What Are You Wearing?


hana_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title What Are You Wearing?
Synopsis The night before the Yamagato Gala, Hana and Logan engage in some textual banter.
Date April 6, 2018

In telecommunications

More frequently than not, Logan has his own apartment to himself. Even in his careless, decadent twenties, he generally treated his home base for its utility and nothing more, a place to sleep and groom and eat standing up, preferring to take his company in spaces where he can choose to leave at any moment. As such, his apartment was always a little drab, money funnelled into other pursuits with little expense distributed towards his living situation.

That's something that's since changed, now, having lifted only the finest or most appealing, to him, items from his own stock to outfit his little two-bedroom apartment, a little cluttered and overdone, but comfortable, muffling the dreary New York City beyond. Quiet, too, especially as the sun goes down, and he faces down the rare prospect of an evening free of commitments.

Which invariably leads to thinking, the coiling trap that loops in and around itself, tightening. The air is full of cigar smoke, and the brandy he's tipped into a glass has been untouched since he set it down on a heavy coffee table. From the open fire exit, night sounds come through only sporadically, with almost all traffic dwindled to nothing at this hour.

Around him, lamps flicker, but the glowing blue from his cellphone remains a constant as he lazily texts:

what are you wearing?

And then, a few seconds later:

2 the gala

Some three hundred miles away, Hana sits in the silence of her own room, foot up on a chair, unlacing the brace that is now a near-constant part of her life; her hands move automatically, thoughtlessly, habituated to the action by months of repetition. The shades on the room's two windows are drawn, blocking out the jeweled glitter of the Rochester cityscape at rest — inasmuch as any city ever rests.

Outside, there is silence, no more than the quiet hum of air handlers, the whisper of string against synthetic material, the muted creaking of the chair in response to her actions. Inside, there is noise, the unceasing tumult of text and voice message and computer-to-computer communication, more pervasive and varied in its composition than any forest's worth of birdsong.

Only one of those communicades is addressed specifically to her.

Hana pauses as Logan's message comes in, hands going still. She smiles, if the wry uptick of just one corner of her mouth can be termed so, and proceeds to finish sliding the brace off, dropping it unceremoniously in a nightstand drawer.

Wouldn't you like to know? she sends back, and:

Maybe I haven't decided yet.

i recommend some furs for antisocial balcony loitering. the real thing because your a hard bitch.

This is alright. He has to use his imagination that she is smiling or laughing at the things he is saying, but his imagination is infinitely more generous than the reality, if far less rewarding. Logan sinks a little further in his chair, limbs lazy, a heel set against the edge of the table, cigar trapped between his teeth as he texts. A skill he's gotten far more dextrous at in the past few years.

i would love to know. i need notice if your going 2 wear a colour

The expression Logan's suggestion evokes has too much tooth in it to be a mere smile.

Don't tell me you're worried I'll catch cold.

Setting both feet on the floor, Hana plucks her hairbrush from the nightstand, running it briefly through the loose strands of her hair. There are statements that could be made with furs, she allows in the silence of her own thoughts, statements beyond the one Logan suggests — though closely related. Something to consider, though perhaps not for this gala.

Returning the brush to its place, she instead takes up a folder from the desk, retreating with it to sit on the bed with her back against the headboard. For all the omnipresence of digital information in Wireless' life, hardcopy nonetheless remains a fixture of its own. Opening to the first page, Hana peruses it unhurriedly — a report from Harkness on the state of equipment and maintenance; not anything like good bedtime reading, but typical these days — and at last acceedes to Logan's request. Or at least one part of it.

Crimson, she allows. Which would indeed be a color.

good to know, might have matched by accident

That pares his own decisions down to only two more possibilities: a black blazer covered in metallic golden paisley that would have absolutely been his first choice ten years ago but nowadays, to his eye, seems to ride an uncomfortable line between Latin soap opera star and red carpet country singing B-lister, and a differently garish but certainly more artful print of royal blue and fall flowers. Which will clash amazingly with crimson.


ill personally be on the hunt for yamagato park afterparties when the formalities are concluded. it would be a waste of a crimson dress if you weren't to join me

Hana pauses in the act of turning a page and does grin, at that, thin slice of smile as edged as any blade. Heaven forbid they match, indeed — they don't. Except in the ways that they do.

