Logs:Breathless

Breathless
CN: suicidal ideation, rape, sexual content, intense emotions
Dramatis Personae Flicker, Hive, Steve
In Absentia	2020-01-19 "And yeah, it's painful, but -- everyone's carrying around a lot of beauty and love too."
Location <NYC> Mount Sinai Hospital - Harlem
Hospitals are all very much the same, in the end. Sickly chemical smell, an everpresent quiet background hum of activity as machines beep and nurses bustle. At one point there had been another patient languishing in the adjacent bed, their pained groans all too audible with only a curtain for separation, but somewhere along the way the trickle of occasionally winged or horned or clawed or tentacled visitors has driven them away. Now there's some semblance of privacy in here, where Hive has nestled himself in at the side of the hospital bed, careful of the wires and tubing where Flicker is hooked up to a ventilator. If Flicker is awake it's difficult to tell from the outside, eyes closed, quiet save for the Darth Vader-breathing. Hive is definitely awake, though, one arm curled around Flicker's shoulders and the other hand occupied, in an extremely desultory kind of way, with tweaking the glowing holographic technical drawing in front of him, using a stylus to write his annotations in midair by the building plans. Feverish, pained, wavering somewhere in the liminal space between sleep and waking life, Flicker's generally chaotic thoughts are still more a jumble than usual. Vague snatches of half-formed dreams twist together, unravel, meld back into one. A dark-haired young woman who shares Flicker's green eyes and bright smile teeters on the edge of a tall fountain, a riot of foxgloves and floss flower, coreopsis and crocosmia, filling the beds around the fountain with color. In the background the tall white spires of an ornate building seem to echo the high peaks of dancing water. The flowers all start to change, their blossoms transforming into lilies as the young woman extends a hand -- -- and drags them under the rippling surface of the fountain. The water crushes down, frigid and heavy on their chest -- -- before it's abruptly quiet. The night sky overhead is glittering, alive with the streaking tails of shooting stars that beep oddly mechanically when each starts their bright-dust descent. Somewhere beneath there's a campfire, Hive tending a fragrantly spiced meal in a dark pot suspended over the open flame. One gargoyle-winged figure and one shorter, paler, skinnier, are coalescing out of the darkness at the edge of the firelight -- -- until that darkness spreads out, wrapping in a smothering blanket around Flicker where he's been neatly coiling long thick lengths of rope to tuck back into their pack. The curtain of darkness stays, thick and complete until it's broken up by the scraping of metal on concrete, a stocky tattooed figure illuminated briefly in the light slipping in through the cell door. Flicker's already labored breathing is struggling more with the rising grip of panic. When he presses his cheek harder against the hard line of Hive's collarbone this comes for a second not with comfort but only an increased dismay (-- << oh no -- not you too -- >> ) until his eyes crack open a sliver. The brief reassurance that this is just the regular type of hospital cell is cold comfort but he does subside, eyes closing again as he drifts back into uneasy rest. Steve finds his way through the hospital, his strides confident yet deferent to slower, weaker, and more urgent steps all around him. He's sharply dressed as is usual on Sundays, a pale blue button-down with a deeper blue ombre tie reminiscent of a shaft of sunlight slicing through dark water, a lightweight but snappily tailored navy suit, and a black greatcoat draped over his right forearm. He's got a cardboard drink carrier in his left hand with three paper coffee cups in it. To Hive, who can sense him well before he reaches the room, his mind is a chaos very deliberately muted. Beneath his well-practiced suppression there's the sick dark weight of his worry for Flicker and Matt, the intermittent flutter of distress and irritation at his all-but-useless right hand, the restless indecision about whether he'd even bother going to Chimaera later, and deeper, the ever-present void of black despair, yawning just that much wider than usual at the moment. He knocks on the door. Hive's arm curls just a little more snug around Flicker's shoulders, but aside from this he weathers the tumult of fever dreams with very little reaction. Steve's approach draws his attention up from his work, eyes drifting to the door before Steve actually enters. His mental nudge is gentle, a quiet questioning prod with plenty of room to be ignored and keep sleeping. His own awareness is buried somewhere in the light touch -- the feel of Steve approaching, an uncertain questionmark hovering over Flicker's communication preferences with a tube