2020-08-15 - The Big 3-0 (or 29+1)

It's the 15th of August.
It is Vyvyan Vydal's 30th birthday.
It may be the day he starts wearing black in public for a year to mourn his lost youth.

Well at least someone is excited for this and the night before there was a caring little text calling him out.

Sure it's easy for HIM to say. He's only turning 22 in 6 days. OH! The audacity of youth! Or... something equally melodramatic.

The truth is he's been busy as hell and had a lot of shit to do , and not the least of which is run around and try to get both of Vyv's presents just... so. Now does it surprise anyone in the Harbor that he's doing a half Saturday on this very 'suspicious' occasion? Not a soul. But it was agreed that he'd come home for lunch and do presents and later that night hit up TibS or a movie or go sit on the beach and have a bonfire. It's not been said.

It's 12:23, however, and Grant finally got all of the water cleaned up on the floor of Vyv's apartment with just enough time to get everything put back where it needs to go with only a scant bit of time remaining. That he's not setting things up and absently handing Vyv something saying 'here hold this. We don't have a lot of time before you get home' is sort of its own miracle. There is a new piece of furniture, however, in the corner of the dining room not in direct light, however, that matches the rest of the clean lines in the abode but hexagonal in nature and one cabinet door beneath and a cloth draped over the top and a very nervous Grant Baxter on his second glass of water. Fancy, we know.

Vyv is not listening to 'This is the End' by The Doors, when that text comes in. Nor is he doing shots, per se, though no promises as to his current level of sobriety. Truth is, he might actually have put on an anti-drunk-texting app, since there's no reply. Maybe he's entirely smashed on Mai Tais and singing along badly to 'Forever Young' by Alphaville.

Or maybe he's just asleep because he's the kind of person who schedules himself to go to work around freakin' dawn at his own bakery on his own birthday. Neither of these options is out of the question.

Either way, he IS working that morning, but he's also scheduled himself to be home for the agreed-upon 1. He's even arranged for Grant to be let in (not that, at this point, it likely requires much arrangement; the readily-identifiable skater is there often enough, after all), for... whatever it is he's got planned. Gods preserve us. Clearly, whatever Vyv might be getting for his birthday, what Bax is getting for it is trust. Trust and the loan of a key. Which are much the same thing.

And so it's just about precisely 1pm when the door opens for what's probably the third time that day, and reveals the birthday boy himself. He's gone with the peacock blue suit today, with the micropaisley shirt and the goldenrod silk tie with the painted blue feathers on it, one of the handful of complete combinations he wears together repeatedly rather than coming up with new variations each time. He particularly likes this one. There's a smallish box that suggests perhaps a cake, and as the door opens and he steps inside, he's already moving to set it on the kitchen counter as he looks around for Bax.

Grant is, turns out, out on the patio enjoying of all things, a club soda (neat). The shadow shifts in the overhead afternoon light coming in through the portico standing open letting that breeze off the water in. Grant, but brilliant contrast is wearing more what he was when they'd met the second time when he came tromping through all the snowstorm own Bay St. to bring the picture now properly framed in the space where it ought to live; out of direct sunlight, but properly illuminating the room.

Bax does not greet Vyv immediately but stands, shoulder leaning into the door admiring every painstaking little detail of the man capturing his moment. The smile warms with the quiet greeting, "Happy birthday, baby. Work go alright?" Condition first, then state of the federated confectionwealth, then pressies.

There is a look, eyebrows up, that brings his attention to the corner and back to Vyv as if suggesting whatever the pillar i teh back is that is his, though the quiet sound of something bubbling can be made out.

There are much neater things than club soda available in this apartment! It's full of neat things! Somewhat fewer straight things. Okay, maybe neat's the right choice.

Vyv (also neat) settles the box on the counter, absently lined up corner to corner with about three inches space to either of those edges, the kind of thing that probably makes Bax mentally classify him as an order elemental some days, even knowing it's not that simple. Even if the not-that-simpleness of it deserves a fair bit of credit for the first time Grant graced these halls not being the last.

