2021-06-12 - Any Port in a Storm

It is the start of the storm.

Vyv is laying in his room resting after his discharge from the hospital for head trauma and multiple deep stab wounds. It really is a miracle he's even alive. Maybe there's more to his art of the Physical aspect than even he knows. Earlier Bax said he was heading out to pick up some things but the door never opened or closed. Did Vyv fade out again? So much to worry about and yet what a positively lovely time to tell the world to sod and have himself a nap. The world is covered in a thick grey blanket and Vyv has his own. And he should be resting there. He might if there wasn't such a disturbing sound coming from the kitchen: A spoon tapping against the side of a saucepan and a cabinet closing.

Grant can be heard talking, presumably, on the phone, "Okay I did that part...and I found the salt. Yes the other salt. This doesn't look like a lot are you sure? ...What does a pinch mean exactly?"

It's a while now, really -- almost exactly a month, in fact -- since Vyv was discharged, but even with the little bit of mystical help Grant was able to add, recovery's been slow. He's been back to work (if on a decidedly lighter schedule), been out doing things... and been spending an irritatingly (to him) large amount of time having to come right back and lie down. Lots of sleep, while his ribs and muscles and organs work on properly repairing themselves and ceasing to cause near-constant pain.

It's very annoying.

The agreement to let Bax take care of him keep him company while he's recovering has been honoured, but he has not been what one would call a particularly good patient. There are two basic settings: either he's fine, thank you very much, or else he is dying, and alternately languishing or frustrated about it. The latter sometimes alternates surprisingly swiftly. 'Dying' has often meant various food delivered; 'fine' has tended to involve him cooking quite a bit in the kitchen, making a good stock of leftovers that can be safely (by his lights) dealt with by Bax even without his supervision in there.

None of it involves saucepans needing tapping or addition of salt of any sort. (And to be fair, there are at least three varieties of salt in that kitchen. Somehow, that doesn't make the bit about 'the other salt' any more reassuring.) It does have the benefit of bringing him from mostly-asleep to almost-entirely-awake in a hurry, however. He sits up swiftly, takes the span of a couple breaths to regret it, and then pushes the covers aside, swinging his legs out of the bed and absently grabbing the dressing gown he'd shed before lying down. He tugs it on as he pads toward the bedroom door and out into the main area of the flat, on a course to defend his domain from whatever terrors are being visited upon it.

Grant is on the phone though it's laying flat on the counter and, lucky him, his hearing aides have mics and Bluetooth to his phone connected to them. "Yeah....Dad... Dad! Hang on a sec." Looking up from the pan he looks to Vyv and takes in the details but only the high level ones because the substance in the pot is bubbling and he's paranoid with every fiber of his being regarding exactly that.

"Don't plotz. Just...sit...there." He gestures to his seat with the spoon. Really somehow nothing is on fire. Presumably to his father he ways "Yeaas he's moving.... I didn't tell him to get up. He's not dying today, no." Looking up he says to Vyv, "Dad says hi. You're ...miserable sooo I'm making you the Soup™." Not specific but altogether weirdly very exacting. "It makes me feel better so I thought, ya know, I'd pick up the stuff, and eeeh jsut... trust me and if you don't like it or your kitchen gets hurt you can drop me off the balcony."

His jaw tightens and he addresses the soup pot hand and spoon waving, "No, pop, he's not pushing me off the balcony... I know that's really bad for the stitches... I'm not making him over exert himself because he's not yeeting me into the sea...it's the opposite of yoink...yes like disc golf...sure we can go when he's feeling better." Looking back to Vyv he says "Dad's inviting us disc golfing when the wind's not going to just keep our frisbees. God, I love you but just...sit. Please."

"The Soup." Vyv has, apparently, caught the Portentous Capital if not the trademark. And the fact that nothing is, as yet, on fire. Or melting. At least, nothing that oughtn't be melting is melting. Things smell... not unpleasant. "Hello, C.J.," he says toward the phone, since that amount of politeness takes virtually no brain cycles to accomplish. And also he likes the man. Does it count as supervision when the supervisor can't actually see the supervisee, let alone step in if anything seems about to explode...?

"I am not plotzing. You're in my kitchen." In case Grant's missed this fact. The first instruction to sit is ignored; instead the chef stalks into the kitchen proper to get a closer look at what exactly is going on at his stove and on his counters. ...all right. Nothing somehow stealthily self-destructing that he can see. Or smell. Even from here. He gives the bubbling concoction a wary look, but-- it's in the pan. It appears to be remaining there. The pan is not dissolving. This is... good? Yes. Good.