shoved down his throat. The touch that answers Steve's knock is blunter, more forceful. Hive's words slam tired and sledgehammer-heavy into Steve's mind. << Come in. >> A small whimpering sound hitches in Flicker's throat; he shifts closer to Hive, a throb of ache gripping his muscles and his skin fiercely hot where his head presses against his friend. The nudge only half-rouses him, a deep warm flush entirely separate from the fever rippling through him as Hive alerts him to Steve's presence. << (please) >> a soft request for Hive's assistance in facilitating communication, sleepy but sure. His eyes don't quite open; there's a moment, brief, where he struggles to open them before just settling back against Hive's side as comfortably as possible and slipping back into disquieted disjointed snippets of Prometheus-hued dream. There's a brief delay as Steve struggles with the door, then it opens and he slips inside. His annoyance and embarrassment are washed away by the gut-punch of fear and sympathy when he sees Flicker -- and Hive, for that matter. << How many times did Bucky sit by my bed like that? >> He's pushing the memories and the grief savagely back down before they have a chance to fully surface. "Hey," is all he says to Hive, coming to the side of the bed. His voice is soft, hesitant. "I brought coffee. And cocoa." << Can he even drink anything right now? >> He doesn't really seem to know what to do with himself now that he's here. Grips his coat more tightly, his gnarled hand aching as he pushes its limited range of mobility. "Thanks." Hive saves his work, batting lightly at it to send the whole thing floating higher overhead and out of the sightline between himself and Steve. He glances at the tray in Steve's hand, gestures toward the beside table. Sits up a little straighter to nod to a chair by Flicker's side. "You want to sit?" The tightness around his eyes doesn't carry over through to his voice, no more or less gruff than his usual. "He can't eat. Could, but they intubated him last night. Kind of thought the ventilator would be more of a quick stopgap, but --" His jaw clenches as he looks down at the tubing, shrugs stiffly. Quietly, his teeth grind. His eyes haven't left Flicker when he asks, abrupt: "What was he like?" Steve sets the drinks down and nods, sinking into the offered chair. He's wordlessly thankful for Hive's invitation and also wordlessly fretting even harder about Flicker's illness. The question catches him off guard and he stares at Hive uncomprehending. "Who?" But as soon as the word leaves his mouth, he knows. The memories he had almost successfully fought down come surging back up before he can even think how to reply aloud. A dark-haired boy, long familiar to Hive from other memories, pulling a young Steve to his feet. The same boy as a lanky teen, curling up under a heap of moth-eaten blankets with him while he coughs and coughs. The two of them as young men, yelling at the Yankees from way up in the bleachers. Picking a battered and broken Steve up off of the pavement time and time again, his own face bruised and bloody but calm. Holding him while he weeps long, racking sobs that feel like being torn apart from inside. Socking him on the shoulder and calling him a 'little punk'. Towing him into art class, unashamed of his own barely recognizable doodles. Slumped against him half-conscious, suddenly and jarringly small to the eyes of a changed Steve. Digging a bullet out of his arm, face pale but hands steady. Flashing a filthy, lopsided grin over his disassembled sniper rifle. Eyes wide with terror as he falls, his hand inches from Steve's grasp. All this comes rapid-fire, relentless and frenetic and agonizing. Steve is breathing fast, trying not to breathe faster, his mind expecting to struggle against his lungs although the asthma attack never actually comes. He shakes his head. The arm of the hospital chair starts to splinter beneath his left hand. << I can't -- >> The thought is panicked and not altogether directed at Hive. But he does now remember where he is. Struggles to blink back his tears. << Sorry, >> /is/ directed at Hive, as he tries to quash the chaotic montage. Much like with Flicker's dreams, Hive reacts very little to the sudden outpouring of memory that floods over him. He curls just a little closer to Flicker, fingers squeezing in at the other man's shoulder. His darkly shadowed eyes lift to Steve, steady on his face as his breathing speeds. Eventually dropping to the cracking chair. Lifting back to Steve. (Beside him, the rush of memories has spilled freely into Flicker's dreams -- an art class oddly situated within a Prometheus lab, Steve getting a bullet dug out of him in the back of the raid team's van. Relentless-frenetic-agonizing as these spiral into more chaos -- Hive falling away from his grip in an unfamiliar snowy landscape, Steve strapped into the secure restraints of a Prometheus operating