The theatre isn't being used at the moment. Oh, there's hustle and bustle off somewhere else, of course... but not here, in the actual theatre itself. The stage is dark, as is the room. Just a few emergency lights provide illumination, making sure that no one who wanders in will trip over their own feet and mess up the lovely floors with their blood.

There is someone sitting directly underneath one of these lights, slouched in a seat. This someone is barely moving, but their presence is betrayed by the scritch of pencil over rough sketch paper.

The figure appears to be male. His hair is brown-black and hangs in loose curls all over his head. His skin is light brown, coppery almost. A pair of glasses perches on his nose-- thick-framed glasses, square and black and currently somewhat trendy. A brown winter coat, lined with off-white fleece, is thrown over the bck of the chair beside him. He, himself, wears a close-fitting black ribbed turtleneck sweater and a simple pair of jeans.

The pencil in his hand dances over the page, sketching this and that-- the stage, a few hands in different poses, the face of a lesser-known celebrity, a few figures, a pastoral scene.

Scritch scritch.

((Mari? Have Cy join? *Pouty look*))

Cy's watching him.

He wasn't, not to start with, hadn't noticed him or the rest of the world. Safe in his hardware nest, blue floodlights and switches, curled into a chair that was leaking padding onto the floor. Curled into the chair and watching, because that was what the room was for.

God Booth. He used to call it that, when he first started acting. He tried to get into the tech aspect of theatre, tried hard and mostly failed. But he still had a key. A dozen shows in dire need of last-minute help, so he helped. Helped, and got a key. And now, sometimes, he stays here. At night, or during slow days. Curled in the lighting booths, the green room. Showering in the empty dressing rooms. Watching the stage fill and empty, and host young men sitting in the dark, sketching.

Thomas stands, stretching. Slow. Warm and thick with sleep, eyes bright and dilated against the shade. Feels a little like a bum, a little unclean, skin holding the smell of rubber and old cloth, electrical wiring-smell and the aftertaste of coffee. Hair mussed. Clothing twisted around him - no wrinkles, just a soft vise he untangles as his eyes adjust, watching the kid.

The kid. Sketching. Attractive, aesthetic - the scene and the body, feigning polite disinterest until he forgets. Leans forward. Eyes panning, scanning. Registering the scene and he's taking notes even now, how the guy's sitting and how he cheats out to the audience. Instinctively. An actor, maybe (he doesn't recognize him), new or part of the current round of classes.

He suddenly desires light, but doesn't want to disturb him. The guy. Attractive guy, really, focus lingering as he coaxes the door into opening. Out into the house, tilted flooring and it takes him a minute to get his balance, door too loud as it closes.

And he watches him.

If the sketcher notices that he's being observed, he doesn't show it.

Really, he seems absorbed in a world of fantasy-- his mind lost somewhere else, his fingers transmitting scrap images from the other world as he goes. A scene, a person, a dagger, a drop of rain. Fill in shadow. Give it life. Then move on.

This page is almost full, but he sketches in corners, filling the entire thing with randomness and graphite.

Almost as though he's in a trance, he lifts a hand slowly to clear a few curls out of his face.

A smile as the hand brings focus to his hair, a final half-illuminated curl hanging down like Superman. In that light, in that state of mind the theatre becomes a panel. Low and tall and misshapen, Jon in the corner with that blue tone they give Bruce Wayne flashbacks, stage white and crisp and undetailed save for the piles of shadowing placed over every corner.

And Cy? Cy's standing against the back wall, wood-paneling against his shoulder blades and he's in the frame too. An overlay. Along the bottom, he thinks, clean border edges while the guy's fly away. Art state-of-mind, he thinks, and he almost wants to get it down. Grab the kid's book and sketch it out, map the facial expressions and moods and shadows. And he knows he can't. Even in his mind the pen shifts, slides, splashes ink and exaggerated lines. They turn old-style Bizarro, faces all planes and angles and this is bothersome enough to make him step forward.

