[It's a long elevator ride to the penthouse suite. It tends to be, compared to the commute down in the morning. Every new day is a new opportunity to find a crack to exploit, but not every day yields a crack. Sometimes, Rayman is the one who goes home with the crack.
Days like today.
Sometimes it's hard to tell just how bad that crack is when they're in the studio. He does his damndest to keep a lid on it. A lot rides on his ability to keep a lid on it, and half the reason he can in the first place is that there's always someone to pass a glance to in order to silently say get a load of this. Somehow, someway, he manages to get through it, but the elevator ride back up drags on as the day weighs on his mind. And while it would be nice to treat the elevator as the place where the mask can slip, other people live in the Estate in the condos on the lower floors, so there's always a chance that someone could walk in.
Rayman rocks back and forth from toe to heel with his hands politely tucked behind the small of his back, ready to give just about anyone a big, warm smile, on the off-chance someone joins the two of them. Once the elevator comes to a full stop at their destination, all bets are off once he crosses the threshold of the elevator doors, as if he walked through curtains into another world. His body posture immediately changes -- slouched forward and brow furrowed, he brings up a finger to tug loose his bowtie as if it had been choking him all day.]
Can you believe this shit?
[He's making a beeline for the bar, as usual. But he's not usually this stompy about it. As he speaks, he's making his way behind the counter.]
"You need to be more cheerful about it!" Lady, we're talking about cancer here!
[If his compatriot is confused for a moment, that would be understandable. He's talking about something that happened after the morning news. Yes, he's been sitting on this all day.]
I can't stand this new producer, acting like she can tell me what I have to do. I've been doing this since she was in diapers. Where does she get off? Cheerful. Fuck's sake.
[The only thing that manages to make him take pause in his tirade is to take a second to choose what he wants to drink tonight. Yeah, tonight's a whisky night. He grabs the bottle off the shelf and puts it on the counter, along with a lowball glass and a couple ice cubes from the machine underneath said counter.]
A new "novel treatment" rolls out every--five? Ten?--years. They're never one-hundred percent. I'm only here to let people know it's an option -- I'm not going to sell them empty promises.
[He pours his own glass, but he doesn't drink from it just yet. As he places the bottle back on the shelf, he casts a glance over his proverbial shoulder to his companion. Only then does the furrow in his brow lighten up.]
Your usual?
[Even though he asks, he's already reaching for the wooden juicer.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raycasting) wrote2023-11-13 09:38 pm
no subject
Days like today.
Sometimes it's hard to tell just how bad that crack is when they're in the studio. He does his damndest to keep a lid on it. A lot rides on his ability to keep a lid on it, and half the reason he can in the first place is that there's always someone to pass a glance to in order to silently say get a load of this. Somehow, someway, he manages to get through it, but the elevator ride back up drags on as the day weighs on his mind. And while it would be nice to treat the elevator as the place where the mask can slip, other people live in the Estate in the condos on the lower floors, so there's always a chance that someone could walk in.
Rayman rocks back and forth from toe to heel with his hands politely tucked behind the small of his back, ready to give just about anyone a big, warm smile, on the off-chance someone joins the two of them. Once the elevator comes to a full stop at their destination, all bets are off once he crosses the threshold of the elevator doors, as if he walked through curtains into another world. His body posture immediately changes -- slouched forward and brow furrowed, he brings up a finger to tug loose his bowtie as if it had been choking him all day.]
Can you believe this shit?
[He's making a beeline for the bar, as usual. But he's not usually this stompy about it. As he speaks, he's making his way behind the counter.]
"You need to be more cheerful about it!" Lady, we're talking about cancer here!
[If his compatriot is confused for a moment, that would be understandable. He's talking about something that happened after the morning news. Yes, he's been sitting on this all day.]
I can't stand this new producer, acting like she can tell me what I have to do. I've been doing this since she was in diapers. Where does she get off? Cheerful. Fuck's sake.
[The only thing that manages to make him take pause in his tirade is to take a second to choose what he wants to drink tonight. Yeah, tonight's a whisky night. He grabs the bottle off the shelf and puts it on the counter, along with a lowball glass and a couple ice cubes from the machine underneath said counter.]
A new "novel treatment" rolls out every--five? Ten?--years. They're never one-hundred percent. I'm only here to let people know it's an option -- I'm not going to sell them empty promises.
[He pours his own glass, but he doesn't drink from it just yet. As he places the bottle back on the shelf, he casts a glance over his proverbial shoulder to his companion. Only then does the furrow in his brow lighten up.]
Your usual?
[Even though he asks, he's already reaching for the wooden juicer.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)