table.) Hive's teeth grind slowly. He sits up, pulling one of the coffee and the cocoa out of the drinks tray. His sip of the cocoa is slow, focusing their mind on the rich sweet warmth. He holds the coffee out to Steve, silent. Steve pries his hand away from the arm of the chair to accept the coffee, somewhat automatically. He's still hyperventilating, but his body seems more or less equal to coping with it. His memories are still spinning, if quieter and less rapidly. Bucky pressing a cup of burnt coffee into his hands as he sits shivering beside the fireplace. Dabbing mercurochrome on Steve's injured knuckles while he presses a rag to his bleeding nose. Intoning "Barukh atah Adonai..." over a pair of stubby candles at the card table in their tiny apartment. His breathing slows gradually, and he takes a sip of his coffee. The rich flavor seems to ground him further. "I'm sorry," he repeats aloud. "He -- I'm sure you've seen plenty of him, in my thoughts. And I'm sure it hasn't been...pleasant." He studies Flicker, his brows wrinkling with worry again. "I've seen him plenty, yeah." With the warm comfort of the cocoa Flicker is settling, slightly; Hive pulls his eyes away from his friend, looking down to the cup in his hands. "I don't know. I don't think I'd say it was unpleasant. He seems like he was a pretty great guy. Gave you a lot of good memories, anyway. Helped you out of a lot of shitty ones." "Figured...since it's unpleasant for /me/..." Steve shrugs, the motion small and jerky. 'Unpleasant' does not, perhaps, adequately capture his anguish at even the positive memories, this sheer existential wrongness of Bucky's absence, the persistent if powerfully suppresed desire to just be dead himself. << You're not allowed, Rogers. >> It's unclear at first -- even to Steve -- whether this thought is his own internal monologue speaking in Bucky's voice, or another fragment of memory. But even if it began as the former, it becomes the latter in short order, blossoming into a fully-formed recollection, if one muddled by fever and delirium. "If you go dyin' on me," Bucky says, his voice gruff and irritated as he lays a cool damp cloth on Steve's forehead, "I'll bring you back just to kill you myself." Finally, Steve nods. Drinks deep from his coffee, desperately wishing it were something stronger, even if he knows it wouldn't help. Looks up at the ceiling in a last ditch effort to hold back the tears. "He was...pretty great," comes out hoarse, and the words feel deeply, frustratingly inadequate. << How can any words be adequate? What's the point of even trying to describe him? >> "Lot of folks thought he was kind of a rascal, and I guess he was, but..." His smile is very faint, and his next words are oddly doubled in his mind with Flicker's voice even as his gaze drops back down to Hive, "... some people hide a lot of love under some very cavalier exteriors." The twitch at the side of Hive's mouth is small. "For you," he allows, with a hitch of one shoulder and another swallow of cocoa as (cavalier though his tone may be) Flicker shifts again, whimpers again. "You know I read minds, right? There's only so much..." He hesitates, trails off, a slow shifting of imagery orbiting in his mind, touched with the sharp second hand flavors of other people's emotions. Sera perched on the rocky edge of a creek bed, eyes bright and excited as she lifts a wide flat stone and unearths the tadpoles underneath. Ian gnawing on a pencil eraser, freckled face scrunched up as he searches for the next word in his poem. Matt tunelessly but exuberantly belting out "Mein Herr" as he tests the water temperature on a filling bathtub. A cigarette bobbing unlit between Peace's lips as she spins an animated story about her Gloom family. Lily grinning as she stoops to pack a snowball. Flicker's eyes open, his hand balling up tight. There's a sudden sharper discomfort -- a quick flutter of panic as (as it has many times before) his breathing instinctively tries aligning itself to Hive's -- cannot successfully fight the machine on this -- relaxes back into the artificial rhythm. His residual limb twitches -- doesn't successfully reach for Hive, with his arm not currently attached, but some edge of his panic subsides as he leans into the shared mental space. Tries, harder, to fight the stronger urge to reach for Steve, clamping down hard before he can push their brain in that direction -- though he doesn't quite tamp down the sick fear that has been a constant looming presence since arriving in the hospital. Doesn't quite tamp down the fierce needy flush of warmth that Steve's presence brings to make that fear more muted. Does prod, with some concern, at the pain, the suicidal thoughts, that echo in their mind. << What did we do to him? >> edges up alongside a disgruntled frustration with the tubing in his throat. << Nothing. >> overlaps with the memories of Bucky in cloudy replay. Hive's arm slides