log - too tired for title whee - closed to B1 and A4, open to those likely to wander by

[conning]

Who: B1: Closed to Neal and residents; A4: open to B1 and those who wish to poke their heads in because socializing and open doors
When: Early September--on a Sunday and then the following Wednesday. Why the following Wednesday? Idk man I just picked something.
Where: B1 on Sunday, and A4 on Wednesday IG???
Summary: Meredith invited Neal to visit, and Neal suggested making it a mingle for both apartments. Then Malcolm invited Neal over and Neal decided to do a solo trial run or something like that.
Warnings: Not at the moment. except possibly meredith giving neal a shovel talk


B1 - SUNDAY

Okay, well, he meant to make it simple. But then he got carried away, because that's who he is as a person. So here is Neal managing two coolers, one slightly smaller than the other. He has to set one down in order to knock on the door.

The coolers themselves contain tiny servings of about a dozen different dishes, from tiny seasoned steak slices of varying doneness to little onigiri stuffed with lightly salted salmon. If it's stupidly elaborate, feel free to assume there is some dressed-down (read: locally available) version available in miniature.

The other cooler has small bottles of cheap wine and those little paper cups that barely hold a mouthful. He sets the wines with the foods that pair best.

Look this is who he is as a person, okay? At least he's dressed normally--turquoise sweater, close-cut jeans.

[ SUPPLY ACTIVITIES AS YOU WISH, both with Neal and each other. ]


B1/A4/Passerby - FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY

Okay, so the tiny food was a bit much. Only God can judge him.

At least this time it's a plain old cook-out with a grill on the patio of A4. Yes, the grill items include salmon, chicken, and... tofu in several marinades including citrus-chipotle.

Only God can judge him.

There's also a spread of perfectly ordinary salad-shaped objects and tiny pickles et cetera inside on the kitchen counter.

[ SUPPLY ACTIVITIES AS YOU WISH, both with Neal and each other. ]

Comments

[ployboy]

Tim had been hiding. Scratch that-- Tim had been a respectable... recluse. It's not that he's gungho to make a bad first impression on Malcolm's guy friend, but he can hear pleasant talk through his closed door and should things... escalate... then Tim doesn't need to be aware of them happening. Keeping to himself is going swimmingly.

Then Tim hears the front door open. Again. And then.

That.

Why is Jeff like this.

He's appropriately... mortified, Tim thinks, cracking his door open to slip out into the common room and-- interject, when he can. "Some people will talk trash about JP II but the animatronics are some of the best in the series."

Welcome, jackass. Tim notes the front door isn't locked. That's annoying.

[cacophonish]

Tim gets him. Jeff claps his hands together-- or, well, claps a hand to the DVD case, and grins.

"See, that's what counts. I just want to see dinosaurs tear shit up."

Then, his cheer dims into something a little more, uh, awkward? Kind of awkward. A teeny tiny bit uncertain, though he tries to mask it under his super cool, casual demeanor.

"I was gonna ask if you wanted to watch it, but, uh, didn't know there was, like, a dinner party going on."

[ployboy]

Good. Jeff deserves to feel a little like an idiot. It'll do him good. Tim leeches off the uncertainty and gives it a positive spin-- as a treat.

He's got to talk to his roommates about locking the front door.

"That's why phones were invented," he reminds Jeff gently. There's a squirm in his gut as he considers his two options. But god, Tim doesn't do well with strangers in his space so in the end, he nods towards the door of his room. "We can talk in my room."

[cacophonish]

Oh.

Phones.

Right. He's got a phone in his pocket, like, at all times. Except Jeff's not sure if he's ever actually used his phone as anything other than a vehicle for Spotify and the occasional chatroom post.

(Oh, and Tik Tok. He's started watching Tik Toks. They can be kind of cool.)

Basically, he forgets that his phone is, you know, a phone.

"Yeah, well..." Okay, so Tim makes a valid point. Jeff wiggles his fingers at him. "Maybe I wanted the element of surprise." Anyway, he's going to salute the dinner party guests with the DVD and follow Tim's lead, back to his room.

Which, he realizes, he's never been to before. It's a room shrouded in mystery. Time to cross that threshold.

[ployboy]

He can't help the smile at the lame save. Jeff does that. It's not Tim's fault he's predisposed to moronic antics. He'll place a fair weight of the blame on Young Justice. He shoots his roommates a glance, fleeting and like he's just taking in the room once more. Some part of him hopes they don't see.