It means he's right there when the info about disc golf comes and he's instructed to sit again. Maybe it's the 'please', or maybe he started going just before that, hard to say, but-- he does go, sitting himself down on the stool that usually holds a Bax. Odd, switching places like this. He looks very faintly unsettled. "I'm not going to yeet you into the sea just before a hurricane. The waters are already looking choppy." This is the only reason he's not tossing the skater over the balcony, sure. "...disc golf?" The 'really?' is conveyed entirely in brow-arch, which does not transfer over phonelines.

Trust me, Bax says. Perhaps an attempt is being made.

The phone is put to speaker off bluetooth. Bax watching, curious, never really not concerned these days, but pleased that he doesn't have a fight on his hands. With a mumble Bax argues, "It's the perfect time to go parasailing." Because of course he'd try. His body language, however, speaks to just wanting to make sure Vyv stays put. He's put.

"I am in your kitchen and you're in...pajamas." Not a strong argument. The voice from the phone greets, "Vyyyyv , You sound very under the weather. Were it my kitchen I'd pre-emptily called the fire department already." There's a sigh and Bax eyes the phone, "Dad. Dude." And the answer back with amusement, "Sorry. Vyv, Grant won't burn down your apartment. Seriously you sound better. How're you holding up?"

The matzoh ball soup is being prepared with the chicken he had, al the things he needed save for he left at some point to go find matzoh meal...when that happened who knows. Really he is being careful and it's really started to shape up. "Well he's not going to be up to Disc golf for a while but it's a good goal. I dunno V, maybe just talk with the frisbee and inform it where you need it delivered to and just put a stamp on it and send it off." Because playing disc golf with no hands is a thing one does right? Well maybe.

"In Bali, perhaps," Vyv retorts regarding parasailing, "Not here." He is not particularly comfortable being Put. Putting is his job! Although not the disc golf sort, perhaps.

That suggestion he should have called 911 already gets a sharp little exhalation through the nose, which may or may not be audible through speakerphone at that distance but is readily recognizable by Bax, at least, as something in the laugh family. If out along one of the wryer branches. "I'd no warning he was breaching the sacred halls," he points out; surely that excuses his lack of pre-emption. "If I called the fire department every time he were merely in a position to do so, they'd certainly be refusing to show up by now." The tone is reasonably casual, quite how he'd normally be saying it, even if he's still watching Bax like the proverbial hawk. "And I'm doing much better, thank you for asking. Fine, really." Which explains what he was doing taking a nap at this time. Sure, that's in character for a Vyv who's doing 'fine'.

"Somehow I feel that might qualify as cheating," he observes to Grant's suggestion, "but I can't say I'm fully versed on the rules of the game." Disc golf. He glances toward the window, checking on the state of the weather. Rain and wind, dark sky, but nothing one would call impressive, as yet. Just ramping up. "And how have you been?" he asks, phoneward.

Grant warms a grin as some of Vyv's humor comes back and he says to teh phone, "Heya pop, I'm gonna finish letting this simmer. I think I got the timer set. like a half hour right?" The voice comes back and CJ answers, "Vyv, I trust you'll make sure he sets it for 30 minutes and not a month. Alright boychik I'm gonna let you go. Call me if you guys need anything. No. Surfing." And there's a dismissive, "yeah yeah yeah fine. Gotta go, pops. Love you."

Looking back from the pot he stares down the timer button. brown eyes squint. He squares off. Checks under the lid again. Now he boops the timer button. There's a nod of satisfaction. There. And yet... he digs out Vyv's egg timer and sets it to 25 in case. Now he exhales and walks over with a satisfied little look. "Thought you were going to sleep forever on me and make me the de facto responsible adult around here. It was terrifying." He signs the rest 'How sleep, you?'

Either Vyv isn't fully awake yet, or he's currently of the mind that no news is good news on the how-are-you front, because he doesn't push or even look put out that the question doesn't get an answer. Admittedly, he is already busy looking put out about being sidelined in his own kitchen by someone already proven wholly capable of causing a pan to solder itself to a perfectly innocent stovetop.

All right, a reasonably unobjectionable stovetop.