What direct sunlight is illuminating at present is Bax in that doorway, bringing out the brightness in the deep nebula colours of his hair, making the tips of the strands at the edges a glowing halo in purples and blues. The overall effect is almost angelic, if Vyv weren't virtually certain angels would have better tailors. It makes him smile, a small but warm and genuine thing, though one that dims a touch and turns wry with a wince at the particular greeting. "I haven't decided for certain I'm not boycotting it, you know," he replies, heading the skater's direction, though he does pause at that look that directs him to the corner. Where there is a Thing. Picky though he may be -- and he is -- he does rather like a Thing. A moment of consideration, glancing from the pillar back to Bax, sidelong, and he compromises, completing his trajectory to lean in and steal a gentle, lingering kiss, but just one, before heading over to investigate.

"What, no big fluffy bow?" he inquires, looking the cloth-covered shape over with interest. Apparently, the question of work is just going to have to wait, today. He pulls the fabric carefully off of what it conceals, revealing a tall, octagonal stand with a 28 gallon hexagonal fish tank atop, its vertical space filled with live plants, admist which rest a miniature replica of one of the towers of Edo Castle and a bridge for the black and gold fighting fish to languidly drift through. Its fins are as fabulous as its new owner's recently were, and the curious-edging-on-quizzical look turns into something clearly charmed as he watches them flowing gracefully through the water. Delicate and elegant, on a creature far fiercer than they suggest. There are a couple pretty zebra danios in there, and a glass catfish like a living x-ray among some anacharis, but it's the betta that really has his attention -- as intended, surely. "Oh. He's splendid," he says, softly; may be just on the border of audible from where he left Bax, but the angle probably allows lipreading... and he signs it, as well. It feels nearly natural there, though if it weren't a sign it'd be uncharacteristically and almost absurdly camp. He extends a finger toward the tank, just the edge of one manicured nail tracing against the glass to see if the fish notices or cares.

Grant watches all the tiny habits that makes Vyv, well Vyv. All the minuscule things that matter to him because they should matter to someone; the last vigil or order and subtle details. One could argue it's him being a picky sunnovabitch, or the other the pains he's put in over the years to become himself. The small adjustment of the box alone, for Bax is exhausting, but as an artist Grant Baxter gets it and so they are small affectations of Vyv's affection in the world. It will be a dismal day when he stops caring; all cock-eyed and slovenly. Very... un-Vyv.

When the taller comes to greet him, even if brief Grant's hand lands at the chef's waist with a brief squeeze and a kiss letting him know it's time to lay down the rolling pin and be home. Today's process is concluded. Well done. Commentary on the bow, however, get an absent vagueish wave of his hand and an, "Eeeeeh, you know, I put it somewhere else, and frankly I'm losing circulation so if you could open that it'd be great." The grin hits his eyes as he stands there casual, waiting.

And Grant reads him. He doesn't even scry his soul to do it but he reads him all the same; the shield laid down and the fascination befitting the young people they are. He doesn't speak, or sign, but stands in the moment. "I know how you feel about messy things so I figured out how to take care of it.I thought it good... balance." When he moved from the door frame to next to Vyv is anyone's guess. His bare feet don't slap on the flooring, but his fingers fall to rest down the center of the vest to Vyv's lower spine to rest.

"I like how he floats so... weightless. Moving, but natural and yoooou've been missing Japan lately so.. yeah." he noticed.

Home, yes. It doesn't even have to be said; there's always a touch of relaxation in the way he holds himself on entering the apartment, though today perhaps a bit less than usual. If so, the rest comes in response to that squeeze, a gentle sinking-in to the kiss before he investigates that gift.

The reply about the bow gets a sidelong look and arch of a brow, mischievous, but the request is that he open this gift, and thus this subject too is just going to have to wait. Though it may have a higher chance of being remembered after the distraction that is the fish. Maybe it's awareness of his own distraction that keeps him from being too surprised by the silent arrival of his boyfriend, or maybe it's just his usual composure; the only sign of startlement is beneath Grant's fingers, a flicker of tightness through the muscle under the cloth, gone nearly as soon as it arrives, and about the time a shift of weight welcomes the touch. The mention of balance brightens the smile in his eyes.