But that's stupid. Of course they'll notice.

Tim breathes in and... guards his door. A little. When they get there. "If I knew you were coming over, I would have cleaned up."

It's embarrassing.

He can't stall any longer.

He ushers Jeff in.

It's... the first other person in his room. Congrats? There's a desk pushed to one corner by the closet, a computer whirring with the monitor off. That and the clipped newspaper articles trashing the floor are what's potentially damning to the conspiracy theorist in him. There's a backpack, shoved against a corner. There's litter and scattered clothing, a tad more than standard issue Teenage Boy. The bed's unmade and that's where Tim sits, as soon as he closes the door behind them.

It's embarrassing.

"I think Malcolm's crushing on that guy."

[cacophonish]

"I'm not the kind of company you need to clean for."

And okay, yeah, it's messy. This is a messy room. But so's Jeff's, and he doesn't even have the excuse of being an amateur detective. He's just a musician, and it's something of an unspoken rule that all young musicians live in some kind of cultivated squalor.

(And if his room at Bonnie's looks bad, it doesn't even compare to his place back home, a barely-inhabitable house he shares with bandmates and a rotating set of couch surfers.)

So basically. Jeff might be the best person to let in, if only because he's not going to make a face and judge him. He just drops the DVD on the bed and flops down to sit next to Tim, not even batting an eye at the state of his room.

The topic of crushes comes up, and it's about Malcolm, thank god. That's easy to talk about. Jeff lets out a short laugh.

"Oh, dude, he's totally crushing on that guy. It's like..." He shrugs a shoulder, smile lingering. "Kinda cute. Go Malcolm."

[ployboy]

Jeff gets him.

Tim watches, the churning of expectation in his gut. It's not an anxiety- it just is. Even when he lived with, like, the housekeeper, his space was a mess. Lived in. Living with Alfred, everything material got neater. Living alone, now-- or, back then, Tim had managed to keep his shit together. That renovated theater apartment was pristine.

He misses his fish.

And he's exhaling, reaching across Jeff to get that DVD case-- any excuse for proximity, because he's relieved nothing happened.

This is totally normal.

He studies The Lost World and feels a smile worm stubborn onto his face again. "Go Malcolm," he parrots, a levity there that usually isn't. "It makes sense they would like each other. They've got plenty in common."

[cacophonish]

Jeff feels a little fluttery something kick up in his chest when Tim reaches across him, which is dumb, because he shouldn't get fluttery and weird like they're a couple of middle school kids dancing around each other. Jesus, he hooks up with people like it's nothing. Sex might as well be on the same level as a friendly handshake, the way Jeff acts. But then sometimes there's these people he doesn't hook up with, and he just likes being around them, and every almost-touch and near miss and casual bump gets his hair standing on end and he gets all stupid and doesn't remember how to, like, do stuff.

Fuck.

Crushes are weird.

"Yeah, it's like a match made in..." He doesn't want to say 'heaven.' He wants to say something witty, like... what's heaven to two smart, sophisticated, cultured dudes? "The New Yorker."

Yeah, okay. Jeff leans over to look down at the DVD case.

"You know, I didn't even read the summary."

[ployboy]

Tim snorts, painfully amused. "Cover boys for Givenchy, more like," he adds. His humor has always been delightfully lowbrow, and it brings back the emotional memories of his friends and his brother. You know, the one who hasn't made an attempt on his life? But this is normal and Tim

doesn't want to read the room wrong.

Something's happening here.

He huffs, again. Is aware of his every move. Is aware that the quip on the tip of his tongue is not ever going to see the light of day. There's a thousand different things he could do and say here.

He slaps the DVD to Jeff's chest.

"It's Rex in the City, man. It's not that complicated."

[cacophonish]

"Biiiingo." Jeff points a finger gun at Tim, because that's it, that's the winning description. "I bet Neal's the kind of guy who has to stop and hang up his suit before things get too hot and heavy."

It's a joke that could be interpreted juuust on the cusp of mean spirited, so he can't in good conscience land it on Malcolm, who he likes too much for that. Neal's practically a stranger, so who cares, Jeff can be a snide youth in his general direction.

Besides. He harshed Jeff's Lost World buzz with his, like, good taste or whatever. Now he feels a little silly, a little stupid, for bringing it over.

At least until Tim says the magic words: dinosaurs in the city. (And if there's a Sex and the City joke in there, he misses it entirely, because alas, it's after his time.) Jeff lights up, slapping a hand over the DVD (over Tim's hand??) with newfound excitement.

