, strolling in afterward and giving the place an unsubtle appraisal as he lets the door close behind them. Well, it's not like the rooms are going to be offended.

Grant doesn't drive. still offers with a grin. "You sure you don't want me to?" The look that follows is enough to pull his grin wide. The easy stroll, bag over his shoulder shows only the ease of amusement as the car gets looked over with curious interest. The top goes down and then there is the rush of air, acceleration, and the sharp sweet smell of all those damn palm trees dancing with mother ocean. IT's damn exquisite. It's also a rush, that's really what it is.

The other rush is watching Vyv take care of all the minutiae here. Car, hotel trip; seeing the man happy getting what he wants, and more so all of his idea come together? That is damn satisfying. While the skater may be regarded as a sugar and caffeine powered amusement elemental there's this part of the seeing someone else's process fall together that gets all appreciation from him. He's in the car, but also another part of he mad process to make tomorrow happen. Exciting!

The room gets an impressive look over as the bag gets set down, curious as... well a fox. "I dare say you might actually be able to survive here." Which is both a compliment and slight teasing amusement. As for the room s being offended? Well Grant cannot say. He can just do his best being unapologetically himself. The bag hits the the caddy, the door closes. , the air conditioner hums around in its rather loud manner as they all seem to. Stepping into the chef's personal space he notes all of the small details fondly. Lifting himself to his toes he leans pressing Vyv back to the divide; plan forming. "I feel like I spent three hours getting manhandled by baggage handling." A kiss and a step back heel-toe taking his shoes off (poor things), and an invite to join with his fingers hooked in Vyv's beltlooks so he can't jsut run off were it even a worry. .

The rest is really their business.

The morning... is still bright and before noon which is a bit of an anathema to the skater, but there are things to see today dressed in the manner of 'a reasonably passing functional grown-up'. That is to say a button up short sleeve shirt that is less hated by his bespoke other half, and shorts that don't have a pocket quantity competing with amateur photographers. (notably, pockets are important and he will die on that hill defending them if need be).

Oh, yeah, the question gets That Look all right, though a flicker of humour in it implies Vyv is perfectly aware it's being elicited on purpose this time, just still inclined to oblige. And anyway, no. No. He does not want Grant to drive. He wants to do the driving while Grant sits in the other seat and looks pretty. Today, anyway. But even if he did want someone else to drive... it wouldn't be Sir Grant the Unlicensed.

The chef is perhaps not the sort of person particularly likely to wander about quoting the A-Team, but the truth of the matter is, he does love it when a plan comes together. There is indeed a deep satisfaction in details falling into place, and an extra little frisson in making it happen on little notice. Having a PA so he needn't deal with any of these things has been lovely overall, and there's a fair list of things he'll happily keep farmed out and never think about again if he has the option, but there's still pleasure to be found in the rest, now and then.

There's definitely pleasure to be found in the drive, in watching Bax look the suite over, in having his personal space invaded that particular way. "Mm, I just might," he allows of that observation, more attention on the skater than the relative sound level of AC just now, with a small, spreading smile as he's pressed back... though not so much as to interfere with the kiss. "So delicate," he murmurs teasingly, "Just imagine if we'd had to be crammed in coach. But then, same reason I don't check bags if I needn't. Always do what I can to minimize manhandling of my things." There's no running off, but Vyv does delay things slightly by staying put long enough to claim a fairly definite kiss in return before he deigns to be invited away.

And yes, the rest of the night is their own business... though there's a non-trivial chance it involves room service bringing up cheesecake at some point.

The morning definitely involves room service bringing up breakfast; the hotel's baked offerings aren't spared the chef's critiques, but the judgements deem them worth eating, even if they could be improved. Possibly makes it a bit less of an ordeal to greet the morning while it still qualifies as such. The views from the room don't hurt, either. The bathroom likely doesn't either, nor... well, there are various ways to make it worthwhile to wake before lunch, and that's before even taking into account the reason for the trip in the first place. Everything accomplished -- including Vyv's own dressing (those rich-butter-yellow chinos from the picnic, but this time with a crisp, bright-white dress shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up and the top couple buttons left open -- tucked in, of course, with brown leather belt, monk-strap shoes, and tortoiseshell sunglasses much like the last pair except the faint gradient's peachy-pink to yellow this time) and his assessment of Bax's (better than usual: shirt could still use tailoring and gets a small roll to the sleeves to taper them a little and make them hit right where he insists they ought to, and the shorts at least don't make him look inherently lumpy) -- they're off and on the way to the festival in time for the 10am announcement of the beginning and the first of the concerts that accompany the artists getting to work. (It might be noted he has pockets of his own. He'll argue they just don't insist everyone notice nothing else at all times.)

