gooseberryhigh | (no subject)

WHO: Ron Carney & Jeff Key, Respectable Older Gentlemen
WHAT: A couple old dudes complain about the weather and discuss the Journal.
WHEN: Afternoon, December 6, during the Ageing Potion fun.
WHERE: The Atrium.
WARNING: This is an incredibly dumb backdated micro-log and I'm not apologizing.

Oh man, Jeffy's knees kind of hurt. That is... that is a hike from Azurcrest to the lodge, and he's not SUPER looking forward to doing it again when the day is over. Ordinarily he can be seen practically running from the lodge to camp between classes, not because he needed to (though he DID forget his books more than he really should, considering how long he's been doing this whole school thing), but because he had too much jittery energy. Sometimes it needed siphoning before a Serious Class with a Serious Teacher.

Collapsing on a couch in the atrium, all old man groans and popping joints, he thinks maybe he can get some studying done between classes. He only has the two today. Or maybe he can just read whatever’s sitting on the table in front of him, a newspaper.

“What's that?” he says aloud, mostly to himself, squinting at the paper folded up and tossed aside. “The Wall Street Journal?”

Cameron is sitting in a nearby chair, and when Jeffy collapses into the chair near him, he jerks awake. Was he napping? He’s not often one for afternoon naps, but it’s so comfortable, and there’s a ray of sunshine slanting in right on him, warming his old bones. He squints over at the new person who’s arrived. He’s pretty sure he not only needs glasses, but old man bifocals, because nothing is quite clear at any distance.

“Hey,” he says finally, satisfied with his conclusion. “How’s things, Jeff?” Because, at this age, he surely can’t be called ‘Jeffy’. That’s a young man’s name.

Usually Jeffy balks at the name Jeff, one of the few things he'll correct people on, but… it seems strangely appropriate now. Or maybe he's just very tired and doesn't see the harm in letting someone shorten his name a hair, save themselves entire seconds in their day.

“New day, new aches,” Jeffy says, and he takes a second to figure out who this is across from him. It's someone with extremely long legs and it's not Heathcliff or Noel. Is it… Cameron Carney? He has a very nice mustache if it is him.

“I hear that. I think we’re getting rain or snow today,” Cameron replies, leaning forward to rub his aching knees. He supposes, as tall as he is, that it makes sense that his elderly ailments would affect his legs.

Jeffy leans forward to grab the newspaper off the table. “This your copy of the Journal, Ron?” He's not sure why he called him that. It sounds more appropriate for this old face than Cameron.

“Oh, yeah. I looked at it already, help yourself,” Cameron replies, with a go on gesture. He’s been called a lot of things in his life, but he’s pretty sure no one has ever called him Ron. Still, compared to the aches in his legs, that seems like the least of his problems. It’s not a bad old man name, either.

Jeffy flips open the periodical, scanning his eyes over the front cover. Ah, stocks, bonds, conservative news, small print, all the things old people love most.

“Are the winters getting colder around here, or is my skin just getting thinner?” he asks, and he holds the paper a little further away from his face. Ah, that's slightly easier for his tired old eyes to read. He shakes his head, scoffs at a random, barely legible story. “Kids these days.”

“Mmm,” Ron mumbles with a nod, slouching down further in his chair, “Kids these days.”

Jeff’s tired eyes are still trying to piece together this story about some new drug fad that supposedly all the youths were trying these days. Funny how he had been young just yesterday and hadn't heard of it.

He looks up at his pal Ron, looking so comfortable and warm in his patch of sunlight, and yawns. Maybe he could rest his eyes here for just a moment, give them a break from all this tough reading.

“They don't know how good they've--” he yawns again, eyelids drifting shut, “--got it.”

“Youth is wasted on the young, Jeff,” he murmurs as he lays his head back against the chair. Within a few minutes, he’s snoring softly.