"No surfing," he seconds, firmly, with a slight nod that won't transfer over the phone but is there all the same. "And if he finds a way to set that timer for multiple days, I'll be frankly impressed. But still tell him when half an hour is up." One person in this room has a pretty good time-sense, and if it's mainly for cooking, that is at least the realm in question today. "Stay safe. Should you need to head to higher ground..." Eighth floor, after all. He leaves the invitation unfinished and serving as a farewell.

Quiet a moment as he watches Bax check the timer and pot with that level of intensity, and there's an upward twitch at one corner of his lips, tiny but there, when the second timer gets brought into the equation.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that." It's left to hang in that space of ambiguous implication he so enjoys, innocent and/or insulting; Schrödinger's shade. There's perhaps a suggestion of which way the waveform leans toward collapsing as he goes on, "How can I sleep on you if I'm in there and you're all the way out here? Forever or otherwise. Now, possibly if you'd come to join me..." Another flicker of a glance toward the stove, pot, and counters -- what few things remain on the latter get a sharp look, but no immediate comment, perhaps because they're few and far tidier than he might have feared -- and he rests his elbow on the counter before him, chin in his hand, and regards Bax from beneath partly lowered lids, the gaze somewhere between flirtatious and challenging. "Am I allowed in my kitchen yet?" he inquires archly. An indirect answer to Grant's question, at best.

Grant has to let that matzoh ball soup sit for a while before he assures, "It'll... weirdly taste better on the second day. I dunno why." He pauses and tiredly laughs waving an oven mitt in a circle, "I'm guessing you do beeeeecasue you're brilliant like that."

As for the ask of Vyv to come back into his own kitchen Bax puts on a very dramatic sigh 'guessing' "well... you can, but you know the price of admission." There's a waggle of eyebrows and the skater-turned-soup-purveyor turns with arms out really trying to assess how V's really doing. There's up and down days and Bax is by far and large not a healer. Satisfied he accepts the smooch and says, a little proud of his research, "You know I did a lot of research for this. Not all off the box either. Ran across a story about this little old baker. Reminded me of you...but littler...and older." Of course he's waiting for Vyv to ask how or at least be impressed that he stopped to read the assembly instructions. At all.

"Mn. Probably flavours melding, possibly a touch of evaporation concentrating them," Vyv suggests, "If you have the matzo balls in it at the time, they may benefit from absorbing the taste of the broth. But I'd think they'd be in danger of going soggy. Soggy balls are no one's favourite."

He arches a brow at there being a tariff exacted, but as charges go, that's one he's generally willing to pay. Despite kitchen invasion. Rising from the stool, he heads into the opened arms instead, wrapping his arms around Bax in return and taking his time about the kiss. Proof he's doing not too badly post-nap, perhaps? But he's still being careful of his chest, as the painter can tell in the embrace. The stab wound itself has been essentially healed for a while, now, but the broken ribs haven't managed yet, and other internals may still be a bit sore. Not so much that he can't kiss, though. And hey, his lung capacity is definitely approaching normal again.

"Research aside from asking your father?" he asks as he lets go, brows lifted. That may count as impressed, instruction-wise. Or just surprised. But the good sort. "What kind, where? And so essentially the character reminded you of me on the merits of 'baker'?" A sidelong look, and he's heading over to the counter where the last remaining bits of unused ingredients and not-yet-cleaned tools sit, to do something about that.

"There was this one time I spent 4 hours mowing lawns when-" It then occurs to Bax that this is maybe not the story Vyv wants to hear right now. As for just 'baker' Bax blinks....and then blinks again. He did sort of rescind all the rest of the adjectives there, huh?

"Well he was also English if that helps?" Only marginally to be sure. He tries to remember it and says "Anyways like a long ass time ago there was a baker that had this lil sop in Bristol. They didn't say it was like yours, but I imagined it like yours out of like.... solidarity and stuff." Hands wave clearly indicate 'moving on'.

"So he's this lil old dude and sees across the path this young woman crying and looking, ya know, not having a great day. He steps out of the shop and ass her, 'it's a beautiful day. What brings you to tears?' The young woman answers, 'someone I care about is moving very far away to London. I miss them and I fear I won't see them again."

Leaning on the counter Bax says, empathy on his face, "The old baker says to her, 'I know what that's like. My wife Emily passed on some time ago. I know what it feels to miss someone terribly. You know though, I do something for her to be closer to her. You see all the strawberries I have planted around my shop?"