"Dude, really? I knew it was gonna rock! Wanna watch it now?"

[ployboy]

"Please. At best, he's wearing Brooks Brothers."

Like, what, did you think Robin hadn't spent plenty of dates talking trash of the romantic escapades of the holy, untouchable gods among men? Malcolm's crush can deal with it, and Tim can indulge in letting slip that highborn sort of Sigh of Disapproval as he shakes his head.

Malcolm had said it wasn't a date between him and Neal. This is not a date between him and

Tim's always running warm. He has to chuckle a bit, work some of that tightness in his throat loose. He doesn't pull his hand away from Jeff until he makes up his mind: does he want to spend the next two hours in this room with the guy? "And that," he announces, pointing a finger gun to the obnoxious blond, "is why you'll remember to call next time."

It's for the best.

"I'm editing something. My computer couldn't handle a movie, too."

Leave it to him to disappoint himself.

[cacophonish]

"Oh."

Jeff's face falls a little. He's disappointed, which is stupid, because it's not, like, a big deal or anything. It's just a dumb movie, and it's not like he had big plans to go with it. Best case, they'd just hang out in here, and watch it, and it'd just be, like... a private definitely-not-a-date hangout.

What would he have even done if Tim said yes, anyway? Tried to put the moves on one of his only friends here? He doesn't even know if-- fuck, would Tim have even been into that? Or more to the point, would he have been into that with Jeff specifically?

Questions abound, and he doesn't have the capacity to address them.

"Yeah, dude, that makes sense." It's fine. He's cool. Jeff shrugs-- no big deal-- and sets the DVD to the side again. He should've called. Lesson learned!

"What're you editing? Is it a secret?" He drums his fingers on the mattress. "If it's a secret, I'm gonna have to hack into your computer, man."

[ployboy]

There it is, the stillness of not meeting expectations. He's... intimate, with the hollow feeling. Tim pulls up a smirk, shoving at Jeff's shoulder at the drama of a simple shrug. "I'll make it up to you," he promises. Earnest and eager and with the understanding of a bad decision in the making.

No different than any other dozens of times he's found himself in over his head, he rationalizes. (What the hell happened to him, he wonders vaguely, that he finds the prospect thrilling.)

(There's anxiety wanting to close its fingers around his throat.)

Tim bulldozes on. "Name a day. I'll be all yours." And in the meantime, "You can't hack what I'm hacking anyway."

[cacophonish]

Jeff's a simple creature, and the little rain cloud of gloom passes with the smirk and shove combo. With a laugh, he rubs at his shoulder as if Tim just grievously injured him and shoots the other boy a grin. "Are you gonna make me a bunch of tiny hors d'oeuvres by hand?"

Neal's impact. He's risen the bar for not-a-dates everywhere.

"Saturday." Nice and easy, though he doesn't specify which Saturday (for the sake of the timeline), just a Saturday. An imminent Saturday, a Saturday on the horizon. And if that wasn't exciting enough, Jeff's looking way too excitable at the whole notion of hacking now.

(Even though he genuinely doesn't know anything about hacking, beyond it being cool computer shit. Hell, he's two months shy of Hackers even being released.)

"Wait, you're hacking? Seriously hacking? What're you hacking?" And how many times can Jeff say hacking?

[ployboy]

Fuck you, Neal.

"You'll have to settle for gas station sushi," he shoots back, wrinkling his nose at the very real idea of burning the place down if he were ever to attempt to boil water. "Or a pizza." Which is the staple, platonic meal of friends everywhere.

Who's he kidding?

Tim looks on, fond and amused and so ridiculously

guilty. Not that he'll show that one.

He snorts, leans back and thinks about letting himself fall back on his mattress. He chickens out. Saturday. He's got until Saturday to figure his shit out. He can do that.

"I'm not hacking," he clarifies. "If I ever thought about hacking, it wouldn't be something I would do inside ADI buildings." Lies. But Tim did miss the lies. "Like I said"

wow he says that a lot around Jeff Calhoun

"I'm just editing some stuff. I'll tell you on Saturday."

Keep 'em hungry.

[cacophonish]

"Mm, gas station sushi..." he hums, and here, Jeff's going to flop back onto the mattress, hands folded over his stomach, all loose and lazy like his bones just gave out. "I can taste the food poisoning already."

Jeff looks up at him, brows lifting in some attempt at puppy dog eyes. He has to wait. Tim, you monster.