Each artist or group thereof has been given a square about 5-6' on a side to work with, along the long, broad open sidewalk areas of the Paseo, and they're getting started, the sun already warm. There are other things to see as well -- shops surrounding, as well as art galleries, an animation exhibition, the concerts, and an area for children's art activities -- but the ephemeral street art being begun is the main draw.

One of these two is used to starting their day before 1 in the afternoon. Hint: it's not the chef that is used to having things ready in the morning and not merely started. Is there an attempt to hide under Vyv and the pillow from responsibility? Yes. Today, however, adventure is out there and after the breakfast promised to them by the hotel they are on their way. The discovery of what a crepe is what might be the notable exception here as Bax decides he needs more of this in his life by official decree.

The festival is...well it's fantastic. Backpack over shoulder with things that might be needed (paper, water, snacks... hidden contraband snacks that will not be jettisoned as definitely not food, conte pencils in case the mood strikes him. Any details on Bax's clothing is wasted as they are not notable but to suggest he's dressed as if on the proper side of 20.

The part of the process is always the best. Process is not a set thing and some work from premade page and idea to making a grid and then converting one to the other, scaled up and rendered in chalk mediums. Others might, as Grant tends to, look at the space and create something from there. A few plant a still life and then capture it on concrete, and there's a couple that are working with their chalk on the end of a stick to get the lines right for how it will be viewed and where the average line of sight may be.

Fingers find the Chef's with him and loop through both to quietly share that elation of so many things, but also to keep himself from running off. Ideas; this is a breadbasket of ideas. A few though, with very different process, seem to capture his attention. Putting a finger to his hearing aid there's a quick prompt to his AI and a note made through voice command. He is, of course, very proud of this. There's got to be some advantage to being digitally enhanced after all.

"We... absolutely need to follow this... or host one around Addington Park. This... " A small look that is all adoration not as people should, but because Bax wants to, is given to Vyv as he muses, "I have a tribe." To belong to something bigger is a hell of a feeling.

Attempts to hide under Vyv may be slightly more effective than attempts to hide under the pillows, but today has an agenda (an adventure agenda!) and they're going to be sticking to it, thank you. On the upside, this does mean breakfast more or less in bed and involve the crepes, which the chef seems to find actually quite satisfactory. The decree that Bax's life requires more of them is duly noted, and surely he's capable of making them... but at the very least he's clearly capable of making room service orders for them, so there's that.

Vyv has seen the festival before, and it's not his medium... but it's still pretty amazing to see. It's a big area, and there are literally hundreds of artists there working and even more people watching -- which may be part of why he's insisted on arriving for the beginning, which may well qualify as before the real crowds. Contending with that might be part of why when his fingers are found they twine easily enough, allowing themselves to be captured and capturing in turn. Then again, he might also be inclined to keep Bax from running off. But sharing in the purple-haired guy's joy in taking in the varying processes and inspirations is definitely part of it, too. It may be a bit contagious, if the little smiles are a good measure. They're no broader than usual, but they seem pretty frequent. And most of them don't even relate to anything particularly funny, though there is one at that first hearing-aid-based note-taking and a murmur near the other one of, "Bionic boy," and the tone could best be classed as fond amusement. It's a neat trick, that ability. He approves.

"You do," he confirms, pausing to look around at the portion of it visible before returning his gaze to Bax. "This is officially the largest street painting festival in the world, as I recall. Guinness record. There are others, of course. But this happens to be the one I know." He gives the hand a tiny squeeze as he takes another glance at the general work being done. "You have a lineage, too. Pavement artists since at least the eighteenth century in England. At least the sixteenth in Italy if one counts the Madonnari, which one ought to." He's already expressed his opinion that Bax ought to take part in this festival next year, but the idea of hosting one around Addington Park gets a thoughtful look. "Perhaps you should look into arranging one locally." And lest that sound like a rejection of the pronoun used in the suggestion, he does add, "I'll help, if you like."

Lazy afternoon packed with energy. For a long time there is silence as Grant watches with a curious and critical eye analyzing technique, composition, impact, and really what a message is or isn't saying. Quietly he shares, hand still in hand because it likes being there, "See I put thee things into three categories." Sitting and watching he sets his backpack down and pulls out a bottle of water from the hotel to pass to Vyv and takes the other.

"The first is discovery. Discovery's pretty great because they're not... them yet. I won't say they're not good, but they're finding themselves, the medium, and it is wading into a sea of colour, medium, and putting things into a bowl and seeing what they can make science do to it." The grin falls easy reasoning to Vyv, "Assing thing s to the egg. What really makes an omelette." There's a pause and the Vandal artist shakes his head, "Not a cooking lesson but you get the idea. They've trying and they're sharing that with us. Theirs isn't about a message it's a journey, ya know?"