The hands now signing expressing planter boxes and clay jars in bloom. "The young woman smiles and nods to him, 'Yes, I see them she says.' He tells her, 'They always brought her joy so I make something for you. She told me before she died, if you care about someone share something with them and so I want to give you something.'" Sniffing Bax pauses and looks back up to Vyv, "He goes inside and brings back two wrapped pastries filled with strawberry jam he made, her recipe. He tells this young woman, 'I want you to take this with you, for Emily. I want you to share it with your friend so even if you are a far way away you have something to bring you both joy. '"

There's a pause and Bax works on collecting himself murmuring, "She goes and she and her friend stay close even over the distance. Coming back to tell the baker of the good news of her friend's return she finds the baker, very old, too has passed. Well she moves to London and opens her own shop and tells people who look sad to take the pair of pastry, 'I want you to take this and go share it, and make yourself a new friend.' and tells them the story of the little Baker and his wife. And this tradition got passed on, and on and on again, until today apparently and that," Bax squeezes Vyv's hand with that look of amazement and adoration, "is why pop tarts come in twos."

The brow arches again at the start of the swiftly aborted story, but it perhaps indeed does not strike Vyv as the story particularly at hand. Plus, he has a guess where that one'd be going.

"Mn," he says again to the addition of 'English' to features more or less in common, but he listens as he moves about the kitchen, familiar and practiced lines of movement between counter and stove and fridge and sink. It doesn't take very long before things are tidy to what he considers a currently acceptable level, really; Bax did a decent job of tidying as he went, and while there's no comment to that effect... well, there probably would've been one if he hadn't. Lack of criticism is the same as praise, right?

That done, and the timers briefly glanced at, he too leans up against the counter, tilted to better face the skater as the story's related. The chef may be many things, but 'sentimental' is not generally one of the descriptions he attracts. Even now, as the tale continues, there's a tiny shift of brows and lips that Bax has seen before, usually while a contestant on some terrible TV show is laying on the melodrama relating their life story and very shortly before a sardonic comment. But it's Grant telling it, and Vyv enjoys watching him talk; enjoys the way he phrases things, the use of sign to augment and emphasize, the way he's all-in with the story, heart on his proverbial sleeve.

And so, if one of those comments was in his mind, it doesn't emerge from his mouth. Though that may also owe something to the final beat of the story, which gets a far clearer arch of that brow. "What, so that people can also share with someone they hate? That's all as may be, but they still aren't food." A beat, and a tiny hand-squeeze in return, the expression softening; if his adoration is a good deal subtler, that doesn't mean it isn't there. "I can make you a strawberry strudel, you know. I can even make them in pairs."

Grant is laying in WAIT! ...or was. That joe had a long wind up to it but at least it was a scenic trip. He takes note of the little things left to do and frowns sharply as pop tarts are still declared a not-food. This is only assuaged by the fact that Vyv said (and can) promise to do better. Finally there's a murmurs, "I am raher fond of you strudeling my strawberries. I had a thought though."

A whole thought.

Well, everyone's already taking cover from his last thought. There's a pause and a blink, "I'm concerned about us going to Cali. You're healing. Airplanes are super germy. If you have an issue I dunno where we'll find a good doc I can trust and if there's an emergency I can try to spot heal you here." His hands fall to Vyv's squeezing them without letting go looking up for emphasis, "Maybe we wait one more year. We can look at beachfront property instead, and with the storm there might be a lot more options. The coastline gets moved to Spruce or , ya know, people wash away...though I dunno we'd want a place we can't fortify against goldfish. I think it's just the smarter option for us."

Vyv isn't laying at all, just now, though he's recovered enough to strongly consider risking it. "Rather fond of ensuring they're thoroughly strudeled," he murmurs back, shifting a little bit closer along the shared counter-edge. Okay, a sharp-eyed observer looking for it might see a hint of a stifled wince in the movement still, but it's far less than earlier in the recovery.

A thought, though. A solitary brow arches again, a silent 'go on'. They have not made it this far on a lack of his interest in the skater's thoughts, after all, despite how widely they may range on the wisdom and surrealism scales. Or at least as likely, because. The brow shifts from questioning to skeptical as the thought itself is produced, though the expression's a little bit softer at the catch and squeeze of his hands, which he returns.

