So Here We Are

[poeta_tenore]

And here is a man in his early thirties, feeling as dejected as he looks.  His chin is covered with a dark, fine stubble, his hair mussed.  He's not all dressed to impress, wearing a long drab brown coat, and equally drab scarf and fingerless gloves.  His fingers, which are red with cold, are clutching a few papers tightly.  And only just now does

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[kissestospare]

"Hey man, you okay?" Collins gives him a friendly smile.

[poeta_tenore]

"Excuse me," Rodolfo asks, looking around a bit more, "but this ... Isn't Paris any longer, is it?"

[kissestospare]

"Nope, sorry." He shrugs. "It's not New York, either. All we know is it's a big fuckin' boat."

[poeta_tenore]

"A boat?" He seems puzzled, obviously. "Of course, I don't remember -- Clearly this a dream caused by an abundance of drinking."

[kissestospare]

Collins considers this for a long moment. "No, I think if it were that there'd be more colors and fun stuff around." He shrugs and offers a hand. "I'm Collins, by the way. Tom Collins."

[poeta_tenore]

For a moment, he stirs, thinking Collins was going to say Colline, then proceed to argue against this fact. But, no, he said Collins. He shakes his hand with desolate indifference.

"Rodolfo."

[kissestospare]

Collins just gives him a vaguely amused look -- he can't help but be reminded of back in New York, when Roger wouldn't come out of the house.

"So. What's Paris like, man?" Because --well, he wouldn't be Collins if he weren't ridiculously friendly.

[poeta_tenore]

"Paris? Paris is like nothing and it is like everything." He shrugs just slightly. "It is nothing where I live, whores and beggars lining the streets below our flat, where we wear our coats and scarves even in bed to stay warm, and it is everything to those who can afford the luxery."

Typist: Rodolfo - The Original Emo Poet.

[kissestospare]

"...Sounds a hell of a lot like New York." Collins shoves his hands in his pockets and gives Rodolfo a smile. "I mean -- where you live sounds like where my friends and I live, in the Village."

[poeta_tenore]

"I suppose there are such districts in many cities." He folds his papers and pockets them, then looks at his fingers which are warming up.

"It's not so bad in the summer, but the rest of the year is such tribulation. Marcello and I have already begun to move our beds together in the middle of our flat so as to be closer to what little fire we've got, and it's scarcely the end of autumn."

[kissestospare]

"Probably, yeah." He nods, quirking an eyebrow thoughtfully.

"We never really had to do that when I lived in the loft, but it's enough of a fire hazard already. We mostly just shared beds for warmth. And coats." Not that they don't light fires, they're just in trash cans.

[poeta_tenore]

"We do the same in harsher winters. Colline had a magnificent coat for such things until he sold it." The nostalgia seems to push him back into his emotionless state of too-much-emotion.

[kissestospare]

He laughs and looks at his own coat, grinning. "This one's pretty good for that, actually. The old one I had got stolen when I came back to New York."

[poeta_tenore]

Rodolfo takes a moment for silent contemplation of Collins.

"You do remind me of Colline. Whether that is good or bad, I can't say." And, yes, this might be a hint of a smile.

[kissestospare]

"Well maybe you should tell me what this Colline guy is like before I decide." He's still grinning, of course.

"And you kinda remind me of my friend Roger. Which is good, he's a cool guy."

[poeta_tenore]

"What can one say about Colline? He is a philosopher and a good man."