Pointing to another and another over... there...vaguely, he considers, leaning to look, shoulder brushing shoulder with no fear of the other man's space. "Else we got Shared dream, and Message. Maybe both. Is someone sharing a dream or giving us a park for our imagination to like wander through? Are they pushing us to consider something specifically and trying to upset a pattern?" Which he does all too often, or perhaps very much as often as society needs to be jostled.

He considers the pieces taking form and reaching out, being unearthed from concrete into something altogether more. Head tilting he considers the offer and the little formalities around it like a frame both eyebrows going up. Looking back he considers that task. "I don't know I've even folded all my laundry at the same time much less organize a thing." Bax blinks and mulls that over. Really it's a matter of renting the space and putting some sidewalk out there (easier as that's done). "You'd help me do that?" That really being the height of what he finds endearing there which shows as he has absolutely no poker face.

There's a pause and his brow furrows with another thought, "Should we have people sign a safety waiver in case they're eaten by their creation?" Glancing around his hand and the water bottle gesture to the scene before them. "I'll be honest, I'm enjoying how things kinda stay...put. it's a lil weird."

It's a good place for that hand to be, the corresponding hand seems to think. Really this trip is just a virtual cornucopia of public affection thus far! Not only does it stay there while they contemplate the art coming together and the ways it does, but when they claim a spot to sit (and Vyv doesn't settle for the first, pulling Bax a couple feet onward to where a short wall is deemed both reasonably comfortable-looking and clean enough for his trousers to survive) and the water's passed over, there's no attempt made to create space between them, and even a faint lean closer into the brushing shoulder.

"Ta," is the only quiet acknowledgement of the water; no questions where it came from, beyond the backpack. The hotel's likely assumed, and on their level of the building it's probably included, in any case. Might as well drink it! And so he does, taking a few lazy sips as he listens to the painter's remarks. "Mm," he says with a small nod to the explanation of the 'Discovery' category. "Practice and experimentation. Knowing how to make a fairly reliable meringue, but not yet what they might be able to do with it or what adjustments a given addition or change might require. Whether Swiss might be better than Italian here. That sort of thing," he offers.

The little smile 'Shared Dream' gets as a category is perhaps a touch more wry than it would have been before he moved to Gray Harbor, but the intended concept's clear enough. And that's most likely where his own work lies, after all, food tending to be less (though not entirely un-) conducive to Message. Better suited to Grant's media, where so far he's rather enjoyed it. "Where would you classify that?" he inquires, tilting his head toward where a bust of Captain America as-seen-in-recent-movies appears to be being copied from paper to sidewalk. Going for photorealism, from a real photo.

Another sip of the water, and he gives a soft snort. "Then you have too much clothing or not enough persistence," he says, though this is unlikely to develop into any kind of real debate in the absence of actual neglected laundry. That look from Bax softens his own, in any case. "But yes. I'd help. ...and I'm quite good at organizing, though I think you ought to be the engine of the thing. I can still error check and advise." And advising Vyv-style probably doesn't qualify as what most people would think of as notably hands-off.

He starts in on it even now, mulling that question a moment. "Mn. No, probably not. If they are, they won't really be in much position to sue us. Their families aren't likely to find a rational way to blame it on us. And they're probably safe enough in any case if they're not... like us. Those of my staff who don't seem to have the Arts never seem to get dragged off anywhere I do, or show up the worse for wear in any non-mundane manner. Hm." Interesting, now he thinks about it. "...and anyone who is like us will have trouble convincing the authorities if they return and try to, and the only people likely to take the waiver seriously in the first place won't need one." A glance around. "It's a bit relaxing, being able to expect things to behave. But this is how most of the world works." Nice that no one's lingering nearby long enough to really listen to this conversation, but that last remark gets a brief odd glance from a random passerby as it is.

Grant might be mistaken for having his entire thought track loo like some sort of Speed Racer comic book. That's only 32% of the time. There are moments where the existential weight of the 'bigger picture' weigh out on him and he can't help but wonder about what might...happen. Living in Gray Harbor one has to consider how very ordinary the weird and terrible is. He fidgets with the bottle and the cap; the plastic ridges giving some tangibility to the now.

The faint scoff pulls his anxiety back down as he murmurs agreement, "Definitely... the latter." He is absolutely at one with having 0 motivation to complete the laundry process. IT distracts a bit from the slight nettling of distress pushing in on his anxiety. The scene around them given a critical glance considering it now as parts; pieces of a whole. Looking back up there is refuge too in solidarity here and someone who is arguable rather responsible having faith in this idea and his involvement. Well that's always pretty cool.

As for people glancing oddly at them this is pretty much the look Bax usually gets from people in Gray Harbor, so much so having it happen here just cracks him up fantastically. In what is is relief and amusement to abolish tension and concerns he looks to his partner in art (...art partner? p*Art*tner? ) "Then... let's. Let's go enable people I would love to make people make other people see the world a little different."