"It's been a month; I'm not in that bad shape, darling. I am not imminently disintegrating. And remember, my parents still live out there. We know good doctors, if necessary. And it won't be necessary." So it is written; so mote it be! "In any case, you're already signed up for a spot. And I want to see you do it. Sitting and watching isn't particularly strenuous work, you know. We can bring a chair and a shade, if it makes you feel better." The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "I'll bring a pitcher of mojitos. Hire a couple strapping lads to fan me with palm fronds, perhaps. The best possible care."

He lets the teasing sit for a beat before his thumb brushes the back of Bax's hand. "And then we'll come back and look at what beachfront options might remain or have been created. Ought to give the place a chance to drain a bit."

Grant fidgets with Vyv's hands and admits the worry Vyv already knows is there. "That was all just... too close for me. I'm scared." It's not something he really wants to admit being the person that kind of doesn't plan out of the pair of them but all the same he's really not been letting go of that fear that's gripped onto him.

The plan is Good and Vyv's parents are, well they're brilliant and arguably there are better doctors in LA where he's from than a tiny town in the PNW. Finally there's an exhale and that exhale also means 'ok, you win, Vyv'. Looking up he presses his lips together, "They able to get soda too?" The portable cabana boys are always a selling point.

And coming back after? He relents, "I do not want to do battle with giant mosquitos... okay." He pauses and more certain he says "Alright. Just.... after this storm thing and not knowing how this is turning out and... that? All that I thought... Look I'm trying to be careful. I'm bad at it but if you say you're up for going then... yeah. Sure. yes. If not I swear I will draw all over your walk instead once...we have a walk again." Okay, LA is on still. Looking around he murmurs, "We sure we want to leave the apartment undefended tho?" That's an all together different question. "How we wanna address that? We can write do not on a sign and put it in the window maybe?"

"Well. Now you know how I feel," Vyv retorts -- though in fairness, the one time Bax's Dream choices have put him in the ER, it did remain strictly outpatient. Perhaps it's necessary, though, in order for him to get to, "Really, I wasn't thrilled about it either. I have no intention of repeating it if I can manage not to, believe me." Irritation at the whole situation, something Grant's surely become quite familiar with over the last month, but there's another little tightening of his hands on the younger man's, more of an acknowledgement of that admission.

He recognizes that particular exhale, and it's almost as good as hearing the actual words. It gets a small smile, one that spreads slightly at the following question. "I'm willing to ensure they keep you properly provided with soda, as well. I do prefer a flexible servant. I might even task one to fan you, if it won't smudge things with chalk dust." He leans in to steal another kiss, this one just a light brush of lips.

"I'm still up for going. And by the predictions, the storm ought to be finished by the time we head down there. If it's not, I suspect we'll have trouble making our flight. So it won't be unattended for that, at least." A pause, studying him, and he admits, "Ordinarily if I were told a storm like this was approaching, I'd already be elsewhere by now. Probably L.A. But, mn." Another pause, smaller, before he admits, "I didn't want to go and leave you here. And I suspected you might feel similarly about your father and sister and Sparrow. So." Though it's overall a matter-of-fact tone, Bax knows him well enough that he might sense a hint of something beneath it -- something like defiance, or challenge, or defensiveness. "That said, I can't imagine a 'do not' sign would hurt."

Grant squints to Vyv and says "Yeeees but my body density is in the same classification as a super bouncy ball and yours is not!" There's the sign that in short form, flick of a wrist, fingers and a slight tossing gesture and a glance as if he's following the ball ever-y-where follows to emphasize.

Still in the end there is the first of many soups. Is he great at soup? No. But eventually he lets Vyv help in the days following and learns how to not melt the pot to the stove. No, he still can't explain it. He's stopped trying.

The storm rushes in like Bax owes it fucking money which he may. A good deal of 'do not' helps in the beginning and presumably the sign is helpful with the rest. Having relented to California, he spends some of the time on the floor with large spreads of paper, learning new things to do with chalk and mixed media before settling on his entry:

The sidewalks breaking away like a crumbling hole that is hovering like a walkway to space and part of a satellite jutting through said concrete to stand upright and looks quite real if one stands on the forced perspective.

"You've never had complaints about my body density before,"' Vyv remarks, not that the current observation counts as a complaint, precisely. It is fair to guess he's aware of that, even if Bax weren't familiar with that particular archness of tone. It probably, in fact, qualifies as flirting. So the invasion of the kitchen is clearly forgiven... at least for now, and for as long as everything that should be unmelted and unburnt remains so.

