papapink | PSL for dreadnaughtfist

Pembe had had a series of unfortunate happenstances - that had ended up with him rather... homeless, and then taken in by a rather overlarge man. ... While there were several problems Pem could have really had with this arrangement, he'd done his best to take it all in stride. He was used to sudden change - it was how he'd lived his life up 'til now... though he'd hardly interacted with the other man other than polite introductions and a bit of idle chatter after convincing him that him staying there was better than a shelter. It'd only been a day or two since he'd... "moved in" (which was such a stretch of the phrase, considering the most he'd done was bring his clothes, camera, a small box of particularly random junk, and his cat... Assuming Potemkin had no problem with animals, of course. Gren was a fearless little scottish fold, as it were. As irresponsible as he felt moving around so much with a cat in tow, Gren seemed to bear it just fine. Pem generally didn't have much more than that to his name - he'd yet to actually find a job he could settle at, and freelancing had only encouraged his already natural drifter tendencies.)

Of course, Potemkin had... tried to get him to go to a shelter first, but as the cards had laid, it wasn't a particularly good option for Pembe. While he'd considered it, shelters were, for one thing, not a good place for cats (and in spite of it all, he was damn attached to his cat), and two, he was definitely not a fan. It'd taken a bit of convincing; Pembe had had to emphasize that while his things were meager, they were still expensive, and he was willing to assist as a housemate however he could in exchange for a place to stay where he wouldn't have to worry about having someone steal his camera... but he thought it'd gone well, considering that Potemkin had let him stay.

Though he'd promised to assist however he could with Potemkin's daily life... he did feel particularly useless at the moment. His current situation had him on a couch, with Gren bedding in the (now emptied, though it still hadn't had much) aforementioned box of junk. So, instead of giving in to the impulse to continue being useless, Pembe opted to take another option: start trying to do as he promised earlier. Potemkin would soon find himself hunted down by the big ball of pink that was Pembe - hair dye, glasses, and shirt making him... very pink. Pembe was large by most's standards, considering his height of 6'3", but Potemkin sort of outstripped him by leaps and bounds. It was a strange feeling - he rarely had to look up at people. But if he was going to room with Potemkin for long - which he was sort of hoping, given the area was fairly ideal - he'd have to get over it.

"Hey!" He greeted, throwing up a hand in a sort of wave when he caught Potemkin's attention. "I... uh, I was thinking I should get started on that whole business I offered earlier. Chores and all." He suppressed the urge to say he'd felt like a useless lump just because he hadn't started immediately, "You got laundry or... y'know, something I could help out with?" His smile was awkward - living in a house with someone you barely new was always destined to be awkward - but Pembe... was hoping he could at least get to know him, anyway.

Lord only knew if Potemkin's living style was clean and tidy or an utter mess... Judging from the man's bearing, Pem could've bet on either or.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Pembe couldn't help but chuckle a bit at Potemkin's choice in coffee - more because he'd sort of expected the answer, more than anything. Still, when Potemkin turned the menu around - he was kind of amazed by the dexterity Potemkin had with the smaller menu - he nodded.

"I haven't had that here - but it does sound nice, let me tell you." He grinned, "I'll get some, too. I was thinking about coffee, but it'd probably keep me up." He leaned back and looked over some, off into the wings - before offering a wave to someone.

A waitress moved over from where she'd been, off to the side - managing to remain polite and courteous (though she clearly was a bit frazzled, though if it was Potemkin's size and his suited appearance, or Pembe's own size, appearance, and persistent warm smile was anyone's guess,) in spite of the rather present distractions as Pembe placed their orders. He was polite, if not overly friendly - this was apparently a trend of his.

Once she'd left, Pembe settled back in his seat. "'m glad you reminded me hot chocolate exists, though. I haven't had it in sooo long." He chuckled again, "Coffee's the only hot drink at the office. You forget there are others, after a while."

It's a statement that disclosed quite a point by itself. Potemkin knew that Pembe always pushed himself, all while keeping his signature light air, so while Potemkin found that admirable, he was also a little comforted to see him getting a break.

"You're welcome," Potemkin said as he watched the waitress leave. In the meantime there's nothing else to do but wait (and enjoy being inside where there's a heater.) He laid his hands on the table, as much of them as would fit at least, and rapped them idly.

