Coffee. A rather snide expression replaced the indifference coating his features as he watched Jayden’s offline message pop in the corner of his screen. It took another moment or two to focus as he rose from battered desk, setting his own status to busy in the process. And busy he would be, if he had his way about it. Smirking triumphantly he moved to the kitchen if only to assure himself that he did in fact own instant coffee. Succeeding a brief yet frantic search he located the half-empty jar on the top shelf (carefully hidden behind a box of stale crackers and some cheerios) and brought it to the counter. Glancing upon the premises his nose wrinkled slightly; he certainly couldn’t be entertaining in here - that was for sure. Dishes littered the sink and the tabletop could scarcely be seen beneath stacks of weathered newspapers and long over due bills. No matter; he would make a pot of coffee and bring it to the living room instead. That way he could scrape by on the bare minimum of cleaning - a skill he’d never really mastered to begin with.

And as the ancient coffee maker dribbled out a fresh pot he set about the task of making the rest of the flat a little more presentable. It was no Beverly Hills estate by any means but five minutes later it was looking quite comfortable if not downright cozy. Reaching for a thin, grey controller he resurrected an ultra-contemporary stereo to life (the one thing of any substantial value he owned). It was ‘mood music’ in no way, shape, or form, of course - the flat all but trembling with gravity blasts and unintelligible vocals - but he had the decency to turn it down at least. Background noise was a constant, something to keep him preoccupied through awkward silences and his own bouts of angst. His palms tapped out a beat against his thighs as he moved to the bathroom, slapping the closed door as a testament to his excitement. Jayden would be here any moment and he intended to look particularly stunning. Awkward hormonal surges could do that to a man, you see, and whether or not his company had yet connected the dots Ignacio intended this evening to reach further than a midnight coffee between friends.

Running a flat iron through the front section of his hair (and a comb rather violently through the back) he barely took notice of the doorbell blaring across the apartment. Flipping the light switch in the bathroom he darted out into the hallway, grabbing his favourite (if slightly bland) t-shirt off the hamper on his way out. He’d always looked good in white - a thought he contemplated with great irony - but that was entirely besides the point. Pulling it hastily over his head he reached the front of the apartment, adjusting the hem of his shirt over black jeans as he pulled the door wide open to Jay’s complaints.

“Depends on what flavour of popsicle you’d be.” Grinning, he ushered the brunette into his flat, closing the door behind him. “I’d peg you as a grape, maybe cherry…” Gesturing for the other to come in and make himself at home he disappeared into the kitchen once again - returning with a pot of coffee, two mugs and assorted condiments. “But your coffee’s ready so you can quit bitching.”

“I think orange is too masculine for you,” smirking to himself he allowed the other to assist with his armload, adjusting everything neatly across the small coffee table. Now, don’t let this singular anomaly fool you - it wasn’t like Ignacio to be neat or organized at all times. In fact, he much preferred chaos - reaching half a foot and having everything at your fingertips from magazines to a pair of jeans. Unfortunately, most individuals did not feel quite the same way - especially not prospective time fillers. If there was one thing he’d picked up over the past few years it was that a dirty house could ruin your night in ten seconds or less. Naturally, this applied almost solely to his female cohorts but he was better safe than sorry, yes?

Settling himself alongside his companion (though, for the time being, at a respectable distance) he began the intricate task of constructing his coffee. Unlike most males his age he didn’t particularly like the taste of it nor did he believe it to make him look any more sophisticated. Pouring himself roughly three-quarters of a mug (perhaps less) he added no less than eight packets of sugar and copious amounts of milk, watching the liquid swirl within the circumference of the cup. Sipping at it frequently he tossed in a little more sweetener or liquid, depending. After a brief battle he seemed content with the products of his labour, easing back into the cushions and cupping the mug between his palms. “I think I’ll manage,” he supplied smugly, swallowing a quick mouthful of his concoction before turning his full attention to the male seated on his couch.

