|2046-02-28 Cool & Cold|
|Location||Roof - Avenue B Apartments|
|Summary||Birds of a feather...hang out in cold weather. Ian and Armando meet without the Oddball Coffee counter between them.|
| Avenue B Apartments stands a story or two above most other Town buildings, which means that the flat roof affords a surprisingly good view of Mutant Town. To the west, the treetops and basketball courts of Tompkins Square Park are clearly visible, and beyond, the neon-lit skyline of Greenwich Village and Midtown rise against the sky. Several feet below, the occasional aircar passes with a gust of air.
Someone has hauled a trio of beat-up lawn chairs to the rooftop and arranged them around a rotting wooden crate. One corner of the roof has apparently been designated for trash, and venturing too close suggests that it may have been designated as toilet as well. The door to the stairwell has a tendency to stick, making any trip up here a risky adventure that may end in a dangerous attempt to drop down to the fire escape.|
| It is a winter night. The weather is cold and overcast.|
It's cold. It's overcast. It isn't /currently/ snowing though and that seems to have been enough to entice Ian outdoors. He sits in one of the battered lawn chairs, which has been turned a cheerful green, bundled into his wintery puff jacket with a knit toque on his head. A small notebook sits in his lap which he scribbles in with a squint, occasionally looking up to watch aircars sail by.
Up in the air there is something headed towards the Avenue B apartments. It's a bird...it's a plane...it's an aircar...it's...actually, it's closest to the first option there, but as the 'something' pulls closer it's clear it's not actually just a really big bird. A dim shadow passes over Ian briefly as Armando circles the roof and comes in for a landing, boots hitting the rooftop and skidding a little on a bit of ice still up there. Whoop. The wings on his back flap a few more times, steadying himself, before he tucks them neatly against his back. He's somewhat dressed for the weather, in a long-sleeved flannel and a puff-vest, along with jeans and a belt buckle large enough to reflect the sun if the clouds weren't hiding it. "It's a terrible day to be outside, man, what are you doing?" It's not /terrible/. It's just /cold/.
It's... certainly distracting. Pen lingering on the page and leaving a smudge of ink, Ian watches the shape circle in the sky with the certain skepticism that is required of odd things in Mutant Town. His mind running through what the shape /could/ be until it becomes clearer to him. A bird. A plane. An Aircar. A Ciel? Nope. It is definitely closest to the first one. Exhaling a breath as the bird form swoops and lands, he can't help himself from uttering a soft, "Cool.." Then he looks a little embarrassed. Did the other man hear him? Cracking a smile, he shakes his head with a louder, "Nah. It's cold but it's not snowing. And getting some kind...of fresh air." And writing. In the newly coloured lawn chair.
Thankfully for poor Ian's sake, Armando doesn't have super-hearing like he has super-eyesight. He rolls his shoulders briefly, stretching them out, and then tucks a thumb into the band of his belt. "Ain't no fresh air in this city, amigo." His accent, what there is of it, is all over the place. "Looks like it's gonna snow, anyway. Feels like it."
"It doesn't smell like everyone's dinner they made tonight," Ian jokes with a shake of his head for some of the permeating scents that work their way through the building. "So, it's close enough for me." His own accent is pure East-East Coast with a little bit of Connecticut in there. At the mention of snow, he looks up at the sky. "I can't see anything but the haze of the city, man. So I will take your word for it."
"Was gonna say I'm not sure if that's better or worse, but then some of the things people make already smell like trash, so." Hopefully Ian is not one of those offenders, otherwise he was definitely just insulted. (Then again, Armando may be one of those offenders depending on how people feel about onions and peppers). "Clouds are wet and kind of heavy." He looks out, scanning the horizon. "Hm, just some patchy rain over there."
"Microwaved fish sticks," Ian says simply with a dire shake of his head. It is an inexcusable sort of smell. He follows Armando's gaze, not able to see... any of that. "Dude," he laughs with a grin. "All I can see is dark ish... well, it's kind of a slate with a bit of orange." The sky.
"Better than microwaved day old fish," Armando counters with a lift of brows and a slightly haunted look in his golden eyes. It's like the opposite of popcorn. You never want to eat again. "Oh, yeah," he says with a slight smile, looking back out at the horizon a moment and rubbing the back of his neck. Right. "It's...far off."
"I am not sure these /weren't/ from yesterday," Ian admits with a rather dramatic wince, looking a little queasy at the memory. He nods solemnly in sympathy. That is gross. "Your eyes are way better than mine," he acknowledges cheerrully, blinking a little at that flash of gold. It doesn't shake his smile though. "It's just like..." Flipping to the back of his notebook, he drags his fingers along the hardback and turns it into the color he /sees/. For comparison. It's a nice color if a little alien in how smoothly it blends into the sky.
"Gross." Armando actually crosses himself, as though that will keep the horrible smell of microwaved fish away. He can hope, okay? "Uh, heh, yeah, they probably are," He says of his eyes with a soft, almost nervous, laugh and a shuffle of his feet. Then Ian changes the color of the notebook. "Whoa," he says, a little surprised, wings fluttering just a little so that the feathers stick out a moment then smooth again. "That...is like the sky."
In the name of the father. The son. The scrubbing bubbles. The mister clean... He can hope. "Definitely," Ian agrees of Armando's eyes while he fiddles with his notebook. The shift of color is dramatic if simple. It isn't and then it is. "Yeah..." He nods at it, wrinkling his nose a little and causing freckles to crinkle. "That's all /I/ can see," he admits with a laugh.
The febreeze, the glade plugin....Anything to free him from the fish smell. "Ah, yeah." Armando rubs the back of his neck again. He doesn't say anything else for a moment, then offers, "Looks like what you see is beautiful enough." He juts his chin out, using it to point at the notebook and it's slate-orange color like the sky.
