Trust Fall


bolivar_icon.gif raquelle_icon.gif

Scene Title Trust Fall
Synopsis Bolivar takes Raquelle out on a lunch date and Raquelle tells Bolivar what is up. Not AIDS. Raquelle almost wishes it were aids.
Date June 11, 2009

The Bottom-Right Part Of Manhattan — The Cambria Household

They have a lunch date because Raquelle doesn't barber on Thursdays and has something important to say. Lunch dates aren't really like dinner dates, but close enough to warrant making a small ceremony of it. Bolivar actually shows up to pick him up, in a charcoal sports jacket instead of his usual billowy khaki coat of pain over a pair of jeans. He looks good, if you ignore the scars and the fact that he's tiny. He might still, if you are for whatever unfathomable reason, into that sort of thing.

The dogs stayed at home. Diana is too, similarly, having scored the day off school in order to recover from the last of a fever.

His shoulder slams into the hallway wall and he trips over a sippy cup that has some sort of inscrutable solid rolling around inside of it. "RA-QUELLE," he bellows, glaring down the row of doorways in an effort to guess between bathroom and bedroom, which one his lover happens to be cloistered behind for primping at this time. There is a princess hanging off the werewolf's neck by the noose of slender white arms, giggling into his shirt, and sunlight sieging them both through the windows and lighter spring air. "Your whelp is dead or sleeping, but mostly, she's suffocating me."

It may be difficult for anybody else to tell, but the complaint fails to resonate with real heat but, by now, it's probable that Mr. Cambria has learned to discern. Bolivar gets quieter when he's angry and he's reverberating through the house like a foghorn now. There are no swear words, deferring to the law laid down by the Jar. He could easily, also, have shunted Diana off into the arms of her babysitter, who's checking his— excuse me, her eyeliner in the living room mirror now. Indeed.

Ferociously stolid, Bolivar's stomp along the floor suspiciously resembles an excuse to carry the girl through the house.

Getting ready for a lunch date is just as stressful as getting ready for a dinner date, especially when one has just finished re-dying/washing and cutting their own hair, showering, and all that stuff. Diana's been on a new kick of prettiness, hair done up in french braids and she's wearing a t-shirt and her panties but she's got a tiara on so she's officially the princess still. The princess of werewolves, which is why she's being a necklace for Bolivar. Duh.

The yells though just make Raquelle smirk where he is finishing up the finishing touches of his eyeliner, hair has been styled, shirt is a simple black button down left mostly unbuttoned, a few necklaces, fitted black jeans, docs on his feet and a dark blue blazer is shrugged on before the door swings open so he can lean in the doorway, arms folded over his chest and baby blues following Bolivar with his eyes.

"As much as I love hearing you say my name honeybuns, I heard you the first time." He grins.

"She's heavy," Bolivar enunciates with agonizing precision. The final syllable clicks through his teeth and ends with his lips pulled back, configured in a reasonable facsimile of a snarl, that is probably not helping his case for 'not lycanthrope' much. "And in the way.

"Wipe that silly smirk off your face." Despite that there has been no change to his immediate circumstances— Diana's the same weight, the same terrifying giggle, bearing the same unexpected strength in her embrace— he sounds calmer the latter statement. Even as far as the artificialized show goes. He can't really help it: few things have brought that only faintly tired sort of happiness back to Raquelle's face since Diana's accident last month, or so Bolivar's potentially biased recollections indicate. It pleases him a little, being one of those.