"You're killing me, dude." Then: "Maybe I'll show you my new song on Saturday."

[ployboy]

You're killing me, dude like naw, bro, you don't even know half of it. Tim's immune. Not to death-- the word itself makes him squirm, pries a frown back to his lips. Lose everyone and everything, and even in jest it becomes a trigger, he guesses.

But maybe he's cursed.

But he's working. He's working really hard to not have that win.

Tim's immune to the puppy dog eyes, he means.

"I'll look forward to being thoroughly impressed," he says. He needs to start planning, now. Kill two birds with one stone and all that. Make friends. Influence people.

His throat is dragging a burn to the tip of his tongue but there's a satisfaction of pursuit. Of a goal. He rolls a fraction to face Jeff, shifting his weight to one hip and placing a hand next to his friend's head, half-reclined.

"Look at us, being creative." And then- "I'll show you mine if you show me yours?"

[cacophonish]

The frown doesn't go unnoticed, though Jeff's not entirely sure what pulled it to Tim's face. Was it something he said, or the way he threw himself on the mattress and looked up at him all wide-eyed in some parody of innocence? Maybe he should be more careful. Think a little, before he speaks or acts or--

Okay, look, everyone in this room knows that Jeff isn't really capable of doing much thinking before acting. He just does. He is. If he wasn't reckless and stupid, he wouldn't be so quintessentially Jeff.

He'll try, though.

Jeff draws in a breath, and it's really unfair, isn't it? How keyed up he is, watching out for every microscopic shift, when they haven't even done anything yet, when they're just sort of talking around things in some snarky post-adolescent dance--

He's into it. A grin curls its way onto his lips.

"How about a sneak preview in the meantime?"

[ployboy]

Once upon a time, he had authored a program. Had put in names and addresses and life stories as zeroes and ones and the city had been on the brink. Everyone left had looked at him like he'd been crazy, but you know what? He had passed the tests. And saved a lot of people.

Just because he had looked at a lot of people as zeroes and ones.

Tim ignores the pulling of his every nerve that wants to fold itself into his core. There's goosebumps dotting his arms and he's aware. Not of everything outside of his room or of every open, easy, inviting twitch of Jeff's body. Tim's aware of himself, of how shallow his breathing has become.

Magic is dangerous. Tim hums, fighting instinct and lowering himself to prop himself up by his elbow, his blue eyes searching Jeff's with a dare. "Impress me."

He'll just need to keep the upper hand, and to not mourn the simplicity of dinosaurs. Easy.

[cacophonish]

Jeff shifts, rolling onto his side, propping up on his elbow, practically mirroring Tim's position. Impress me, he says, and Jeff can't not rise to the challenge. He could sing them into maddening highs, fill the room with uncontrollable laughter, make it so they're both so keyed up they just have to dance and party til they're out of breath and on the verge of passing out.

It could be a beautiful, swirling mess of two. And there's a song, a lyrical mindfuck, just on the tip of his tongue, but.

But.

But he doesn't have any logical reason not to do it. He just knows he shouldn't, not to somebody he likes, not without asking-- or warning-- first. So he swallows it back, smiles, and changes course to something safe and frivolous. "You got it."

He hums softly, finding the tune-- not the tune of the song, but the tune of magic, that perfect frequency that syncs it all up. It's easy, with how much he's been feeding his twirling, twisting friend with others' hysteria-- guerrilla style, hidden in songs in the middle of his busking sets.

And then he starts singing: a new song, not a Nervous Tix original, but something that's just Jeff Calhoun, solo artist, lost and 25 years away from home. It's all playful and sweet, drifting and dreamlike, a song about drowning with a woman, fish swimming around her head like a living crown, and a kiss that fills lungs with seafoam.

Looks like-- sounds like-- Jeff went ahead and wrote that love song about mermaids after all, and he didn't even include any references to fish fucking. He glances over his shoulder, looking for the light switch, and snaps a finger, shutting it off with a little tug of magic. In another moment, with another verse, the room fills with orbs of light, deep blue, floating up towards the ceiling and gathering there--

--and then he stops abruptly, partway through the song. The lights linger for now, held together by magic that isn't yet ready to dissipate.