"They're not messy, though, are they?" he says, after another silent breath of watching the fish. A glance toward Bax; Vyv has probably never thought much about what goes into the care of an aquarium. It's certainly never been his responsibility to deal with any he's encountered. But they've never looked messy. "I do like how he floats. The fins, especially." The fingernail traces a curve that describes the movement of those fins, and downward, vaguely toward the tower. "...and I have, a bit; you're right."

He turns his head to look more properly at the shorter man. "...thank you." This, of course, requires kissing him again -- gently at first, and then rather more thoroughly, a hand settling flat against the skater's stomach and then sliding down beneath the t-shirt to tease at the button on the jeans without quite opening it. "Mm. Not losing too much circulation, are you?"

Grant lets his fingers drift there on Vyv's back snapped out of the enjoyment of striking gold on the gift with a question. His hand pauses on his back and he blinks, "Not... messy for you. You know if you wiggle your fingers you can probably make it follow... or try talking to it. He's got a brain. I mean it's set to fish but... could train him. Likely." Vyv was always the better of the two of them to get into people's heads.

No no, Vyv, just enjoy the fish.

And then the thank you in not so many words. and there is that conundrum of grinning while enjoying the esteem in a lover's kiss and while he doesn't stop his hands he asks wryly, "Depends. I might go all Detective Sommerset here and keep asking what's in the boooooox." That grin hits his eyes stealing another kiss. "And there's one more thing. For both of us. It's... you'll find it." Ominous.

Vyv looks altogether too thoughtful at that suggestion. Train the fish? What could he get him to do? What does a fish consider motivating, aside from straight-up being controlled? ...Vyv might be the better of them at it, but Grant's clearly not too bad at getting into a head either.

But regardless, he does seem to be enjoying the fish.

A breath of a laugh escapes his nose at the remark about the box. "If you're hoping the answer involves head, you're looking in the wrong place," he replies, a flick of his fingers unfastening the button and then abandoning it, leaving the zipper alone, though he does steal a quick grope as he steps away and toward the kitchen and the aforementioned box. His attention, though, is scanning the rest of the room, intrigued. "You've hidden something somewhere?"

Grant goes to answer and stops, attention shifting to what might be food to what is definitely Vyv. There is a blink and a admission, as if volunteering for the betterment of all mankind, "I meeean, if II get head for my birthday I will personally guarantee to be the very last person to have a problem with this." OH he's trying so hard to say that with a serious face too.

He looks back to the box Vyv, waggles his eyebrows. "I-" OH that cheaky bitch! Clearing his throat and walking with a gait to accommodate modified causal now he tries that again, "I did. It's on my person. I mean I can tell you if you want, but I've been drawing something and my dad fronted me the money to have it inked."

"I don't know, I might be too old and decrepit for such things by then. You might find someone younger and prettier by that time." It's a whole week, this is a clear and present danger. Or at least one would think so by the only-half-feigned bitterness and woe in Vyv's tone as he languishes toward the box. Admittedly, cheeky handsiness doesn't do a lot to support the melancholy, but a man's got to keep his spirits (and such) up somehow.

He sheds his jacket and lays it gently across one of the stools, plucking out his cufflinks, pocketing them, and rolling up his sleeves in deft movements before he presents the box. It's relatively small, but not tiny -- and when opened, it proves to contain a tart au citron of about the right size for two, simple and flawless, the pastry thin and the center lemon surface shiny and unmarred, raspberries standing like a phalanx of perfect and protective soldiers around the outer edge. "For dessert," he says, probably unnecessarily, and closes the box again.