He splays his scarred left hand on the wall, fingers buckled slightly, pointedly, under the effort of keeping himself upright under his unexpected jewelry. He tilts his head downward to study Diana. Or the roof of Diana's tiara, whatever happens to present itself. "You have to say good-bye to your daddy now," he says. "The sooner we get the Hell out of here, the sooner he'll bring back dessert. Or bubble tea. Or scorpions, or whatever it is you carnivorous little fungi eat—"

"Well so are you but-" Raquelle isn't going to go any further. Innocent ears are around! He just chuckles softly, flashing that trademarked smile and easing forward to carefully wrap his hands around Diana's waist and tugging. "Sir yes sir…Deedee honey, let go of Mr Werewolf…" It takes some tugging and coaxing but eventually promises of Dessert but not from hell and bubbly tea do make her let go, twisting around to wrap arms around Raquelle's neck and he oofs.

Eventually, little blondie is passed off to babysitter so that Raquelle can give numbers and instructions and then turn to Bolivar with a small and obviously playful little bow, before straightening up and winking. "C'mon Grumpy, hi ho, hi ho…and all that BS…" LUNCH TIME, mwahaha…ahem.

Lunch was never so mellifluously evil before. Bolivar twists his mouth into some arcane chimera of an expression that goes up and down in peculiar segments. It's pretty obvious that he's just trying not to smile. Relieved of the girl, he straightens his jacket. "You look nice." He gets shoes back onto his feet without bothering to undo the laces, leans over to kiss Raquelle's cheek as he holds open the door.

"I'm not being grumpy," he points out, apparently differentiating between his normal temperament and particular irritation, this time. More petulantly: "Or fat." It's probably a different series of complaints altogether, far as his bouncing on Raquelle's lap has gone in the past. He waves at Diana in the shrinking margin before the door claps shut.

Today, they are doing Japanese, because apparently Raquelle is part Japanese a little like Bolivar is part Mexican, and cultural generosity is only fair. There is a nice place only a short cab ride off, with real tatami on the floors, calligraphed noren hanging by ingresses and sudare peopled with painted life scenarios hiding the kitchen, moss-furred contraption of koi fish and small bridges in the front, and sliding doors rimmed in yew wood darkened by age and enough layers of polish to add an extra herbal note to the scents of green tea and policied hygiene.

"How's the business venture coming?" Bolivar peers at the departing waitress from over the top of his menu like she owes him money. Mystifyingly, she is wearing a kimono.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me…" Followed by public displays of affection via some vicarious smooching and laughing softly yet happily upon seeing the restaurant of choice. Was just about the only response coming from Raquelle about the food of choice.

Nearby — Japanese Restaurant

By the time they get to the seats and the like however…and menus are given and Raquelle is flashing back to memories about his Aunt Kioko and all that…he is drawn back to the present by Bolivar's question. "Hm?" BlinkBLINK. "Oh…okay I guess, got a place for it, just finishing up having the floors and walls finished and makin' sure the equipment's all up to date…" He trails off. "I'm going to have a grand opening party though when it is done." Slow nod. A long pause.

How much you want to bet she's wearing a thong under that kimono?" Raquelle noticed the peering. And lack of panty lines. Also, shock factor is amusing.

That sounds kind of cool, if you like parties. It is difficult to imagine that Bolivar does, but he has half a smile on anyway, as he casts his menu down and considers the younger man from across the table. "When is it? Is it going to be dry? Are you gonna sing?" he asks, rapid-fire questions that, despite being arrayed kind of like a bristling armament of weapons, manages to convey companionable curiosity and keen interest.

And maybe a little something like pride. After all, it was only a few months ago that Raquelle was wistful about moving the kids to a nicer part of town, skirting around the subject of doing something else or greater with whatever talents he has in his considerable reserves. It's better that Raquelle is his own boss and better able to support his nest. "I don't think she's wearing fuckin' anything underneath.

"You young people with your bra-less years and baggy jeans halfway off your ass." He waves a chopstick as a cantankerous old man would wave his cane, which is an analogy that makes slightly more sense than comparing Raquelle's aesthetic to whitewashed hip-hop, though not much. Whenever he complains at his lover about his knees, he's being facetious. Thus far, anyway.