A pair of timers plus Vyv himself are plenty to ensure the soup does not get forgotten past the time it's meant to be complete, and apparently the elder Baxter is a decent medium-distance coach, because Vyv eats it and declares it-- well, he declares something about complimenting CJ on his phone-wrangling skills next time he sees him, which can fairly be translated as 'good'. The fact that he allows Bax to try it again, and that later soups in the storm are joint efforts, decidedly suggest the same.

That first one is good fuel for when the storm properly arrives, not too long after. The sign is made and positioned in a prominent spot, because really, it can't hurt, can it? More effective, probably, are Bayside's hurricane-rated windows and the shielding/water-repellant efforts of two powerful Physicalists, even if their attention isn't solely focused on maintaining that attempt -- certainly not over days. Focus goes to other ways of entertaining themselves, including on Vyv's part a fair bit of reading, TV, and mulling new recipes while Bax experiments with designs for the festival. There's the occasional quite obvious lean to try to catch the intended perspective point for some of those tries, something he likely wouldn't let others see so baldly. "It's a good effect," he remarks when it's starting to come together, though it's probably even better were he to stand up and move to exactly the intended spot.

There's a satisfaction, a joy that comes up when Vyv starts to retake his kitchen, but share it; rest but slowly regain more of his Vyvaciousness as it were. "Mmmm still no complains when it's all there. " Looking back to the phone Bax quips, "Yo dad, I can let you go or you can endure my dirty incentivization plans ." There's a smooch to Vyv's shoulder in a hullo."

There's a thing happening and Bax is enjoying it over the growing days; Vyv getting the energy to defend his domain, but sharing it, and Bax learning how to borrow it, and share something personal to him getting Vyv's help in making The Soup a reality. It's the first of many soups and while he's no chef learning how to whip a knife around a veggie without losing a digit is also near.

Soon Cali or whatever that time will bring. Right now the storm is revving up, and no it cannot come in to share his soup. This is VYv's and for once Bax can do Somehting to improve a food situation...without slagging one of Vyv's soup pots.

Time in the kitchen gives way to Vyv spending more time in other rooms of the apartment, namely the living room. The storm...is not letting up and it's here in one loud and gloomy afternoon that Bax makes a visit to the basement and comes back damp with a box. "Good news, the building outside of the apartment looks alright. Nothing ate me. I went digging around downstairs-" which may or may not been in people's things, "And found us... some extra cables so we can do something else while we yell at the rain." It's an Ethernet cable. It's a start.

It is fair to say that Vyv remains ambivalent at best about sharing his kitchen, but there is at least no sign of the resignation or more likely resentment that would come from having to do so truly against his will. It's also fair to call the sound that escapes when Bax gives that mock warning-to-CJ a laugh -- it's even one that'd be found entirely recognizable as such by strangers, though if strangers were around it's unlikely he'd have let it escape. Which might have been preferable; though it doesn't show in the sound or his expression, Bax is close enough just then to feel the sudden tension in Vyv's shoulders as the damaged ribs remind their owner they still aren't fully healed. It's been long enough now that they're getting there, that he sometimes forgets... but not long enough yet to make it safe to laugh, or to raise his voice, or really to do anything that might considerably raise his breath rate. The former two he may keep fairly suppressed regardless, but dealing with that last one is well beyond starting to grate. And there's still a fair while left on those timers. He tilts his head back, a bit more toward Grant's, and looks at him sidelong. "So, tell me about these incentives..."

Vyv's energy continues improving over those days of the storm; a certain sort of mind might even think the weather had something to do with it, though in truth it's just time doing what it proverbially does. The more the last of the wounding heals up, the more he reclaims the kitchen, though as Bax continues not to burn it down, more space is made for the skater as well. Decidedly closely observed space, to be sure, but space nonetheless. There is soup. There are cookies. There's the promised strawberry strudel. At one point, there's a souffle, though Bax isn't allowed anywhere near the actual baking for that one. Not yet.