"Curiosity salved? Because mine's running rampant. On your person, mn?" He reaches to claim an edge of that top layer of shirting, which he likely didn't really need more reasons to want gone, and hesitates, suddenly, brows lifting. "Inked? Is there a drawing in your pocket, or did you get another tattoo?" It doesn't quite have the same ring as 'or are you just happy to see me'. The chef looks both intrigued and uncertain, although as far as the latter goes, it clearly isn't about whether to get back to the hunt.

Grant watches, eyes locked and curious as a cat with a tuna can. He watches the presentation unfold like a play. Hey, all art has its own frame of sorts. Without flattery he smiles, and signs 'Beeeeeeeautiful V. You know I'm a sucker for lemon, me.' The tiny, fruity fortress is taken in with all the charm that was put into it. At least he's learned to appreciate food as an art even if he loves food the way Mother Teresa loves all children; without question.

"Hmmm moooostly salved. I mean I haven't gotten to bite it yet." The question has Grant fidgeting but not running away in avoidance. Hrmmm how to explain? Right. This is where ADD works against him. Holding up a finger he prefaces with, "There are no buts in what I'm about to explain so.... yeah. When we met we talked about how life is a series of like right now's strung together and that's, ya know, important. "

Fingers unbutton his own shirt unceremoniously and he pauses looking up rather than at Vyv, "The last 6 months I found things out about myself I didn't know I could do... I mean sure we were fish but that's like not the point." Back molars tap together and he looks sidelong from one side of the room to the other on the hunt for words. Pulling the shirt back on his left pec there is, tattooed with some great detail, an old fashioned gumball coin slot on a heart-shaped base plate with a turn key just in the way one would drop a quarter in for a super bouncy ball.

Words. Right. Blast. "I didn't know someone could care about me and help me love being me, or let myself care about someone else, or just be...loved." It's so hard to fucking say that it's almost apologetic. Looking back up to Vyv he assures, "I dunno what's going to fucking happen tomorrow, five years from now, whatever. That's future Grant's problem. That's not on you, and I'm not assuming or holding you hostage to any sort of agreements or anything. I just... wanted something to like commemorate our right now because..." There's a hesitation but for whatever reason the words are suddenly jut matter-of-fact. "I've loved the last six months of our right now... almost as much as I ...love you and that's... pretty fucking cool."

There. He said it He watches as Vyv takes it all in finishing with sign, 'I don't need anything from you. I just wanted you to know... please don't freak out.'

"You're supposed to reassure me about my eternal youth and desirabilty, you know," Vyv murmurs wryly, "Keep up, darling." That reaction to the tart is clearly pleasing, however, enough to help push away some more of the unfeigned portion of the unhappiness, and you know what turns out to be really good for taking one's mind off one's ageing and inevitable decline and mortality for a bit? Getting a clear this is going to be a lot more answer than you expected to a question that indeed hovered around some thoughts it wasn't yet asking.

The reminder of right now doesn't hurt either.

The chef bats the painter's fingers away from the buttons as they start on them, taking over. "If I have to have the birthday I'm absolutely unwrapping my own presents, thank you." It's thus a bit more ceremonious than it might otherwise have been, fingers sliding down along the placket as he listens. Half his visual attention is on Grant's face, the way he's looking elsewhere as he speaks, and half on buttons and fabric and the skin revealed as he draws the cloth aside. And then all of it is on the new tattoo, silent and still as his eyes trace the lines and shading of it, lips slightly parted. Fingertips move to trace it as well, but think better at the last moment; instead one scribes a tentative half-circle around it, and then his hand settles over it, flat against the skin, so light as to scarcely qualify as contact.

The gaze stays there even while the actual ink is obscured, and the afternoon light flowing in from the balcony reflects off his eyes with a touch more of a sheen than it usually does. The words seem to almost wash over him, and it's hard to be sure whether it's cause or coincidence that it's at commemorating their right now that the smile comes. It's a proper and complete smile, though, teeth and all, an exhaled breath that draws up his cheeks and creases his eyes. It's brief, but leaves remnants when it goes, something nearer to his usual smile, but softer.