"As soon as the bullshit with the company with the pedicure thingies is cleared up. Dry, wet, who the hell knows. And uh…heh…" Raquelle just picks up a pair of chop sticks and idly twirls them coughing and glancing back towards where the waitress went. "Well, I suppose if she's as lesbian as her fingernails and choice of jewelry suggests…it could be more convenient that way. I know I sure as hell prefer to go commando." He teases, looking off at nothing in particular as he tries to figure out the best way of approaching or completely avoiding the whole 'I need to talk to you' thing.

Aha! Something else distracting. He gives a mock gasp of outrage, moving a hand to his chest and tugging open his shirt a bit more, flash of silver catching in the light before he lets his hand drop away. "Well you know us youngins, we want the old people to know what their missing." He winks and looks around once more. "This is a nice place ya know." Oh look. Water, he takes a sip and then goes back to fidgeting with his chopstick.

Okay. Apparently, whatever Raquelle wanted to talk about wasn't his fledgling hair enterprise. A good thing? A bad thing? Compared to what? Bolivar doesn't know a lot about hair but he had been willing to try, and that is a reasonably rare and magical thing for him. His train of thought is almost derailed by Raquelle showing off his jewelry. The train car heaves up onto its leftmost wheels, squeaks precariously along a few yards, before the torsion of linking mechanisms succeeds in crashing it back down onto the tracks.

Unwontedly, the corner of his mouth goes up with his eyebrow when he's told what he's missing, being old. The sting is taken out of the insult by the fact that the disparity of their ages isn't very impressive. And the fact that he's met Raquelle's jewelry on various occasions, recently enough that missing them leaves is a matter of sentimentality more than anything.

"If it doesn't work out, you could become a criminal profiler," he concedes, following the waitress with a speculative eye. Right.

But Raquelle is nervous. It's making him kind of nervous. "I remember."

Two porcelain cups of steamed egg are served up on a round tray. She takes Bolivar's order of udon, and his skeptical effort at raw fish being some medium rare tuna appetizer thing. After said carpet-munching kimino servicewoman is gone, Bolivar sits back in his chair and makes an incomprehensible knot out of his fingers, trying to figure out how to make chopsticks. "You don't like it," he says, suddenly. "I knew it. Why? Too blond for this, or it's 'too' nice for 'where we're at,' or how the fuck does this work anyway?"

The chopsticks, anyway. He frowns at them, the two spears scissored awkwardly from the wrong hooks of his fingers, and then at Raquelle. There's a faint change of his expression as he swivels his regard between one subject and the next, uncharacteristic uncertainty splicing itself in. Mind you, Bolivar is pretty used to doing things wrong; he's just not used to— caring.

"I'm too gay for all that CSI prime time drama shit, sweetie." Raquelle drawls softly with a wink before carefully ordering without hesitation some dumpling like thing with veggies and chicken, edamame and Agedashi fried tofu, taking some time to ask about the type of Sake they have available before ordering some before offering. "Occasionally when I do some rich chick's hair they find out they can't do me so they just try to bribe me by leaving really fucking good tips man."

Then he has to blink, hand reaching over the table for one of Bolivar's with its chopstick manhandling to make shushing noises. "Shhh, no baby, god no. I like it, I really do. I -" The blond comment does make him give a hint of a pout. "You know if I wasn't afraid of what hair dye chemicals could accidentally do to my dick…" He trails off. "But no, I like it. I like you, it, doing /it/ with you I'm just ya know…"

For once Raquelle's at a loss for words, he's used to knowing what to say, how to say, when to say and not giving a damn while still looking good and flaming up his fabulocity. In any event, he finally blurts out. "What do you think about the rise in all this 'fuck the evolved' sorta bullshit?" He's got a potty mouth, yes, but he's also inwardly stressed.

You would have to kind of have to be completely retarded not to understand the implications of that question. Like having a tot come up to you and ask what you're supposed to do if you pee in your bed. Or a cop ask if you've seen your coworker recently. Well— retarded or wilfully ignorant; Bolivar is content to subscribe to the latter school of thought for the time being.