back around Flicker's shoulder. His cheeks flush dark, his eyes dropping from Steve. Aloud though, he's continuing with only a very small pause as Flicker wakes: "S'grief everywhere. Likely everyone you know is carrying around their own private losses that you don't know the first thing about. And yeah, it's painful, but -- everyone's carrying around a lot of beauty and love too. I'd have put a bullet in my own damn head years ago if all I saw was the former." His eyes turn up toward the ceiling. "What kind of name is Bucky?" Steve sits up straighter as Flicker comes more fully awake. "Hey." Sets down the coffee and reaches out to take his friend's hand, his quiet affection and much louder concern returning in force to push his grief back down into its usual place in the background of his mind. << Should I get him something to write with? >> "I'm -- glad, that you can see the beauty, too." he says haltingly, eyes darting back to Hive. << Wish I could, >> his mind appends. The thought brings a wash of shame. << Am I so self-absorbed that I cannot look past my own pain to honor his memory the way he deserves? >> Hive's question derail his train of thought yet again. "It's short for Buchanan." This is kind of defensive, though not without some awareness that the reaction is outsized to a reasonably neutral question. "His middle name is --" A sharp hitch of breath, a sharper stab of pain that manifests physically, deep in his chest, though he does not flinch. "-- was Buchanan." Then, after a beat he adds, with a touch of embarrassment, "There were a lot of Jameses, Jims, and Jimmys in our neighborhood." As Flicker's restless dreams spin down a chaos of disorganized thoughts are spinning up, his mind bouncing somewhat frenetically between them. Set over a backdrop of errata -- the stresses of hospitals generally, the simultaneously intense and background panic of the medical setting, the musing this brings up about how well he would have done as a doctor after all, a determined attempt to ignore the pain and discomfort of fever and body aches, a stray thought of the unfinished dresser commission he's been working on at Chimaera, a note to himself to check in on how Matt is doing -- are more present thoughts. The light squeeze of his hand back at Steve's comes with more overthinking than it probably needs. A rapid calculation of how feasible writing is just yet (that option quickly discarded after gauging how much effort one simple squeeze takes.) It knocks up against a swell of conflicted tangled emotions that orbit the warm press of Steve's hand against his. << can I squeeze harder? is that okay? >> << no too much we're too much >> << please kiss me >> << don't be so needy >> << i'm gross anyway >> << (but please --) >> << no shut up shut up >> << -- who names their kid after James Buchanan? >> << (thank goodness for this tube) >> << (i hate this tube) >> << he's hurting we should say something >> << more cocoa >> "Who names their kid after James Buchanan?" Hive is not, perhaps, the most helpful braincell. He's lifting the cocoa back to his lips, taking a long slow swallow. "Grieving isn't selfish. That's not what I meant. This shit's gonna happen how it happens." His eyes are still fixed steadily on the ceiling as he works through the rush of thoughts. Eventually trusts himself enough to look at Steve again, with only a faint lingering blush in his cheeks. "Anyway, from what I've seen he kind of shaped you -- a lot. Talk about him or don't but your whole fucking life is kind of a testament to his memory, isn't it?" His finger taps against the side of the cup. "He can't write," he adds, almost offhand. "I've been looping a lot of our visitors in to our --" One finger spins a lazy circle between his head and Flicker's. "But that's, you know, your decision. Be glad for the company, conversation or not." Steve bristles inwardly at the question, but then, << He was really an awful president, though... >> "To be honest, I never asked," he replies, blushing faintly. The twinge of sorrow and regret beneath this is more distant, lost in the sheer mass of people he loved who died while he slept in the ice. "Maybe they just wanted him to sound more...American?" He squeezes Flicker's hand a little tighter as Hive speaks, but careful -- ever so careful -- of his strength. << I probably should talk to my therapist about...any of this. >> There's no enthusiasm behind this thought, but he does laugh, suddenly. "Gosh, he'd hate that -- my life as a testament to his memory. He only ever wanted me to be safe and happy, and --" The tears finally do come, and his breathing speeds up again, a reflexive panic at crying in front of -- anyone, really, no matter how firmly he tries to tell himself Flicker and Hive won't think ill of him for it. He fumbles a handkerchief from his pocket with his right hand, unwilling to let go of Flicker, and dries his eyes hastily. He doesn't say