Sitting up in the battered lawn chair, Ian glances at the back of the book and shrugs with a slight smile on his lips. "It's no stars... but it'll do," he admits, glancing up at Armando. "I know you. Don't I? You serve coffee at Oddball?" Maybe. He sounds a little hesitant about that.
"I can't see the /stars/," Armando says, a little quickly, waving up at the sky. Like, there are clouds and light and atmosphere in the way of that. "I work at Oddball, yeah. And you...you're the doc at the clinic, no?" That's not entirely correct but a lot of people get that wrong. "Somehow missed that you live here, though."
Shaking his head, Ian supplies, "Nurse. But close enough. Yeah." His pen gets hooked to his notepad and the pair are rested against his knee. "That's probably because I'm a workaholic and rarely home." There's a hint of dry humor there. "I work odd hours."
"Oh." Nurse, doctor. That's...close. Ish. Armando shrugs, a gesture that includes shoulders and wings this time. "We all have to be in this economy, right?" Ho ho ho, being strapped for money is hilarious. "What's odd hours anymore?"
Close enough. Ian gets that a lot, at least that's what his smile seems to indicated. "True enough," he agrees with a slight shrug. He watches as wings flutter with interest that aims to be polite rather than too stare-y, his gaze dropping down to his sneakers after a moment. "Ah." He considers that. "Probably if you're playing an instrument in the middle of the night...?" Seems fair. Ish.
Armando has to be, to some point, used to people staring at him by now. He doesn't exactly hide his wings under a trenchcoat or something on a regular basis, anyway. But he probably appreciates the politeness, anyway. "Oh, shit. That's not you, is it?" He eyes Ian a little suspiciously, eyes glinting, for a second then eases off. Probably not. "Someone and their guitar at three in the morning, I swear..."
Ian tries. He really does. His sneakers shift a little awkwardly against the ground in a pivot step before he looks up at Armando, green eyes bright with amusement. "Nah. Not me. I have the musical talent of snail." It is not impressive. Or notable. It's mostly quiet."Do get guitar? I swear I hear /trumpet/..."
"I'm pretty sure they are playing at that time because they are embarrassed at how bad they are and don't want anyone to know. They know, like, maybe three chords." Maybe it's Wonderwall. It's not like Armando would know. "I don't envy you the trumpet, man. I get a dance party above me sometimes. Don't know who that is."
"Man." It's one word but a significant one. It's also a little dismayed. Maybe Ian just wants to get invited to the dance party. "Go knock with your party hat on. You'll either get invited in or someone will point you in the right direction?" He suggests with the mischievous crack of a smile.
It's okay, Armando is sometimes jealous of the party too. Just not when he has a 5am shift the next morning. "I don't think it's the kind of party you wear a stetson to, man. Maybe, like, if it was made out of glowsticks." Onnze onnze.
"Do all of your parties back home require stetsons?" Ian wonders with a lift of his brows and a quick grin. "Just put a glowstick in the brim of it." Or something. Country meets city. Rising from the lawn chair, he brushes off his knees and stretches a little .
"Depends on the kind of party," Armando says with a quick grin and a brief wag of his brows. "Line the brim of it with some lights," he suggests with a bright laugh. Electric cowboy, or something like that.
The exact kind of part is a bit lost on Ian. As is the wag of brows. "Outdoorsy," he suggests cheerfully. Those kind of parties. "There you go. Now you're ready for anything. Grin lingering, he lifts a hand and scratches at his neck, admitting. "I should head in. I'm Ian though. So, nice to meet you."
"...I like outdoorsy." Oh dear. They are probably not talking about the same thing. Armando scuffs one of his boots against the roof, wings fluttering slightly, and ducks his head. "Yeah..." He shivers then, wrapping his wings around him against the cold. "Ian, yes, that goes on your coffee cup." It's a gentle reminder, paired with a smile. "Armando. Nice to meet you without a counter between us, though."
"They can be pretty great," Ian agrees eagerly, tugging his hat down a little over his ears as a bit of wind tugs at it. "You too. You weren't wrong, it's /cold/." He hugs his arm a little, matching the other man's posture with his wings. It's in solidarity. It's /cold/. A slight flush touches his cheeks at the reminder, going right up to his ears which are half covered. "Uh... Right. I didn't think you'd remember. Ton of customers over the course of a day," he says, before offering a hand. "Nice to meet you, man."
Armando stares at Ian a little bit, blinking those bird-gold eyes. "That's what I was saying..." It's /cold/. Although for a moment there he forgot. "Ah, well, you've been in more than once," he explains, sounding like he's excusing himself from knowing. "Ah, yeah," he says, reaching out after a moment to take Ian's hand. Which he holds for a second before remembering to shake. "...Howdy." His expression slips into a lopsided grin, well aware of how ridiculous that sounds.
"Yeah, but now I am actually cold." It happens when you've been sitting around for awhile. "True enough there," Ian agrees with a nod. He even has spent multiple hours there, recolouring coffee mugs at the owner's request. He just don't think of himself as particularly significant. "Hey." Clasping the other man's hand warmly, Ian gives it a brief shake before tipping his head towards the door. "Heading in too?"
Stupid weather, being all cold and making people all cold when they stand around in it. Armando actually has to look up at Ian when they shake hands, which has to be a little unusual for the ginger. "Yeah, taking the stairs today," he says and gestures at the stairwell door. This suggest that it is not always how he gets to his apartment, but it's way too cold to leave windows open."Come on. Maybe we can manage to pry the door open before it's frozen shut," Ian suggests, knowing full well that it opened fine a half hour ago when he came out into the cold. That said, he heads that way to do just that.