His fingers slow under Raquelle's grasp. He thumbs the slender bone of Raquelle's first knuckle, frowns at the tangle of their hands, his matted with scarring and the younger man's smooth, and the stark protrusion of chopsticks webbed in by their knuckles between them. He feels uneasy.

"I have friends who are Evolved," Bolivar answers, after a moment, with a note and weight to his voice that is droll with humor. Yes, he is aware that that's what assholes say about their gay friends, but sometimes it is true, and as far as Bolivar is concerned, there is no hypocritical and phantasmic 'but' statement hovering around at the end of his feelings toward Elisabeth or Kayla. They are his friends. He shifts his eyes from their hands, and looks at his cup of tea.

"I used to hate Evolved," he says, bluntly. "One went nuclear on me a few years. Y'know.

"But the one night that got away from me, I shot a fucking child who had flashy eyes, and then a healer saved my life. Few days later, I came to terms with the fact that Officer Harrison's ability to blow up a guy's head with a pitchy shriek never changed a woman, because even Diana can do that. I don't know. Humanis First! is militant assholes with a grasp on justice that could do to look less like a maladjusted Mormon child's weepy dick-pulling. PARIAH was the same way."

After a moment, Bolivar decides not to ask, 'Why?' He pushes the steamed egg toward Raquelle with his thumb. It tracks a thin skein of condensation across the table toward her.

The hairdressers tongue traces over his front teeth before swiping over his bottom lip and tucking it neatly between his teeth as he listens and watches Bolivar from behind lowered lashes. A soft snort given before he just squeezes Bolivar's hand gently from time to time, to show he is listening as he swallows and bobs his head in a small nod.

"You do have a way with words, me amor…" He offers softly, a bit uncertainly as he looks down to the egg being pushed towards him, swallowing against and his free hand comes up to trace along that line of condensation, glossy black nail accented finger tip tracing patterns in it.

Tis the understatement of the year perhaps, but it is all Raquelle could think of to say. And this is not a situation wherein he can burst into song and seductively serenade his table partner with Marvin Gaye, no, he has to actually talk. "You do, like, know that I like you right? More than just wham, bam, thank you man kinda like, you actually make me smile. I wanted to commit suicide via lucky charms against the back of your head upon first meeting you but you're like, really special. And like, I wouldn't ever want to do or say or be anything to fuck that up ya know?"

Cue the emotionalism as he gets a bit choked up, groping for a napkin and toying with it between his fingers as his eyes widen and he holds his head up to avoid tearing up.

"I don't have aids and I didn't sing you into bed." He wants to make sure that's clear!

'Emotionalism' is a frightening word, even as 'ism's go. More intimidating still that it actually manages to jerk moisture out of Raquelle's immaculately made-up eyes. Apparently the lanky black songbird hasn't quite worked out that Bolivar's avoidance of asking 'Why' is kind of like a free pass on explaining 'why,' and now he is circling around some indeterminably terrifying other topic thing.

Marvin Gaye would be preferable.

Bolivar doesn't like being told he's 'special.' He suspects sarcasm, except that Raquelle isn't jiggling his finger or rolling his eyes enough for that, and he certainly hopes that the bit about not having AIDS isn't doubletalk. He then stops thinking about himself, refreshingly, and begins to stare, his brow drawn taut with worry. There are other things Raquelle could be dying of. Or maybe he's about to be deported? Never can tell, with Asians.

Maybe he killed somebody. Sells drugs, abducted one of the miniature females he keeps at home. Anyway. "Okay," Bolivar says, scratching at his temple querulously. His nails raise flushed lines on his skin and splinter a few strands of black hair out of the assembly. Great. Long as we're kissing each others' asses, you're way out of my fucking league, and I'm grateful for Diana and BJ because I flatter them to think they're why you've been out of the pool long enough to get this desperate."

Sssso. He glances at the inked screen that hides the kitchen, then sidelong between waitstaff. Fails, thus far, to take back his hand. "You're one of them."

"I really like your a-ass." Raquelle offers around a sniffle as he continues to toy with his napkin, and worry his bottom lip. "And I'm not desperate, it isn't hard to find some willing guy to drag into a sta-" He just shrugs. "I just think shit like that should mean somethin', getting close like that and all that stuff so ya know…" And yes, he is babbling, falling silent when sake and appetizers arrive.

"Yeah." It is a one worded answer, exhaled uncertainly as he nods slowly. "I guess. I mean I don't know but then I kinda do but I've never with the testing and oooh loook at meee and stuff. I just, gifts. Like your gifts at swearing, we all have 'em."

He makes no sense but he's trying, honestly."I just thought you should like, know or somethin'."

Probably. Remaining unregistered is, after all, a felon, and one that's getting worse in the subjective interpretation of criminal law with every passing day. Bolivar's face goes a little blank. The grasp of his hand loosens. He doesn't let go. He does have a nice ass, these days. Radiation damage healed, he celebrated the return of his health and his appetite by packing on enough pounds to fuel a proper work-out regimen.

He's so not thinking about working out right now. "It does fucking mean something," he says, inanely, before lapsing into an awkward silence. Swearing isn't a gift. Speaking true and heartfelt meaning might be, and that would be a gift that he doesn't have. "You're probably right." When he finally does pull back, it's with a careful sort of precision, deliberate, to show that he is not about to flip out like a ninja and run off, even if his sentences have gotten progressively shorter.

He's just figuring out how to eat, that's all. The waitress is kind enough to leave a fork, which he accepts. The waitress does not raise eyebrows at the spectacle of the two men at all, which he accepts as well, benignly; possibly the first serverperson he's failed to glare daggers after since he and Raquelle started eating at places. He pours out some sake. "Fireballs?"

Raquelle slumps down in his seat some, eyeing the food thoughtfully, smiling and mumbling incoherrently to the waitress and he uses his chopsticks with practiced ease. He sighs when the hand is pulled back, his subconsious anchor removed and he closes his eyes for a moment.

When he isn't shot, maimed, yelled out or otherwise damaged he just exhales and dips a bit of something into a sauce, tucking it away so he has time to chew slowly, thinking. "Fireballs? No. Heh, nothing like that. I mean shit, I don't even really know if it is anything. It might be, might not be, not going to just ya know say 'oh yes, look at me, I sing and people like it' - that's not an 'ability' or anything."

Next bit of something is dipped and a hand is cupped under it as he offer is across the table at mouth level. A peace offering, or something like that.

"I don't understand," Bolivar answers, a slight squint stacking grooves between his brows, something else edging in, now, not yet reason to take out firearms or his brutal vocabulary, but darker all the same. He is retroactively putting the pieces together.

I sing and people like it, Raquelle says. I I didn't sing you into bed.

Longer ago, if not by much, he'd seen a nonchalant nurse wilt in improbable grief at St. Luke's once, thanked a serenade with a kiss— not because he'd been possessed, consumed, ridden out by the infernal fires of artificial lust (!) or whatever, but because the song had been true, and sad, things that people tend to take a step away from but there had been Orpheus with his frivolous razor-layered bangs and goofy Science Guy goggles, and maybe if they hadn't started out nearly murdering each other in terror of looming loss at a supermarket once, Bolivar wouldn't have believed it but he knew then that the recitation of those blues had been neither farcically vain nor facetiously cruel. Anyway. That is why he'd kissed Raquelle, once upon a time.

Not even the worst, the most maladjusted and ugliest parts of Bolivar's paranoia could convince himself otherwise. This isn't about that. He takes the food offered— with his fingers. "Your best guess is about— your voice?" he asks, evenly. "Mind control?"

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