anything for a moment -- hardly thinks anything, his mind numb and exhausted. "You can...loop me. In." His discomfort at this suggestion is obvious even without telepathy. "I know you can read my misgivings, but -- I can live with them, and I'm not sure I'll ever get past them without...exposure. And I do want to talk." << I've missed you. >> "Honestly, I'm more worried that this mess --" He indicates his head with the handkerchief awkwardly pinched between the thumb and conjoined fingers of his right hand, made even less dexterous by the gauze covering them at the moment. "-- will be uncomfortable for you. But I guess you're dealing with that regardless." The sharp twist of need grips stronger this time, with this next squeeze of hand. It's Hive's breath that catches, though Flicker's cheeks have darkened with the renewed flood << (safesafehe'ssafe) >> << get a grip we're already safe >> << he's just here to talk calm down calm DOWN >> << you're being weird just squeeze back he's stressed he'll like that >> that immediately overtakes them. Hive's fingers curl very slightly against Flicker's shoulder; around Steve's hand the motion completes in a firmer squeeze. << What the hell does he talk to his therapist about, then? >> Thankfully, Hive doesn't voice it, this time. The twining threads of their thoughts separate at Steve's agreement to join them, briefly resolving into one bright clear and desperate prayer: << Please. >> Hive answers this with a reach outward. Stretching out, coiling their twinned presence around Steve, squeezing tight. As they slide deep into the other man's mind there's a rush of sensation -- discomfort, yes (the itch of IV in the back of their hand) (the aching tearing pressure of Hive's mental touch) (the flushed sticky fever heat) (a throb of headache) but also, more present and more powerful, a fierce swell of warmth. A steady protective watchfulness that curls up against Steve's grief without trying to dismiss it. An intense flush of passion, bright and dedicated. A soft sense of wholeness as he's folded in among these. (Beneath this, above this, at once in his mind and distinct from it, an exhilaration. << you're here >> lights their mind with a brilliant heat, a deep desire.) Flicker's eyes close, his fingers twitching against Steve's. Hive only lets out a slow small breath. Steve does, in fact, like the press of Flicker's hand around his. << Please >> comes fierce and desperate as he closes his eyes, leaning into that physical touch even as Hive's mental presence pushes into him. He surges up to meet the telepathic contact, unskilled but eager, and gasps softly, lost for a moment in the dizzy swirl of sensation. The warmth and bliss and passion of the collective eases his tensing against his grief, though not the grief itself. He orients himself to the words. << I'm here. We're here. >> Their desire wakes his own, and he tries without success to draw Flicker (Hive?) closer, somehow. << Is this me? Do I make us feel this way? >> The thought is tremulous, a little confused and a lot awed. Then suddenly hesitant. << Am I hurting us -- Hive? >> << This is us. >> Hive is sitting back, a fleeting tension crossing his face. His gathering of Flicker now is in part more physical, nestling the other man more snug against his side, calloused fingers pressing to Flickers cheek as he tucks his friend's head beneath his chin. Takes another slow long drink of cocoa, still plenty warm if no longer hot, fixing his attention with a firm determination on the sweetness that rolls over their tongue and down their throat. The steady rise and fall of his chest, now in rhythm with the ventilator pump. The faint tickle of hair against his chin. These small and very physical reminders ground Hive's presence even as he's settling back mentally, too. Allowing the others -- well, it isn't privacy. But it's a moment, his anchoring presence still there (still them) even as it's shifted into a muted background. << This is us. >> It rises in time with Hive's assertion, but where Hive is quiet and sure Flicker is ardent, eager. It is solely the steady physical reminders that ground him enough not to simply tumble headlong into Steve's pull, lose himself entirely in the other man's presence. The impulse is there, though, heady and heavy, not-quite-buried in the comingling of identity. It's almost painful, the effort spent to check himself. To press back into Hive's solid presence. Bony chin against his forehead, sweet chocolate in their mouth. << We're here. >> Here among their coexistence, though, no amount of restraint shields the others from the feelings that overflow, overwhelm. Flicker cannot choke; the machine sees to that. The others get the echoes of the throat-caught flutter that would steal his breath, were it possible. << (you make me feel this way) >> answers Steve with a deep wonder. And, defensive, << You're not -- >> But there's an uncertain twinge, an