Into the aisle, where his balance is practiced and slow, and he makes his way down. Along the patterned carpeting, the chairs with donation plaques, the orchestra pit. And he leans against the stage, heavy against the stage with the knowledge that he oughtn't, and he smiles. Just in case the kid looks up. Just in case he doesn't.

The pen pauses over the page for a moment. Maybe he's run out of room...

and then he looks up, quizzically. With the light brown skin and the dark brown hair, his eyes should be an in-between brown, the sort of chocolate brown you think of when people tell you what chocolate is better than. They're not, though-- even from a distance it's obvious that they're light eyes, not dark. They're white, in fact, cold white deadpan eyes that lack the expression the rest of the face conveys.

The eyes settle on Cy, and the sketcher offers a smile in return. friendly, a bit embarrassed to have been caught so absorbed in drawing.

"Hi."

Eyebrows crease a bit at the man's eyes. Wild eyes, he thinks, contacts. Like the goth kid, the other day. A new style, maybe?

This additional piece of information slows the smile, the easy-goingness. Melts away the comfortable stance he had held, fighting distaste and managing a bland discomfort.

"I see your 'Hi' and raise you a 'There'."

He eases some of the pressure off the stage, and stands on his own two feet.

The smile relaxes a bit, broadens a bit. The end of the pencil idly taps against his bottom lip, and he says,

"I see your 'Hi, There' and raise you a 'How are you?'"

The sketchbook is flipped closed, surreptitiously, as he's speaking.

Eyes the book, losing interest as it appears to be, well, a normal sketchbook.

"You want a real answer, or one of those 'Great-how-are-you' answers?"

Small, apologetic smile.

The sketcher gives Cy a curious look, tilting his brown head to one side.

"How about a serious answer?" he replies in an interested and somewhat gentle tone, in response to both the words and the other young man's expression.

Long, quiet exhalation.

"Ah. All right. I.. yeah. Well. To start, I haven't been cast for anything. At all. Big. In.. ages."

A hand to his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Ah, man, that makes me sound like an ass."

"Not really." The sketcher lifts his pencil and chews on the soft rubber eraser for a moment, giving him a shrug.

"It makes you sound like an actor worried about the quality of his work and/or getting a job." He actually says 'and/or,' and gestures with his slightly chewed pencil as he speaks.

Watches the pencil.

"Which is every actor.. ever."

Eyes follow the ridges along to the eraser, to the boy's mouth, and skid up to his face. With only the slightest hint of blood in his cheeks.

"Then don't be ashamed for..." he pauses. "Behaving like an actor." 'Acting like an actor' just doesn't sound right.

The sketcher bobs his head, ducking the other's gaze just slightly.

"Mm."

Distracted stare that breaks off at the ducking, face flushing.

"So, what's your story?"

Inquisitive look, more at the sketchbook than the guy. Maybe out of some semblance of apology, respect. Embarrassment.

"My story?" The winter-white eyes follow Cyril's gaze and lands on the closed sketchbook.

"Oh." He shrugs, smiles, looks a bit embarrassed again. "Just sketching. Somewhere to sit, something to do."

It had to be asked.

"Can I see?"

A gesture to the book and Cy looks truly curious for the sake of the art, and the guy, not just asking. He also feels like a tool asking for something not offered to him.

Encouraging smile.

The dusky-dark skin seems to get a touch darker, and the guy shrugs, offering over the sketchbook.

"Not really worth looking at," he says. Offering anyways, of course.

The other hand brings the pencil up to his lips and he chews on it again-- softly, barely leaving toothmarks. Something to keep the mouth busy.

This is a challenge, if nothing else. A challenge and he smiles, because challenges can be good, averting his eyes from the pencil and trying not to hear the soft 'gck' of bitten graphite through muscle memory in his jaw.

"Must be good."

A broadish smile and he leafs it open, careful precision with traces of love that hints of first editions or rare comics. Fingertips only along the edges, careful not to bend or smear, eyes absorbing what information the negative space holds.

A glint of admiration or thankfullness appears in the artist's face-- how many times has he had to tell people not to touch the drawing? Tell them not to smudge the pencil?

"Yeah, well, just a few sketches here and there."