The wind and rain whip through and from the dark clouds outside, but the flat remains warm and comfortable, even when the power flickers out and the building's backup generators kick in. The eighth floor is thoroughly safe from the flooding that's taken the streets, though it may or may not be a different story for the basement. Bax would know, now. The chef was taking one of his naps -- they're definitely shorter and less frequent at this point, so progress! -- and runs a hand through his hair, faintly groggy and more than faintly disbelieving as he straightens up in the lounge chair. "You went down to the cellar? In this? I promised your father no surfing." The painter gets a thoroughly appraising examination, narrowed eyes noting the dampness, but at least there's no dripping all over the floors. Or signs of having drowned. Or developed piscine tails again. There is, though, that box. "I don't keep anything in that storage down there, you know." A pause. "Cables, really? What are you planning to connect them to? If you had either of us in mind, I doubt they're our most effective option."

Bax stops and shifts his weight to his back leg tiling his head down leaving off the affectionate Biiiiiith, and skipping to the, "I assure you I can find a way. I'm an art student." He pauses in his defense, "Sort of." He never really did go to school. He walks over to the television and points to it and the rest is signed because it tells a better story.

<<"Video game. There's a game where you are a tiny pastry , with fists,. Angry tart! You use fork/spoon fight other tarts on the counter top. Pastry points. You have no kitchen to clean. It's not racing, but...you light up when you talk drive-fast. Very cute. no mess. Please">> Bax pauses and does the thing with the eyebrows.

Now Vyvyan Vydal is chief among those fortified to resist the puppy look, but it is in such earnest that Bax's whole self asks <<"For me. Just try it. Where else would we go?">>

"And after when the world is dry again, who knows this might be a hidden Harbor life skill you need: fight as food." There's a pause though in total matter of factness, "You'd be so dead as a Gingerbread man tho. I'd so bite that. Also neither here nor there you'd be so bereft of frosting too."

"You're an artist," Vyv corrects idly, "Though if you wanted to be an art student, I'm sure it's an option. Not the ideal location for it to be formal, of course. Might be best served sticking with the current arrangement for now." A small pause. "Which doesn't mean I've no interest in seeing what sort of way you find." He gives a bit of a stretch, getting more comfortable (and simultaneously more poised of position, which is perhaps not the standard combination for most people) in the chair as he watches Grant and wakes the rest of the way back up.

He makes just a bit of a face at the 'accusation' that he lights up when he talks about the races, but in the end it doesn't outweigh the little smile-twitch an earlier phrase there got. "Oddly, not the first time I've been called an angry tart," he notes, and a brow of his own arches at The Thing With The Eyebrows. There are times (and people) where puppy eyes are a good way to get him to dig in his heels, but Bax is an exception to many things... and in any case, he hadn't put his foot down yet. That doesn't mean he doesn't give a certain impression of dragging them, granted, but surely that's almost inevitable here unless the body-snatchers have invaded again.

"Evidence suggests the gingerbread aspect isn't entirely required," he replies, with a rather different brow-quirk from the extensive library, and he considers for a good second or so before allowing himself to be talked into this. "All right, I'll try it. Your game, I mean. For now."

Grant Baxter has some pro level eyebrow game. It's his get out of trouble free card, but Vyv's have made hopes fall (and ya know some pants historically speaking). Vyv's got superlative eyebrow game. There's a pause for when V puts his foot down to make Grant re-visualize how he perceives himself, his work, the world. It's a fair reminder at times which gets him rubbing at the back of his neck with a nod agreeing. The smile warms as Vyv does to the idea of trying the game. The willingness to try or expand his comfort zone is quite a rush really. Fear wears many masks, and none with such variety than those that shield Vyv's pride.

And then the truth is called out and that buy in has the skater's heart melting all over. "Sweeet. " he pauses as he clarifies he means trying the came and the grin quirks, "Well that's pretty good a deal too...and you're not wrong. C'mon. I think you'll love life as an éclair too. "

The rain rain rain came down down down. He thinks about it more and settles in adding, "Vyv...when we get our own place..." Joint effort. Still psyched about this "Can we get a more naptacular couch to compliment this one?"

"Classic, well-structured, and filled with cream? Yes, I suppose I can see the appeal." There might be just the ghost of a smile lurking around the corners of Vyv's mouth, or possibly his eyes. If anyone can be sure, it's present company.

As Bax settles onto the couch, the chef considers for a second or so before sliding his legs off the lounge's stool and letting his feet hit the floor, then unfolding from the chair just long enough to redirect and drop fairly gracefully onto the couch beside the painter. Currently a more appealing place to settle in, even if it is manifestly less naptacular than other options. Napping's done for now, though.