undercurrent of concern for Hive that does not let him answer this other question with the reflexive denial that he would like. Instead, it's a kaleidescopic jumble as he (carefully, so carefully) curls himself closer with far more dexterity in this evanescent space, pressing into Steve's inexpert grasp with a hunger -- and a tumult of thought. A young towhaired doctor, smile soft and calm as he explains to Flicker about his options for breathing support. An earnest warmth in his recommendation of a transfer -- only Hive's telepathic assistance there to indicate the danger that lies beneath the Promethean associate's reassurances. Hive's voice, far more nonchalant than they feel: "Wasn't the first. Won't be the last. They getting bolder or did you just put the fear of God in 'em last time?" A bright and barren room, one heavy chair in its center. Thick restraints on his wrists and the faintly yielding rubber of a small red ball in his hand. Pain subsumed under the drowsy warm euphoria that the IV sends coursing through his veins. A lowgrade panic gripping him even as he can't fight sleep, watching Hive struggling to stay awake in the chair beside his bed. The bruising-hard crush of an unnaturally strong hand at his wrist, slick wet floor at his back, raspy smoker's-rough breathing filling his ear a muscular body bearing painfully down onto him (into him -- if he focuses on the pain in his wrist he can almost ignore it.) There's careful restraint in Steve's strong hands where they push him up against the hard plaster of the stairwell wall and for a breathless second he almost wishes there /wasn't/. This hunger only blends into the rest, lost in the safe blissful thrill of the muscular body pressing warm against his, the touch of lips against his neck, the husky soft request he's /still/ so amazed to hear that he nearly forgets to answer: "Yes -- /please/, yes." Steve's breath catches where Flicker's cannot. His mind reels, amazed and a little frightened that he can make anyone feel this way. Somewhere in all this he's lost his mental bearings again, until Flicker comes to him. He tries his best to copy the careful press of Flicker's mind, but only manages to hurl himself headfirst into -- Confusion. Horror. Fury. Desire. From within the hypervivid memories he does not know how to manage his emotions, which crash through them raw and chaotic and painfully intense. He's left shaking hard, his breaths coming short and quick, saved from tumbling fully into panic by Hive's steadiness and Flicker's hand still firmly gripped in his own. Even when he has recovered enough of his faculties to think, no words will come. In between a more careful, considered review of the memories come a wave of fierce protectiveness, a disorientingly rapid tactical analysis of the room and the hallway outside, an almost simultaneous awareness that they've already considered all those factors. He lets out a long breath, tries to relax tense shoulders, tries to stop thinking about the warmth and joy and safety of -- Well. That's him, isn't it? Then suddenly he blurts the messy relevation as it comes to him, "They won't try it while I'm here." He only barely stops himself pulling Flicker to him bodily. Leans forward instead and presses his lips to the back of Flicker's hand, his heart racing with a jumble of feelings he cannot fully comprehend. << safe you're safe we're safe you're safe >> It's far less careful now, the way he wraps himself around Steve, into Steve, meeting horror and confusion and fierce protectiveness with a deep love and a keen hunger that only grows with the contact. << (that's you) >> << (that's us) >> overlaps with a quieter but intense << please >> << -- no I mean -- thank you -- >> << no, I mean -- >> Flicker's eyes slide slowly closed, the churn of memory narrowing into more definite focus with the touch of Steve's lips to his skin. Steve's arm wrapping around him where he's perched on his kitchen counter -- his mouth pressing to the other man's shoulder in futile attempt to muffle the pleased gasp at the first skimming trace of Steve's fingers over his skin. Steve's fingers running over his short fuzz of hair and sawdust from his latest commission clinging to his khakis where he kneels. The ache in his throat is making his eyes water but one glance up at Steve's face (eyes closed, head tipped back, lips parted) and the shattering rush of desire that overtakes him dispels any thought of pausing to breathe. (here there is nothing else. in other times there would be a glut of information, hypervigilance filling his awareness with a hum of background noise -- but for a moment, for the stretch of several heartbeats, the space of a shuddering soft moan in his ear there is this and only this. the world condensed to the warmth of steve's body moving in his. the breathtaking wonder that someone so beautiful sees beauty in him. the yearning to hold on to this moment for