The book is full of them.

A long hum exhaled, and it itches his teeth. Cy pokes at the enamel with his tongue.

"You're good."

Statement of fact, not a question or compliment. He leafs through a few more pages, eyeing the shadowing.

"Real question is, of course -"

Flip, flip. Eyes down.

"What're you doin' sketching in an empty theatre?"

Eyes up. Flip, flip. Teeth bared in what could easily pass as a smile.

"Something to do?" the guy suggests, in a tone that asks if it's an acceptable reason instead of stating that it just is.

He slides the pencil behind an ear, above the glasses that curl around his ears, tucked safely behind dark, curly hair.

The white eyes watch Cy.

Shies away from the eyes, instinctively. He never liked colour contacts, especially unnatural ones. His own focus slides across the guy's face, cheek, mouth. Dipping to his neck, and falling safely back to the sketchbook.

"No arguing with that."

His weight has been transferred once more almost completely to the stage, hip resting against a single panel that was doing its best to regain territory, biting hard into his flesh. Cy does a quick scan of the room, distracted.

"Wanna go find somethin'.. else to do?"

Nod towards the house door.

He exhales in an almost-laugh and grins. Nods.

"Yeah... my butt's getting sore sitting here, anyways." The sketcher stands and gestures for Cy to return his sketchbook.

"I'm Jon, by the way. Jonathon Oneiros." It's a greek last name, which goes with the guy's looks.

"Bond. Jame Bond."

Hand out as if to shake on this, obstructed by the sketchbook in a gesture of complacent return.

"Or, Cy."

Transparent lack of a last name, but the tone is warm and a bit of Bond accent lingers. His eyebrows raise in a half-playful gesture, and he shifts restlessly on his feet.

"Cy Bond?" he requires, responding to the playful expression with a smile. He takes the sketchbook back and tucks it into a bookbacg at his feet.

Stretching a bit, he pulls his coat on and then pauses-- "I'm assuming I need this, and we're not just going somewhere else in this maze of a theatre?"

Smile curls upwards.

"You could leave it here for the next Stage Manager to find. They'd love that."

A hand out as if offering to help a lady off a carriage. The fall into the orchestra pit is a little big to feasibly survive without at least minor joint damage, but Cy doesn't seem to notice.

"...I think I'll take it with me," he concludes, sweeping a stark white gaze over the hand, then back up to Cy's face.

"Thanks," he says, just when it seems like he's not going to accept the help. He grabs the hand and directs himself into the aisle, bookbag and coat in hand.

The muscles of his hand tilt, warm. Not quite a grip but a brush against the man's palm, and he lets the touch linger when he lands. Watching the knuckles flex as if they were moving of their own accord, curious apprehension as the contact drags on.

And then he's walking, half looking back or to the sides, towards the door. His boots add gravity to his walk, his weight, and he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck.

"You up for food?"

Jon follows, hefting his bookbag on his shoulder.

"Food sounds good," he says.

((Blah bli blah, bad post, sorry.))

((I will pretend there is not a year of delay in answering this, but you don't have to. Ignore it if you want, I'm just restless. *grin*))

The theatre looks different from this vantage point, mostly up the aisles but up, a vertical feeling, the vanishing points all different and condensed into the wall. Woozy feeling that he always gets walking up anything with an incline, or maybe just hunger on waking - Cy's skin is too warm to be comfortable in and he shifts as he walks, as if looking for a little extra wind resistance. Getting into the winter air sounds - good. Better than good. There's an itchy, deep feeling lodged under his shoulderblades and he straightens them, wondering if he should fall back, waiting for the guy to catch up. Head over his shoulder to watch him and that makes the dizziness a little more profound - his shoulders fan out a little to balance his chest. Like taking flight and flailing.

"So you're an actor, right?"

There's a possibility he should have asked this earlier, but it didn't seem important. The guy hadn't been acting, then, and Thomas distantly realizes he's already forgotten his name. The earlier panel, all blue-light shifts and the later impression of warm light and hair solidifies into a vague, permanent impression in the back of his head.