If Pembe knew how Potemkin thought of him - well. He'd probably have been really happy. Everything considered, he ran himself ragged - and while he'd happily picked the life of a journalist, with the ups and downs that came with it, it'd been a while since he'd actually gotten to settle in at a cafe and order something that wasn't caffeinated while working his way through another writeup.

Much less with a friend, but that digressed.

He settled back in his chair, relaxing for a few moments - just enjoying the cafe - and the sight in front of him, if we're being wholly honest. He let out a heavier, relaxed sigh, before leaning forward again. "Hey, Potemkin." He started, "What do you like most about the orchestra?" He had the feeling he knew, but a little conversation didn't hurt. He was clearly trying to make conversation, at least.

Potemkin wasn't going to turn down a chance to talk about music. He almost pounced on Pembe's lead. "In live music you can hear the purest expression of an artist," he went on entering a self-centered sort of reverie. Pembe didn't have to do much more than be a listening post for Potemkin to be appreciative.

"A piece of their soul is given in every sound they create. That is what elevates it into being exquisite. I am not a musician exactly, but I think everyone can appreciate beauty in a form that is so direct to the senses. I think you would be familiar with this, through your photography?"

Pembe didn't have much of an issue - if any at all - with being a listener to Potemkin's reverie. He chuckled at the man's comment, leaning in on one of his arms as he listened. "I've heard the kind of thing you're talking about, yeah."

He shrugged, "I... well, most of my photography's of things I want to remember, or things that make me happy. I think that's enough." He chuckled, awkwardly, "I wouldn't call them art, or beautiful, or anything. I like 'em because they're mine."

If Potemkin had seen any of his personal pictures before, he could probably tell that Pembe was taking them mainly for himself. They were mostly pictures of smiling people or nice sceneries, or more often selfies of the same, after all. "It's different when I'm taking them to be published, but I just kind of try and take pictures I'd like." He chuckled, "Is that the kind of thing you mean?"

"You must have liked those images for some reason," Potemkin said, partially questioning. It might be a little naive, and strange to come out of a man who dealt with some intense stuff in his line of work, but his belief in Pembe is sincere.

"That alone adds the quality of 'yourself' to your pictures," Potemkin said with satisfaction. He might not be the best at expressing it, but he's all for more of Pembe being himself.

Pembe chuckled. It did sound a bit naive - and, a little missing his point, Pembe thought, but that was okay. He chuckled, "I guess you're right, on that one!" He leaned back, smiling some.

"I usually liked those pictures because of the people in them, or the look of the season, but I mean. I guess that's as good of a motive as any, from the sound of it." He chuckled, "I don't really look that deeply into if my pictures are art or not. The label comes with a lot of critical eyes."

Potemkin chewed on that for a moment. He usually disliked the idea of shying from analysis and criticism, since to him that seemed like a way of avoiding potential greatness. He knew that he would be a far way off from his current life if he had made the choice of avoiding the mentors in his life. But that it's Pembe makes him reconsider. Would Pembe be able to exist as he is, if he did feel constrained by watching eyes? It's a contradiction for something to be good for him but not.

Potemkin mulled on the paradox for long enough for their order to come in apparently. In what is one unbroken swirling motion the waitress swooped her arm with their drinks to their table and left on her heel before Potemkin even finished reacting.

"Oh!" Potemkin picked up his cup in his giant hands and started blowing on its top.

If Pembe knew Potemkin's quandaries, he probably would have laughed. He didn't shy from criticism itself - not that it was so easy to describe - but he knew that many people got too critical over what was essentially nothing. He didn't care to deal with that. Pembe certainly couldn't have become himself from avoiding criticism, but he certainly never laid himself out for unasked for criticism.

That was his premise - and he didn't set out to explain it to Potemkin, just watching him work at the idea that clearly had stumped him with a gentle smile. It was honestly endearing.

Pembe was as quick on the pick up as the waitress - giving her a nod and a thank you and taking his cup from her directly, even as she twisted and turned away with a polite smile and a nod in return.

Pembe grinned up at Potemkin, not bothering to blow too much on his own before taking a long drink of it. He let out a low almost rumble, grinning some. "Man, I missed this." He took another sip, "If you'd told me there were drinks that were sweet instead of bitter a few days back, I'd have called you a liar." He was clearly joking, from the grin on his face - but he did mean it, even if it was a bit facetious. He'd missed hot chocolate, as much as he hadn't realized it, and he was dang happy to remember it again.

PSL for dreadnaughtfist

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject