The floor kicks up dust.

The walls are old but clean, and the guard is old but smiles. The doors creak and sway and sport polished handles, but no one ever vacuums. This is comforting, somehow, comforting and somehow very secret.

Cy smiles. Easy smile. He likes it here, likes that he has free reign these days. Eyes bright and clear, posture confident. Back straight, slow comfortable curve into his tailbone, shoulders molded into a dancer's hesitant perfection. Legs balanced carefully against the slants in the floor, slants he knows by heart. Almost by heart. Past the door, past the guard (he smiles, the guard smiles, there's a nod exchanged and Cy drops off his bag), into the foyer. The snack machine is broken. It's always broken, but Cy kicks it and it creaks. The repairman was supposed to come a month ago.

Stretch. He doesn't need to stretch, doesn't particularly like it most nights but find it comforting when he has nothing else to do. He entertains the thought of being the only guy able to catch the sound booth should it collapse, heroic Hulk actions and his chest puffs up. Thomas has his own illusions of grandeur.

There's a hallway, a curve, and the lobby opens up. Hates the lobby, mostly. Too many staircases and not enough stairwells, all bright and exposed like a tourist attraction. Can't remember what he's doing here other than getting out of the evening air, thick clean-toxic stuff that it is. There's a bench by the telephone and he sits, watching the door. Pretending Magneto will come in and he'll be protected by forgetting to wear a belt this morning. Pretending he doesn't realize he hasn't been cast for anything much in months, and that his future will walk in the door any second.

In the other direction, a doorknob rattles. The door, leading from one of the maze-like backstage hallways, opens and someone who can be described as everyone's future walks out. His worn boots make little noise on the floor.

His skin is white-pale, a stark contrast to his clothing, which is predominantly black. He wears slightly faded black bellbottoms that fit fairly snugly against his thin legs to the knee, then flare out, as the name would suggest. Over this is a short black miniskirt, which he manages to wear in a not-too-effeminate way. It's held up by a studded belt. Over this is a faded black tee-shirt with a similarly faded white logo on it-- it looks like it might be the "hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil" monkeys. Finally, the sleeves of a skin-tight fishnet shirt run down his arms, out from under the tee. His hair is as white as his skin, spiked casually. His eyes are odd-- white whites, and a black ring around a white iris. In all, a rather ghostly effect.

He closes the door behind him and then pauses, glancing towards the young man in the lobby, staring at the main doors.

He was, apparently, watching for his future at the wrong damn door.

Couples passed, typical late-night shopper groups and a small crowd of well-dressed patron-of-the-arts types. He watched them with polite overinterest, cataloging movements, recording facial expressions. He needed a camera, or maybe a sketchpad.

Cy couldn't sketch to save his life.

Though suspiciously lacking in the 'sixth sense' field, Thomas was still trained to react to stimuli and expectation. So after a moment of Death-watchage he turns, mind instinctively rolling over his prompts. Enter stage left, move downstage right when the King falls. Did he miss a cue? Forget a line?

A frown. The guy's looked over, considered. Ingrained criteria, flash judgement. Good posture, but it looked accidental. Thin frame. Did he come out of that door, or was he standing there? Costume didn't fit in with the theatre's current projects. Probably his natural clothing. Audience member? Next show was in an hour.

The fishnets are registered slowly, a surprised afterthought. Another full-body sweep, unabashed, and Cy's jaw clenches with distaste. The kid wasn't a techie, wasn't an actor. He was just some fuckwit standing around where he oughtn't. Some fuckwit in a skirt, which he couldn't bring himself to seethe over but at least spurred a healthy dislike.

Eyes shift away and Cyril's glaring out at the door, petty, willing the guy to leave. To walk out. Get out of his space, his life, and go clubbing where he'd obviously be more welcome.

One corner of the stranger's mouth twitches and pulls up into a half-smile. His eyes don't leave Cy, even when the young man turns back around, away from him.

He rubs a long, thin hand over his wrist and a few more gaudy black and silver bracelets appear. They condense like black smoke around his other wrist and hist neck, as well, just to add a bit of... extra flair.

And then, he moves forward, his gait casual. White fingers gribthe back of the bench beside Cyril, and he pauses.

"Mind if I sit down?"

He doesn't manage to keep his slight amusement out of his voice. Possibly, he isn't trying.

Yes.

He's screaming it with his mind and his shoulders and his back, spine rigid-straight the closer the hand gets. And there's nervousness there, too, gradeschool fear of offending someone with connections. Someone with power, brawn, and he could take this kid down but that doesn't mean there wouldn't be anyone behind him.

So he exhales. And he's still tense, and watching the door, and his fingers pick at each other to keep from ripping into nail. And he swallows.

"Go 'head."

Part of him wants to add 'It's a free country', but sometimes it isn't. So he doesn't, and he glares, and he looks like a kid sent to the corner for talking in class, edging to the side of the bench to give the guy room. More room. As much as he wants.

He'll leave in a minute, he thinks, watching the sidewalk not go anywhere. He'll leave any second now, and then he won't come back.

The stranger sits down and proceeds to take up exactly as much room as Cyril gives, hooking his elbows over the back of the bench, resting one ankle on the other knee and leaning back. His jewellery makes clinking noises. His clothing rustles and pulls tighter.

"Thanks. Y'look bored."

He doesn't, really... not anymore. But he did, so the stranger says it anyways. There's still that hint of amusement in his voice.

Teeth click, slow saliva reverberations. Cy's mouth tastes sweet, cloying, and he wonders what he's eaten today.

"Not bored. Jus' sitting."

And that's that, and when Az shifts he shifts, and gets tighter, and winds up more. And any second now he'll probably explode, but until then he stares at the door like he has telescopic vision and tries to ignore the guy next to him. Guy in a skirt. God, look at the door.

Azrael is still grinning. After brief consideration, he shifts again into a more effeminate position. He isn't as comfortable, but it will likely bother the mortal unnish more. Leg down, legs crossed at the ankle, knees together. Hands in his lap.

"Nothing to do?"

He moves the arm closest to Cyril back out of the lap and drapes it over the back of the bench again.

It's probably obvious by now that he's just being annoying. But, then again, maybe not...

There's a release in his jaw as he clenches it, slow count-down-from-ten that looses track. Feels saliva rush against his molars, swallows again, stares harder at the door. A guy across the street trips and Cy closes his eyes, calmed.

"None of your business."

Another inch away from the guy, guy-in-a-skirt, stupid fucking goth, and he crosses his arms. Wonders why he didn't before. Elbows out, primitive guard. His adam's apple bobs at his throat like bait. He crushes it down.

A grin.

"You think?" Not really challenging him, just challenging his view. Not really Azrael's business?

He's in a real 'bastard' mood today.

"I.."

Tongue over his teeth, forcing the muscles in his face to relax. Jaw to drop. Bad for your voice to sit like that, too, and he sits looser. More naturally. And he's just coaching himself, now, coaching himself into a person he wouldn't mind being. And he manages to be polite, but not smile, and turns to the kid (looking him over, again) and he finally asks, because if he doesn't his brain will spill out his damned ears.

"Seriously. What do you want?"

And he's curious, too, genuinely wondering under the annoyance and small bravado. And he's waiting for an answer like it means the world to him and he'll bolt the second he hears it. Because that's how he always looks when he waits.

Azrael pauses for a moment. He considers saying 'you' and watching the kid flip out, but decides to be slightly more honest.

"To sit and have a conversation. Why? Worried I'll start hitting on you?"

Not much less provocative, though. Provocative in the "possibly provoke a fight and/or rude reaction" sense of the word.

Pupils dilate, at that, subtle scientific eye-widening that no actor learns to bypass. They play it backstage, too - who can look the most subtly in-tune with their script. It's more a film thing than a stage thing, but some of their goals bypass sitting on a bench in the middle of a crap cold evening talking to some goth guy. Goth guy in a skirt. Jesus.

Swallows, again, trying to get his mouth to form words that don't consist of 'uh' or 'guh'. It takes a second longer than he'd hoped.

"No. Wasn't quaking in my boots over that."

Jaw works, further, as if it's not sure quite what to do. He can feel the ache in the back of his neck start, typical stress cramp, and Cy's trying his best not to just react. Which would probably consist of bad, awkward things he will ignore now.

"Conversation 'bout what?"

Schooled features and the interest fades, body shifting back towards the doors. He's studied body language, studied the way people hold themselves when they want to convey just about anything. So he realigns himself, all practiced shifts and slides and he's away from the arm, now, further away and watching the door like that guy, that dork yuppie guy that tripped, is really the secret to the life, the universe, and everything.

And knowing Cy's luck, he probably is.

A shrug. A non-threatening smile. At least, what he considers to be a non-threatening smile.

"Life." Pause, consider. "Anything."

The stranger relaxes his posture again, uncrossing his legs, adopting the casual pose he'd held before.

Watches him, in reflection from the door and then in real-time, shifting slightly. Uncomfortable at the proximity, but calmer.