A blink or two is the only other sign of what might be going on beneath all that practiced composure, second nature by now. There is perhaps the positive that it doesn't look like a freak-out, at least. And while Vyv doesn't always do well with surprises, or at least not emotional ones, intentionally or not Bax has given him some time to sit with this one already. "I do, you know," he quietly informs his hand or the tattoo or both, after a moment that probably feels considerably longer than an objective clock would claim. His focus lifts to Grant's face as he clarifies, "Still love you when your brain's not cooperating." A tiny pause. "And when it is."

Grant lets his hands get swat away holding them up like far be it for me to break birthday protocol. As the hand presses against his chest his words trip, but (eventually), get there in their time. That simple contact giving him the assurance he needs to continue. By the time he finishes he is emotionally tired from truth.

The smile Vyv warms, teeth and ease and all, eyes mist up and get watery until that last resolve. When Vyv finally speaks after that and says the same in a shockingly direct way he didn't know the Vyvlish language even could he breaks.

There is relief, and on his now wet face there is relief and elation colliding. His head falls back sniffling, though when he throws his head forward to land lightly on Vyv's chest it misses and he cracks his eyebrow on him with a thunk! There's silence and a small sniffle. "Ow~!" Hands slide around Vyv's waist coast and pull him the centimeter closer in that You stand right here and never be further away manner.

"I'm... really glad you like your present. Had to do a lot of calling around to get everything right and a ride to Seattle for the fish. And... thanks. For... saying it for being like... here-" present in the now His head rolls to the side with a too charmed smile gettinga bit of an adrenaline high off this. "I know it's scary for you. I'll be careful."

It took nearly ten days for Vyv to process things between the twins' birthday and the making things official. And he's had about ten now since that word first popped itself up, making explicit the suggestion that he did. Just short of a week since a trio of letters implied he wouldn't be alone if it were true, backed up by an afternoon, a week, some months of quiet evidence. Time to think, or possibly in his case time to feel. Time enough to know the answer. Time, apparently, to very nearly reach plain English despite the topic.

That doesn't mean it's easy, though, and it takes enough effort and has him just enough off-balance that there's a visible flicker of something embarrassingly close to panic that flits through his eyes when Grant starts to cry. His lips part to speak again, but they're both saved from the risk of a demand to stop that or a sudden fleeing 'to get tissues' by a skull unexpectedly clonked againt a collarbone. "Ow," he protests, sounding more startled and perturbed than actually hurt, though one hand does move up to try to rub the spot. There's not much room to manage it, and the fingers give up quickly, threading themselves through nebula-shaded hair instead as he's drawn nearer and Bax begins to speak.

It's only natural for the other arm to wrap itself around the shorter man, and it does. Yes. He'll stand right there. "You did well," he murmurs, "He's magnificent. Who could ever, ever ask for more?" A twitch of a smile, fond and mischievous, though it gives way to a hint of the familiar veneer of irritation as he grapples with the rest. "I'm not frightened," he almost certainly lies, the tone crisper; the slight shift and tightening of his arm might, to some minds, sound closer to thank you. "And if you get snot on my vest I'm going to eat all of that tart myself."

Not that he moves away in the least.

Grant can't help he cries at puppy commercials. It's also why no one's given him a credit card because he'd be in debt to puppy charities for making him sniffly at them, AND probably adopted 4 children remotely right now. Emotions all on his sleeve, and now the shoulder of Vyv's vest...percussivly. His fingers tighten with a small wince, and he rallies to a sly grin that subsides, pleased as Vyv admits to having honest to goodness human feelings that he will be sworn to secrecy for witnessing no doubt. NDA form. All that.

The smile turns a tad wry with an arch of an eyebrow when Vyv protests he's not frightened by feelings all the while treating them lie a 5 year old treats cooties. The threat of sob-snotting erupts a silent laughter because he KNOWS IT IS TRUE! "Yeah, I think I can save you from spite-snacking." He side nods with his head kitchenward, "If someone could find a way to ask for more I'd put you high on the list of people creative enough to think of something. You can come up with things later. First? Food. I want to see what you created." because art is for now. It means everything.