Logs:Art and Business

From NOLA: The Game that Care Forgot
Jump to: navigation, search


Art and Business


Characters: Miles, Tris
Date: 2019-11-26
Summary: Miles and Tris meet in Jackson Square. They exchange conversation and cards, and maybe confidences? Maybe not.
Disclaimers: {{{disclaimers}}}

Jackson Square rarely lacks for activity. The veritable sea of humanity in staggered attendance on today's offerings of vendors, artists and performers with their varied feats of the dull to the improbably magical is no different than it would be on any other mid morning just as the foot traffic is picking up from just tourists and those with time to spare to those who work a job and swing this way on a lunch break or other midday excursion. Not everyone is here to work, or even lunch. A beignet hardly counts as a meal, especially not for a leanly muscular man in his late twenties in a rumpled designer tee and artistically distressed designer jeans. For all that he isn't doing anything spectacular, standing as he is with the beignet in one hand and the other resting on a camera case slung across his chest, Tris still stands out in the crowd. It's more than his striking good looks, it's that his expression holds the touch of wistful ennui that marks him as a man apart, alone in the crowd. The man's dark blue eyes don't appear to be latched on to any one act of daring do, or even drawn to any particular trinket or sundry, but his gaze wanders from one thing to another and yet another, searching.

A man like Miles has a tendency to stand out from the crowd, if not always for the better. He's not a tall man at five foot nine, but there's a presence to him that helps make up for it. He's wearing a gray three piece suit, dark leather oxfords, and a dark blue bowtie, and he looks damned good in it. But, well, white dude in a suit isn't everyone's cup of tea. Especially along a row of vendors where he's wandering, looking, but perhaps for nothing in particular.

The dark blue eyes of the man with the beignet latch onto the suit, onto the man in it. The confection is pressed between his lips to be polished off in one large mouthful while his hands follow the practiced route to loose the camera in his case and draw it out. There's every possibility that a man even as impeccably attired as Miles did not have "candid model" on his to do list for this morning, and yet... There's a snick as the shutter activates, capturing an illicit image. Tris looks down at the small screen before glancing upwards toward the sky and then squinting to seek his target again.

Photographers in Jackson Square are not particularly unusual. Ones with any particular interest in him are a bit more unusual. When Tris looks for his target again, Miles is watching him. Maybe he knows that taking pictures of people who are paying attention to their picture being taken are not ideal subjects. Maybe he just sees an attractive guy paying attention to him. Either way, Mile turns to continue walking at a casual pace, turning his back on the photographer.

A few more clicks capture Miles' face before he turns away, the photographer evidently undaunted by being spotted. Maybe candid isn't what Tris is after. One of the glories of digital photography and a large enough memory card is the possibility of endless shots and more are taken as the other man moves along. The brunette doesn't let him get too far before the camera's being hastily shouldered on its sturdy strap and he's quickening his feet to follow. Falling into step beside his stylish subject, he offers the obvious opening line. "Nice suit. Happen to have your tailor's card to hand?" There's something in the way this man speaks that doesn't quite line up with his outward appearance, but then, there are those gossamer lines catching the sunlight and reflecting along his neck, around his ears and under his jaw. He doesn't step too close to the stranger, but he keeps a comfortably conversational distance as he adjusts his camera for a more secure hold on the device.

"Thank you, but no. I don't have a card. My tailor isn't local, so I'm not sure it would do you much good, anyway," says Miles, unsurprised by the photographer's appearance beside him. It takes the Fairest a moment to even look at the other man, dark eyes scanning around before settling on Tris. "It's generally considered rude to take pictures of strangers without their consent, you know. Why are you taking my picture?"

Tris is moving just far enough away from Miles that the touch of heat surrounding him can only barely be felt, making the winter day slightly less crisp in his immediate vicinity. It probably explains the tee-shirt. "It's better to ask forgiveness than permission." The quote is intoned in a way that suggests it's a life philosophy as much as a common platitude. "Would you like to give me your consent for the shots?" There is something to suggest that as serious as the question is posed, it's unlikely that an answer of "no" will result in any action to undo what's already done. As to the why, the taller man's shoulder rolls slightly in a half shrug. "You seemed worth it." That could be taken a variety of ways, but it seems earnest as comments go and Tris can even flash a charming smile to accompany the words.

Miles would almost certainly point out that it's still autumn if he knew to, but he is helping to add to the crispness, holding summer at bay if only just. It's probably the heat that has him considering the young man with a touch more intensity, to be fair. "Not particularly. What are you going to use them for?" Worth it? If that's supposed to flatter him, Miles doesn't seem flattered. He does seem suspicious. "Do you live here?"

"Not sure," Tris might be surprised at his own candor, but he shrugs. "Once, it would've been because you were wearing a fine suit and that probably meant your name meant something and might be worth something to someone, somewhere. Now... Everything's different." There's another shrug almost like that was more than he meant to say, more that he knew he even felt. "I always wonder how much the lens will see." He still doesn't shift to put the camera away. "I live here now." This implies much but explains little, but then he's probably already said more than enough for the moment.

"My name means nothing. I just like suits." In case the other man was actually wondering. And they suit him, too, (haha) so it all works out. "They don't see much, in my experience. Not unless they've been touched by fae somehow." Saying it makes Miles look at the lens before arching a brow at the younger man. Has it been? "If that thing can see me," through his mask, he means, "I'm going to need you to delete any pictures you took of me."

The smile that touches Tris' lips is small and melancholy. It's really too deep an expression for a face so relatively youthful and a body that looks like it would fit better in a dance club than here in this park. "It can't. I can." That's not a surprise to Miles though, is it? Tris doesn't seem to think it would be judging by the shrug. "I'm called Tris," he offers. "If you ever hear of a camera that can capture that kind of image, I'm first in line." He looks down at his camera briefly as they stroll, "If I can't capture it, is it real?" It's not really a question for Miles, just for the air, the universe. Obviously it has one answer and Tris already knows it, even if he might wish it otherwise. His eyes roam the vendor wares a moment before he asks, "Have you lived here long?"

"I suppose what with photo manipulation these days, it might not be as dangerous as it once was." Ah, technology, making everything weird so the Wyrd can hide in plain sight. "Miles," he returns his name in kind. "Miles Norwood. And, no. No one has, from what I understand. None of us, at least. I've been here a week and I'm both surprised and delighted by how many of us I've met so far. A little in awe at how settled some already are." The last is admitted like he's talking to a friend, not a man he's just met under suspicious circumstances.

"There's an idea," Tris seems to be taking this off-hand remark as something much more. Miles may have, however inadvertently, pointed the photographer down a particularly intriguing or potentially dangerous career path. "I haven't really met anyone. You're the first. Unless you count... but she's not one of us." That seems to all be a rather confusing muddle of half-finished thoughts, but the brunette is quick to dismiss that all with another shrug. "I'm still getting settled." He frowns slightly at some flicker of thought that goes unshared. "What do you do, Miles? Aside from wear suits."

"No," is Miles' only response to anything being an idea. It's not a demand so much as a 'that's not what I meant' sort of counter, though. "Settled is good. I'm working on that myself, staying in a hotel," he waves vaguely in the direction it must be, but there's no hotel within view, so it's pretty useless as gestures go. "Consulting, mostly. Boring stuff," he offers a flicker of a smile, brief and just self deprecating enough. "Is this what you do?" he glances at the camera.

Is it really any wonder that Tris' eyebrows lift in a way that holds just a touch of mischief and an expression that might communicate "no take backs" without saying such childish words aloud? His expression breaks into a grin though, so that's something for all these people who have lost so much. Maybe if the man were a Spring such an unbridled look might not be a rare thing, but the heat that becomes that much more noticeable as he steps slightly closer to his now-companion marks him surely as Summer through and through. "One of my people," he gives an equally useless vague gesture, "arranged an apartment for me." He shrugs a little, "It's fine, I guess. A hotel might be better." This seems to be an idea the photographer is also considering for reasons beyond any offered aloud. "Stuff you find boring or stuff you think I'd find boring?" The inquiry is made curiously, with some amount of vested interest in the answer. "This is what I do." Tris might not just be talking about the camera, he might be talking about walking in a park with a stranger. Maybe that's something that got him into trouble to begin with-- or maybe it's not, since he can still do it now without obvious trepidation if a healthy amount of caution.

Miles might stand up a little straighter, if that's even possible, as the heat comes closer. It's not tension, exactly, just bracing against such an opposing force. "Why would a hotel be better than an apartment? I have nothing against decent hotels, but there's something to be said for having a space of your own." No surprises that a man of Winter might like to have a private space to call his own over the transient nature of hospitality services. "Stuff you'd find boring, I'm sure." Miles eyes the camera again, "Art and business aren't the most compatible of bedfellows." And clearly he's taken Tris for an artist, not a businessman.

"You might be surprised. Opposites attract sometimes." Tris' smile is there again, but in a form that has his lips pressed together and the warmth of it really in his dark blue eyes. His free hand moves to push through that hair that persists in flopping down over his face. "You should try explaining it to me sometime." That time doesn't need to be now, evidently, since the younger man moves on. "You're probably right about a private space. They might clean up after a person in a hotel, but then there's all those unpredictable staff in and out. Not the best move for personal security." The way his eyes shift off of Miles and scan the other people they're moving past makes it plain that that's something frequently on his mind, as is only right and fair. "You look like you could afford something in the building I live in. It's a place downtown called The Aquitane. Maybe you've heard of it. If you're looking for something more permanent." That crazy luxurious 20-storey building in the central business district lived in by the rich and the super rich.

Opposites attract, do they? Miles turns his head to flicker a look down and up the younger man, perhaps trying to decide if the Summer is capable of subtlety or if he's projecting it onto him. "Perhaps," for explaining anything. Then, "It's inconvenient to need to be there every time they clean the room. I barely have anything there, but I'm uncomfortable with people having free access to my space, too." So he compromises, letting the staff clean while he watches like a weirdo. They probably think he's some kind of perv. "I might have a preference for a proper house, but. I'll look into it, thank you."

An easy smile meets Miles' study of the photographer, even eye contact. Those are both things that point to the possibility of the ability to play certain kinds of games as they do a naivety about such things. "There's a pool on the roof," Tris offers as a selling point, smile going a little wider, perhaps trying to picture stately Miles unwinding with a poolside drink (probably pink, or blue and definitely with a tiny umbrella). "Anyway, if you want to see what the apartments are like without bothering with the formalities, you can always come 'round mine. It's not the best example, but if you let me know enough in advance I might be able to make it..." He shrugs because there are too many possibilities for how that sentence can end.

Miles can't quite stifle, or perhaps sees no reason to stifle, a short laugh at the mention of a pool. "I would be interested in seeing an example of the apartments before willingly giving their sales team my contact information." The pool might not be very incentivizing, but he won't say that out loud. "Let me give you my card. I'd like to be in touch regardless. We've been on the lookout for a man of your," a beat to consider his words, "Intensity." Miles draws his wallet out, a soft, dark leather, and produces a dark card that says simply: Miles Norwood. A phone number is beneath his name, and both are surrounded by black embossed rose bushes reminiscent of a hedge.

Tris' fingers linger on his camera a moment before he pauses in their path to slip is off and tuck it away into his case with care but the ease of long-practice. From a pocket in the case, he produces a similar card, to the one he receives from Miles. "Who is 'we'?" is as fair a question as they come, but the photographer is distracted examining the design of the card. His is matte black on high quality paper, the words standing out in white: 'D. Kesel' with a line beneath, 'Kesel Holdings, Photographer' and a phone number. Before handing it over, however, he's fishing back into his case, sliding the businessman's card away and producing a pen that writes in white ink an apartment number on the back of the card. He doesn't insult this man by writing the name of the building, too. The pen returns home and he zips the case to wave the card in the air a few times to help that special ink dry before offering it toward the shorter man.

Miles pauses with him, turning in his direction to watch the quasi-ritual. "We. The Lost of New Orleans. Those of us who've connected in some way, at least. We intend to form a freehold. Naturally." That doesn't explain why they'd be interested in a man like Tris explicitly, but Miles might just assume he knows. He eyes the card, flips it over once, then places it into his wallet, which is slipped back from whence it came. "Kesel sounds familiar," he muses, but he might have to think on why. Or google it later. "If you need anything, feel free to contact me. If I can't personally assist, I can almost certainly find someone who can. And I'll be in touch." About the apartment. He glances at the Rolex on his left wrist, the one with the rose branch trying to wrap around it, "If you'll excuse me, I have a meeting I need to get to. But it's been a pleasure meeting you, Tris."

"Mm," isn't a terribly informing rumble from the younger man about... well, anything. Possibly it's just because that might be a much longer conversation better suited to locations not thronging with humanity and otherwise. He's jostled slightly by one such passerby, toward Miles but the photographer stops himself from bumping into the man, only just. There's that warmth intensifying with his proximity but he rocks back and then steps back. "Thanks," is the rest of the response Miles' words earn from Tris, with an enigmatic, "Likewise," before he's stepping further back to physically withdrawal from the conversation even if Miles is the one doing the leaving. The man's dark blue gaze follows the suited businessman as he goes, but the camera remains shuttered away, so if any images are remembered from this moment, they're only in Tris' memory.