A small smile.

"Anything?"

A contemplative, scholarly look back at the door. And he just looks like a kid, now, like some dork teen who's sitting in a lobby next to a guy in a skirt and fishnets, watching the door.

"In an all-out battle, who'd win? Sonic or Knuckles?"

And his eyes, dull shiny things, shift back to the guy and smile widens. Barely. Maybe.

Immediate answer. "Oh, Sonic, no doubt at all."

White fingers rise and snap to show decisiveness on the subject. Or maybe how fast Sonic would win. Or maybe just because he can.

The expression fades, back to a slow distaste. Yeah, he could fake the question too. God, fucker, he's wasting his time sitting here talking to this guy, this stupid pretentious guy that doesn't even have a reason to be here and he ignores the fact that neither does he. Because it hurts. And, god damn, but he wants to have something to do, put his hands into. Reach deep into the workings of something good and pull.

And he sneers at the guy next to him, standing, too much respect to just shove him back against the bench. Too much pride, maybe. And he needs to get his back, his stuff - books, binders, clothes. God, damn, he hates this. This night, this everything. And he wants something to do, so he stands. And turns.

"Just.. shut up, okay?"

And he wants to make a dramatic exit, slamming back into the wings, bowels of the building. But that way requires drama, and exits, and slamming and all of this has just made him weary. Tired-pissed off-mad, arms sluggish and his neck is aching worse like the vertebrae's bruised, giant flesh-eating tumor of bacteria eating away his bone. And there isn't. He doesn't think. So he just walks, towards the door, and bashes himself bodily against it.

'Push' the little plaque says. And he does. And he wants to look back at the guy and glare, or throw a shoe or something, but really he just wants fresh air.

"It might be stuck."

Someone more observant might have heard the undertones of I don't think I'll ever understand mortals. That observant person would probably have to be innish, but the undertone's still there.

He ignores the order to shut his mouth.

His head falls forward, resting against the pane of glass. It's cool, but not cold, and right now he just wants to feel the winter air sink it. It's all artificial warmth in here, and the sweat along Thomas's arms is repulsive to him.

"Nnh," he says succinctly, and bashes his forehead against door for good measure.

There's barely a movement of air, but there's a shift in the sense of the room. one of the innate abilities of humans is to pinpoint the positions of others without looking-- you can usually tell when someone else is there without looking, if you're paying attention.

Az is now behind Cy. This becomes especially obvious when he speaks.

"Escape not an option?"

Startled movement and he's against the door, again, push-handle digging into his ribs. Breath erratic, innate ability or not. And he swallows, again. Again, hard.

"I.. yeah. They lock up inbetween shows."

Doesn't bring up that this means Az shouldn't be there, not at all but he doesn't want to turn around because that means looking at him. Proximity warning, Captain. His shoulders are tense, again, tenser. Cy's a solid repeat performance and his neck aches, head aches, pushing against the door because he can feel the guy looking at him. The scrutiny. And the longer he's against the glass the warmer it becomes, no longer offering anything like relief and digging away to a slow, dull warmth.

And then Azrael's leaning against the glass beside Cy, far enough away that the other can't feel his body heat, though it's possible that that's because he doesn't have any. He's not looking at the kid anymore.

"You're really tense, you know that?"

Fast exhalation and a choke of laughter, quick sob of a laugh that could be called hysterical had there been more force behind it.

"So I've been told," he says, and he has been told. Presses himself further against the glass as if maybe, maybe he could just escape through it.

"Y'aren't going to offer me a massage, are you?"

His breath is steaming up the glass and he closes his eyes against it, leaving cro magnum imprints and a thin, cool residue across the bridge of his nose.

"No... why, do you want one?"

Azrael's eyes are still open, not looking at Cy. What a pair they must make.

Too far gone, he thinks. Too far gone now to even care, so he smiles and drowns himself in the humid warmth of his own breath.

"Wouldn't mind."

He's relaxed, now, relaxed in the way that he's taught himself how to react. And he's watching the guy, side-corner vision, peripheral blur that tells him what he needs to know. Where his weight is balanced, where the hinge of the door is. When to duck, and turn, and run if he became a threat.

Past the point of tight muscles, this is the clarity he enjoys. Bright crystal-clear moments, fragments, the kind you achieve a second before waking up. So he's less cautious, more watchful - recording instead of creating, auto-pilot until he's back in familiar territory. This, he thinks, is what people call living, but he's too far gone and just smiles, moisture licking along his eyelashes. His neck aches and in his mind he imagines the spinal fluid building up to an eruption of plasma, book-memory supplying the details as he absently logs the names of spinal diseases. Muscles shift, tighten more appropriately. Flight responses.