That would be a tragedy, she agrees.

On following pages, she peruses lines, pauses from time to time to write in notes, questions, clarifications. Exactly why do they need a new set of wrenches? Did he think she was going to overlook that detail? The writing is tedious, the reading more so… but commercial software is crap, Hana has no desire to compose her own, and she knows better than anyone how fragile digital information can be. So, she deals.

There's definitely something to be said for having a distraction in all this.

Haven't even seen the dress yet, and already you're making judgments on it. Even if the judgment is in her favor. There's so rarely such a thing as giving a simple answer.

your welcome to send a picture for ease of judgment

Logan leans forward, collecting up his glass of brandy, bringing it to his mouth. Doesn't drink it immediately, just rests the rim against his teeth as he breathes in the scent of fine alcohol, thinking, thinking. Brandy is rich, vodka is virtually tasteless, and both are alcoholic enough to evoke a memory of the last girl he kissed.

The last girl he turned down, too. He takes a generous, smooth gulp of liquor, and addresses his phone once more.

but i'll be candid. i am far more concerned with ease of taking it off you

At least the last few pages are simple, straightforward. On the other hand, that also means nothing new chases the line about the wrenches out of her thoughts. There's almost certainly a Story there, likely involving Francis.

The question now is, how best to get that story out of Scott?

At last, Hana closes the folder, sets it aside on the nightstand. Her gaze goes to consider the dress in question where it hangs, plastic-sheathed to prevent dust from accumulating on the velvet nap. No, she's not sending a picture; that would be too much like a concession, too much like seeking approval.

You'll appreciate this one, then, is sent back instead, followed by:

I'll be staying in the Safe Zone overnight. I suppose I can come up with a spare hour or two.

you should know

Pause for dramatic effect — or at least, a speaking effect, wherein she might fill in such gaps with imaginative details like smoke breathed from a cigar or a gesture of his glass of liquor. These are the quirks of texting that Logan has only developed upon maintaining a long distance relationship with a woman who receives these messages instantaneously.

that i am very skilled in the ways of upwards negotiations.

His grasp on grammar to rhythmic effect has also improved substantially. His spelling, still, leaves something to be desired.

And Logan is likewise interested in not seeming like he is seeking— if not approval, than something, and so backspaces some saucy comment about what is or is not worth Hana's while. Instead: unless your bringing a date

At the first half of Logan's response, Hana leans back against the headboard, crossing her arms with one hand in the crook of an elbow, her other hand curled around opposite point. One brow raises, though there's no one to see the acerbic quality of her expression. Logan can fill that image in from memory.

The other one joins it at mention of a date.

Thank you for letting me know, Hana sends back. I'll make sure to be on my guard against sleazy salesman tricks.

Allowing herself a brief flicker of a smile, she chooses not to respond to his last remark at all.

If she were here, he might laugh, show his fangs. In the privacy of his apartment, Logan only smiles, eyes hooded lazily as he impresses his message invisibly across the state.

straight throuh the heart

If she were here, he might put hand over the place that (it has been confirmed) he has a heart. A man taking revenge on him once cut through his chest deep enough to touch it. Those days, Logan isn't really thinking about.

just what i needed.

If she were here, he would absolutely bracket her into his arms right about then, and chase down a kiss, whether on a mouth offered freely or the elegant swoop of her neck. And other sundry sleazy salesman tricks.

If she were there, she would grant his banter exactly the response it deserved: a haughty look, narrow-eyed, down length of nose and past stubborn point of chin. Projecting with absolute assurance, with no doubt whatsoever, that straight through the heart was precisely what he deserved.

In the privacy of her own spare, spartan room, that smile reappears, lingers.

Good night, Logan, is written in unadorned simplicity, shorn of inflected nuance that could otherwise differentiate between a repressive usage of the phrase and… not. Certainly Hana deploys that tone often.

But the digital wake of that phrase implies another: I'll see you tomorrow.

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