He might’ve dismissed the other’s appreciation had his hands been free; instead he shook his head. “Don’t mention it. I’d be sitting here by myself watching some bad porno otherwise so I guess that’s a step up for both of us.” Well, to be honest it was probably true. But with Jayden here he might have something a little more entertaining than a television spewing carnal pleasures at him. Sighing, he reached to adjust the volume on the stereo - finding it just a touch too loud now that he had company. “If it’s bothering you just turn it off; I think I’m partially deaf on one side,” shrugging one shoulder he eyed the stereo over the rim of his cup before setting it down. “But I’ve got some pussy-rock somewhere if that’s more your scene,” a brief if playful sneer flickered across his face as he moved to adjust himself where he sat. “Simple Plan, Good Charlotte, My Chemical Romance…”

“Oh. So you’re one of those new age hipsters, hmm? Can’t listen to anything that’s seen the light of mainstream radio?” It was a relatively baseless jibe, of course, the semi-blonde smirking over the edge of his coffee cup. It did not - however - mean that he hated such people any less. There was nothing worse than getting into a conversation about music (one of the few things he still reserved any passion for besides narcotics and sex) only to be shut down by some pretentious asshole. Personally, he had never understood the hype surrounding outfits that no one had ever heard of. It wasn’t as if you’d invented your own language by finding them or deserved a fucking Nobel prize. Half the time the music in which these snobbish pricks submersed themselves could hardly be called music. Who the hell wanted to listen to the sounds of wind blowing through the grass and tearing paper? Not Ignacio, that was for damn sure.

Shrugging it off he attempted to find a slightly more comfortable position. It was something of an uncontrollable habit, shifting and fidgeting, always playing with something. For the life of him he could not sit still for more than five minutes at a time though he attributed this to his typically restless nature and his substance abuse - the former more than the latter, to be honest. In fact, Ignacio had always seemed more at peace with his surroundings when inebriated - not happy, per se, merely resigned to the fact that he would not be leaving. It was sober Ignacio that could not be trusted to stay put. Sober Ignacio could be expected to hop in his car and leave town for four days at a time with no explanation, no plan and no money. If nothing else it was a way to pass the time. In essence, so was this (and less dangerous to boot).

“What’d you usually listen to then?” Apparently his interest had been piqued - if it hadn’t, he was simply a marvellous actor. One could determine much about their company judging by favourite artists; as pretentious and hypocritical as that may have sounded it was true and no one knew this better than Ignacio. Witless and dull as he might’ve seemed to the average person he could, potentially, be perceptive and vaguely insightful when it best suited him. So far as he was concerned there was no use in pulling out all the stops until he had someone to impress. Now seemed appropriate. ”Nickelback? Kanye?” It was another harmless jab at the other’s musical taste as he sipped patiently at his coffee, mind clocking overtime to predict the other’s answers before he could speak it aloud.

Nodding sagely Ignacio contemplated the other’s response. There was no hesitation, no moment’s pause to filter out the guilty pleasures and social faux-pas. He liked that. Head continuing to bob at appropriate intervals he waited out his companion’s speech. “What?” looking dramatically incredulous he flashed the brunette a miscellaneous gang sign he’d picked up in his travels (or perhaps off the top of his head). “Soulja Boy is pimp city.” No sooner had the words left his lips then a sly, self-satisfied smile besieged their place.

“No, no,” settling himself back against the arm rest of the sofa he gestured vaguely with one hand. It was signature of the young man to gesticulate while speaking; something about ridiculous motions irrelevant to the topic making the English language much easier to follow. “I don’t think I can appreciate the oldies like I know that I should… Just doesn’t strike a chord with me.” Honesty had always been something he could respect and he would reply in kind (at least when confronted with such light-hearted topics as music). “If I do listen to it I’m more of a Queen and Fleetwood Mac kind of guy. I’ll hit up some Foreigner or Journey once in a while but I have to be in the mood, y’know?”

It was almost strange to think that Ignacio, of all people, might be capable of relatively intelligent conversation once in a while. Yet here he was, feet up, coffee in hand looking for all the world entirely satisfied with the current situation and spewing response of more than single syllables or unintelligible grunts. “For the most part I like my good old hardcore - death core, grind core - anything with a -core following it, basically.” Then again you could put -core at the end of any noun and call it a genre of music. What with math core and Nintendo core popping up everywhere this was more apparent than ever. “I listen to a lot of Bring Me the Horizon, Greeley Estates, The Bled… Scary Kids Scaring Kids, Escape the Fate,” ticking off the names on his fingers seemed to help jog his memory as he rattled on. “Oh -”

As if remembering something with painful vivacity he shifted upward, twisting in his seat to reach around beneath the edge of the sofa. Groping blindly at the carpet he worried his lip, brow furrowed in concentration. At length (and with an overtly jubilant grin) the young man unfurled himself, brandishing the cover to a rather questionable compact disk. “Blackout was pretty good but I can’t stand Circus for the life of me.” Shrugging as if the news should come as no shock he tossed the pop princess’s album to the coffee table, entirely unfazed.