Too far gone to even care.

"I thought you might." A pause. "Mind, that is."

Azrael shifts positions slightly, rolling to lean against the door on his shoulder, facing Cy and giving him a scrutinizing look.

"You know..." he says, reaches out a thin arm, "You really need to be more... flexible."

He pats Cyril lightly on the shoulder. He fingers are ice-cold and somehow heavy, despite the lightness of the touch.

Shoulder raises to the touch, eyes dull and reflecting themselves against the window. A car speeds past, uninterested, and he tries to catch the license plate.

"Plenty flexible."

The cold feels good as it seeps through clothing to skin, and he relaxes against it. Willing it to freeze his body. The license plate started with RX, but he can't remember the rest of it.

Small smile, glossed with the window's perspiration.

"Very flexible, act'lly."

An arm raises, his left, slow-calm-smooth, to rest between his forehead and the door. Does his best not to jar the other hand, the guy's hand, away. The cool had reached his skin and he was calmer, there, calmer than the rest of his body where the muscle ached into a slow relaxation.

Azrael nods and lifts himself off the glass, moving just behind Cy. The cold hand moves away for a second, then comes back, joined by another similarly cold hand. It seems he's up to the offer of a massage.

His fingers are stronger than they look, and he seems good at finding the right places to put them.

"Are you." he says. It's less a question than a re-statement of fact.

"Neh," he says in response, and the words die down to a low hum, thick in the back and moving liquid down his diaphragm. Rib cage expands, contracts, slow breaths and goosebumps along his wrists. Cold fingers, cool palms, and part of him is holding on a conversation but that part doesn't come out.

He considers, briefly, their appearance and who might be watching. An usher, maybe, paid not to care. Another actor. A techie. And Cy doesn't care, not really, not at all because this heathen part of him, this sinful spiteful side wants the feeling and the backlash. He wants someone to berate him for standing in the lobby without ID showing, or pressing up against the glass. Thin, fogged-over glass that only gets cleaned every few weeks. Cy wants someone to approach them, demand an explanation. Tear him away and call him names. Tell him he's wrong, just so he has something to argue with.

But that? That comes later. That comes when he's a sentient life-form again, not a shell of muscle and bone attempting to liquefy itself under a massage by some random guy. Random goth guy, in fishnets, fishnet shirt and a skirt.. skirt. And a massage. And thinking comes later.

The icy fingers move up to work the muscles of the neck, then down to the shoulders and then down again to the shoulder blades. They don't warm up with the contact or the friction.

Behind, Azrael smiles but doesn't respond, as the young man's conversation energy seems to be draining.

The vibes are wrong, here, really they are and he tries to bring himself to care. To wake up, maybe, because this wouldn't be an alien dream to him. The glass warming against his chest, the hands cold against his back. A study in contrast. A study in avoidance, because really he doesn't do this. Good as it feels. And he's trying, really trying to notice or care or dismiss it entirely, but it's getting harder to form thoughts. Words.

"Gnn," he says. Slow, the syllable sticking between his teeth. Head tilted, tilting - looking at something, at him, at the guy and really, he's okay with this. Okay with this loss of control. And to show it he's pulling away, getting power back - distance and shifted weight, back sliding against the door. Leverage. And he might still be dreaming, still studying this contrast of reaction over thought, instinct and passive-aggresivity, but mostly he's shifting. Moving. Bringing himself up, spine straightened, with this noise in his throat that sounds like hatred. But it isn't on his face.

"Thanks," he says, and it sounds like he means it. Word slurred against his tongue, eyes still wide and glossed. But really, he's moving. Inches. Miles. And you can see it in his mouth, tightening line, jaw working. Straining the smile, this genuine-looking smile, real comfort-joy shadowed by this desperate need to leave.

"I'm always ready to help," he says, in reply to the thanks. The stranger shifts himself away from cy, too, studying the other man. The mortal.

He refrains from saying any number of other things. He's not going to traumatize the kid... well, not right now, at least.

A nod, and he's backing away. Lion tamer movements, collected and calm but always, always afraid. Don't let the fear show, they can smell it, you're in control and he's gone, away, the Force is restored the carpet is slick and he doesn't look back. Into the hallways, the stairwells, the backrooms and through the foyer, the exit-entrance, door and a nod at the guard and his bag and he's gone.

And he only looks back once.