( citizens should not fear their government. this will be enforced. )

[serjeant]

Who: Seoraj & Bruce
What: Some furniture moving, some lunch, some social awkwardness. (Bruce.)
Where: Starting in Bruce's Bonetown apartment.
When: Sukkardi, midday.
Warnings: None currently.

No matter how strong you are, spending a morning moving furniture (and up stairs, which is about as much fun as trying to get a goat to back down them, not that this is something he's ever actually done) is a pain in the arse. It could be worse, and for all that he's quiet and a bit of an odd thing, Tom's sort of good company; curious company, anyway. Seoraj isn't entirely sure what to make of him - sometimes he's sure they're getting on, and conversation is easy (if sometimes strange), and then other moments he can't tell what's going on in the other man's head but he can tell he's not invited to the party.

He's mostly opted to err on the side of letting Tom tell him to push off if he wants to. He hasn't, yet.

Comments

[caballero]

It's skirting some serious issues of laughable denial when Bruce speaks of the easy duplicity of communication when he's up to his neck in it at all times, particularly sitting across the table from someone who - unlike anyone else he's met in Baedal - sees through so many without any effort. Bruce still hasn't sorted out exactly why he's continuing to play along with this; he is rarely prone to morbid curiosity. Then again, he's never prone to taking white collar jobs while picking at fight clubs in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt, so maybe he's just ... blending in.

Unhelpfully: "Homophones."

[serjeant]

"I don't know what a one of them is," Seoraj says, unconcerned by his own ignorance on this point, "but I know 'what can I do for you' and 'what would you like from me here' don't tell a person the same thing."

[caballero]

It's better that Seoraj doesn't know what it means; Bruce's utter inability to be funny can go unnoticed. (For now.)

Still, he looks vaguely sheepish about it, both for making a crack about wordplay and making it in the face of Seoraj being otherwise quite apt. It's all right, he doesn't mind looking like that.

"We think we can fool people, all the same."

... Indeed.

[serjeant]

"Sometimes we can." Some people don't think about it so much; they don't think about the things they broadcast about themselves in the words they choose in conversation, either. "Other times-" A laugh, here, quiet over his tea; a low sound, like he draws the listener in to hear it. "We think we can do a lot of things, people."

[caballero]

"Sometimes we get away with it, too."

People are capable of anything. Anything. It's both beautiful and terrifying; from the smallest gesture to the broadest atrocity.

... The little things seem more relevant, at the moment. He rubs his thumb over the rim of his cup, refraining from curiously chipping at the edge of the glaze against the clay with his fingernail.

They could be talking about anything.

[serjeant]

"Sometimes we don't." The way Seoraj says it, it's like both of these possibilities are just interesting to him; there's no value judgement, no edge, nothing like a warning. It's just an observation, thoughtful-- you learn nothing if you never extend yourself, if you never overextend yourself, if you never let yourself make a mistake.

He's made some fun mistakes over the course of his life, too.

[caballero]

Some men can't afford to make mistakes, no mater how overextended they might be.

(It's rare that Bruce's instincts don't agree with his head.)

For a while it looks like he's going to say something, both in the companionably quiet heartbeats, and the time it takes for him to down some more of his tea. But then their food shows up and whatever hung on an edge there has dissipated by the time the waiter leaves them again, and all he's doing is peering curiously at his plate.

[serjeant]

Food diverts Seoraj's attention-- he doesn't peer so much as dive right into, spearing a few things with his fork and tasting, rolling the unfamiliar textures over his tongue and trying, despite knowing the pointlessness, to identify some of the tastes. The spices are alien, but he likes the effect, and he's wondering if the crispness of the cooked vegetables (contrast with tender meat that almost falls apart) is about the method or the plant structure.

The portions are generous enough he'll probably end up taking some of this home with him in a box, which suits him fine. Leftovers are perfectly good, and his own cooking skills are a little more basic. (He does make good bread.)

"That's the one downside of all Baedal's variety," he says, reflectively, after swallowing. "Can't try everything." ...some of it is poisonous to humans.

[caballero]

Leftovers are for other people. (Other people who don't have the kinds of metabolisms that support the insanity of Batman.) Bruce eats with the sort of precision that suggests long-ingrained manners training, even if the finite edges and fiddly details have been worn away. He has a handy ability to inhale food at an alarming rate but not actually appear to be doing any such thing.

"Food allergies are a mundane thing anywhere," is his observation in response as he picks apart something on his plate to inspect the individual components. Some people just don't do well with certain things, no matter how normal they are. Shellfish, processed food... NyQuil.

[serjeant]

"Like my sister and cheese," Seoraj observes, popping something in his mouth and adding after he swallows, "mind you, it's the rest of the house as suffers that."

...the man is all class, with his fart jokes at his sister's expense. (He loves her dearly.)

[caballero]

It takes Bruce a second to get that - not because he is so high brow but because he's just bad at expecting conversation to go anywhere whimsical. He's bad at it. So when it does congeal in his head he just gives a lofty look like he is so above that joke.

(He's not. He's plainly trying not to laugh when he takes another pull from his tea.)