"Sneak preview," he smirks, before wrinkling his nose and glancing over at the door. "Uh oh... Am I gonna get busted for doing magic in here?"

cw descriptions of violence and I can't believe this is Malcolm's fault

[ployboy]

As if he didn't have the explicit proof before, here it is. Literally right in front of him: Jeff Calhoun will feed a Fear. The song is... well, Tim can't remember much in the way of details from before. Before everything went so damn wrong. He can list popular artists, align bops with what perception he's keen on planting. He remembers what artists he's got in common with Bruce Wayne, with some girlfriends, with the Titans. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne doesn't like any one type of music in particular, though. He's all business. And he's fine with that. And it's just that he doesn't know what to do with his body as he hears the sweet tune of Fish bones.

He huffs out a light, airy, self-conscious sort of laugh somewhere along the line. His gaze skitters upwards, to one side, to the other, and he watches the practiced and untroubled movement of Jeff's lips (yeah, yeah, shut up) as the song progresses. It's cute. The song's cute. Then the lights are off.

There's blue lights, floating. There's the scattered, dim yellow light coming from under his door.

And Tim can break every bone in Jeff's hands. He can fracture bones in the man's head. He can move and crush the guy's throat under his elbow. That would draw attention, but Tim knows how to silence the man too, knows how to maneuver himself to quiet protests as he chokes the guy out. But.

Optics:

outside of his room, looking in, all the dinner guests can see is that the boys have shut off the lights.

Maybe they can say they were clicking through bonus scenes of The Making Of: The Lost World. Tim still doesn't know what to do with his body, but he's on edge in a way that's not new or even particularly confusing. But he's glad the lights are off. "Maybe not the best idea to keep it going in a full house," he laments, voice frustratingly small and quiet. His throat wants to close up. He still manages a low, "Keep the lights off for a sec."

He's not wrong, Tim reminds himself. He can control everything about this. So why is he one hair short of terrified?

His lips. On Jeff's. Right now.

Can't be much different than kissing a girl, right?

It means positioning himself a fraction closer to the man. That's fine. It gives Tim something to do with his body and besides, consider: it's just one way to shut up a bard.

[cacophonish]

It's not that different from kissing a girl. The lips probably feel the same, though the stubble might be a new sensation. And Jeff, well. Jeff's startled, like a total fucking amateur, because he didn't think Tim would go for it. He thought they'd keep on with the verbal back-and-forth, playful, barbed, maybe flirting, maybe not--

A kiss is pretty direct. At least, he thinks it is. Jeff's oblivious, of course, to all the inner workings behind it, the montage of violence and control (101 Ways to Disable A Bard). He just thinks: hey, this cute boy I like might actually like me, and that's it. It's simple and sweet, which really just sums up Jeff at his core.

(The good parts of him, anyway, when you strip away the demons and addiction and the constant lurch towards absolute self destruction.)

And it feeds something else when Tim kisses him, that desperate hunger to be noticed and seen and wanted. If he can't have the stage and spotlight and drown himself in the adoration of a crowd, then at least he can have this: attention and affection, on the one-on-one scale.

So he pushes forward; he chases the feeling, chases the kiss with another, lifting his hand to snake his fingers through unruly dark hair.

[ployboy]

Correction: it's very different. In the way that those kisses and stolen and secret moments with Lynx were different from the dates and comfortable affection with Zoe, or Ari. Or Steph. Or Tam. Or even that time Darla-- anyway, it's different in Tim's mind and it's not even wholly because of the stubble his chin ends up lightly knocking against or his mouth coyly brushes over when he thinks that's enough, that they'll separate.

This is wrong, he thinks, and it's a very good distraction from the fluttering all inside him.

It's like those stolen moments with Lynx, except not. There's a need for expectations to meet whatever is twisted and forming in half-baked thoughts. That's not fair to Jeff, Tim realizes. But he's game for a second kiss, deeper than the first.

He squirms.

There's a hand through his hair and Tim realizes, maybe this isn't entirely fair to him either.

So... that makes them even.

He's predictable, or would be if anyone in this world knew him at all, and he pulls back. Decidedly. "Wait--" Rushed.

But Tim won't make the thrum of uncertainty (and fear? no, just some shot nerves) any worse. So he lingers, and then he grins.

"That's just a sneak preview."

[cacophonish]

Tim pulls back, says wait, and Jeff stops, letting his hand linger in the other boy's hair for a moment, before slipping away. It's over, then, before it can escalate into anything more than a couple of stolen kisses in a dimly lit bedroom (growing darker, now that the lights are beginning to fade).

"Fuck, dude," he groans, "throwing my own words back at me..." But he recovers with an easy grin. "Fine, okay. Until Saturday."