Their own place... he's still quietly rather excited about that too, truth be told, though the first half of the couch question looks like it's going to get pushback, at first. The current couch is, admittedly, not designed with lounging as priority number one, but it's art and he loves it. 'Complement', though... A small pause, and an also small, single nod. "There's always beds," he points out, "...but we can see. Depending on the layout we find. And the couches we find. There's probably something out there you'll find sufficiently naptacular that I won't want to burn."

He glances at the windows, the gale blowing rain almost horizontally past the reinforced glass, then back to Bax, waiting to see what step one in trying out being a violently aggressive animated petit four might be.

"But in this case I would not be winning you you'd get to gloat." and cause Bax to be whiny and flat. But Vyv is amicable to trying 'fun things' that are age appropriate for not being a stove-slave to his craft for people under 170: the video game. Which still involves being cake with a flame thrower. But it's cute violence and that counts for a lot. All of the cables and whatnot connect the console up to the television so they can enjoy this in their own way.

He ASL signs, even though at home sitting with the side of his leg touching Vyv's just to have that bit of warmth, contact, and closeness making the mental connection effortless he still defaults to his language because it's his. "When outside is not-wet, not-snow, not-COLD, ya know, nice? I want to draw/paint that- these cakes on sidewalk. Story with them. Right to the shopfront. Beat your Hunger, get a bit. Taste your own victory. Adorable. Curious. Fun." His art, a marketing ploy for Vyv, not that existing isn't enough (and in Grant's case, Vyv existing more than enough) reason to drop in.

The small things people do to support what they love, or what someone they love loves.

There are small things tried; Vyv finding new ways to keep the electric burner active when the building loses power briefly, Bax keeping the water away from punishing the patio too greatly. The lull through the eye of the storm as things change outside are drawn back to a stillness. No power. Befor now. Can they cope? Yes. Is the rain loud? Incredibly. It's dark and scary and exciting in those ways that nature intends to let everyone know who rules that schoolyard. It lends to idea and another distraction entirely as Grant looks to lure Vyv away from the half-intended things before the storm scored a point on the power grid.

Hands slide down the Baker's side, stop at the hips and un-tuck-his-shirt one side then the other in little steps invading space. Distraction over distress. "It's just a storm. We can ride it out." Really takes on a new context when one doesn't realize the local space-time continuum is being altered as well.

Vyv does not like losing, and this does in fact extend to cute pastry-based video games. But he does kind of like being a cake with a flame-thrower, especially as he gets better at it and there's less snap and sulk and more gleeful cartoon violence. It's not as though he's never played a video game before. It's just been almost half a life ago now. It's not quite like remembering how to ride a bicycle, but if it meant he could get away with clocking people who annoy him with the handlebars, Vyv might give some consideration to giving that a chance again, too.

"Taste your own victory," he murmurs, in more or less his own default language, though the little half-smile is that as much as anything. "Yes, all right." A small invitation, but it's into one of his sacred spaces. «When it's nice again.» That's one of his languages too, now. He's gotten surprisingly good, albeit a touch less surprising if one knows about that high-Mental knack.

Bayside's got generators that bear the brunt of the initial brief power outages, but as the storm goes on the rationing increases, until finally they're left with the absolute dimmest of emergency lighting and the soft hum of the fridge/freezer on standby. Nothing for the other circuits, nothing wasted as the building tries to ensure the absolute essentials remain. Two years ago Vyv could only just sense there was a change around him when this happened; now it feels like a strange sort of sensory deprivation, the lack of all that electricity zipping around in the ether around him. Now there's just that tiny flow and the sudden sharp surfeits of the lighting strikes outside. It's... unsettling.

Not that he'd admit that.

Not that there's likely anyone better equipped to recognize it than present company.

The particular crispness of the "Obviously," that meets the assurance it's only a storm is perhaps the clearest hint there's anything specific to be distracted from, because it isn't as though the skater hasn't got a knack for being distracting even when there isn't. No fingers move to interfere with the untucking of the shirt; both hands react to the invasion of space by finding Grant's hips and using them to draw him across and settle him with a knee to either side of the chef's legs. So much space invasion, and the game console isn't even functional right now.

It is the end of the storm.

The skater's got a knack for being distracting, but this? This is definitely a record. The clearing of the skies as they eventually start paying attention to things that aren't each other again, the dawning of a new day? That's kind of romantic.

The dawning of an entire new season?

That's a bit of a shock.