just a bit longer.) A hungry kiss interrupted by a rush of laughter as Steve tries to set him on the card table in his new apartment's living room; Flicker's arms curl tight around the other man at the quiet cracking that follows it. A rapid flutter carries them properly to the bedroom, amusement still in Flicker's voice before his next kiss: "You need a new table." Steve's chest rises and falls slow and even beneath his cheek. Curled snug against the slumbering man's side he hardly dares to breathe, savoring this rarity. His palm runs gently against Steve's side; he focuses on the shape of the body beneath his hand as though he might memorize it. The joy that fills him feels too much to contain; it comes out in a barely audible prayer and, as he closes his eyes again, a knot of ache. In the still of the night, he can almost pretend drifting off in Steve's arms could be his future. Hive's breath has caught, too. The others wash over him, through him, the battering of too-strong emotion and too-sharp memory crashing up against the stable trunk of his presence. No doubt he has thoughts on all this -- they're buried somewhere there, inchoate and not given the light they need to properly take root and sprout. Instead there's only a muted flutter of feeling that ripples just beneath the others. Angry and protective. Sick and pained. Scared, exhausted. None of these ever grow strong enough to truly find their own voice. With an almost obsessive determination, Hive is staying focused on the tangible. The uncomfortable hard edge of the bed's safety bar pressing into his side. The wet trickle of tears against his cheeks. The worn smooth surface of lotus seed beads buried in his pocket where his hand has dropped to find them. One breath and then another. In. Out. Steve's awe and his fear alike grow as Flicker's memories of him spill over in all their giddy intensity. Some part of him leans hard into that love, yearns desperately to fall into it. Another part withdraws from it, looking back on his conduct with a sick twist of guilt. << I can't love him the way he needs, but he's just going to keep waiting for me. I have to end this -- >> He pushes the thought away hastily, his concern surfacing redoubled and focused on Flicker's illness and stress. << But not now and not -- oh God, he /is/ us he knows -- >> With this comes a flood of panic, then tenderness, and yet another barely contained impulse to gather Flicker into his arms. This conquered, it dissolves unbidden into a memory of his own. *Flicker's body tensing beneath his, then arching eagerly up as his fingertips caress the scarred skin of the residual limb. Their lips meet again, deeper and full of urgency...* Steve gasps, tries without success to dispel the memory and the flare of need that follows, his hand tightening around Flicker's hard enough to hurt now. << end this? oh no oh NO >> A tiny hitched sound catches in Flicker's throat. The sudden pain strong hand crushing at his wrist in his hand drags back a previous head throbbing where it slammed against the ground thread of nightmare-memory shame like a hard knot in his gut, somehow aching still more than each tearing thrust that he doesn't fight back down. Lets it hit him, brief but intense, before he gently squeezes back. The flutter of need that rises in him welcomes the pain with a desperate urgent muscular body bearing him down against a sturdy wooden table pleading, << don't let go please don't let go >> << here be here we're here please be here >> and even as these cries well up he's trying to fight them back, anxious and guilty. Pressing down the sick dismay that roils in the pit of his stomach. << shut up shut up he doesn't need you guilt tripping him >> << knew this was coming fine this is fine we're fine >> << weren't even supposed to hear >> << this was always the plan >> << still be friends we'll still be friends >> << please >> << (please) >> Softer, nestling back slow and tired against Hive: << (sorry) >> His thumb brushes lightly against the back of Steve's knuckles. << (I know)/(We know) >> finally comes quiet and deliberate, though beneath it that same memory is echoed -- the warmth of Steve's fingers on his skin, the freefall-dizzying terror and joy of trusting himself with someone and having them pull closer rather than draw away in disgust. Flicker doesn't dwell on it -- tries hard not to dwell on it. << Please, we just -- I'm just. Glad you're here. >> The fierce lingering ache makes these words no less powerfully true. Hive's gruff voice comes across all their minds only a bare instant before it breaks the quiet of the room. "Fuck." Steve tenses hard at the flashes of Flicker's memory even as he realizes his grip is hurting them. /Was/ about to let go, but holds on, if more gently, at the answering squeeze. His guilt at the anguished pleas and the subsequent second-guessing is vast and suffocating. << I won't. I'm here. I've got you. >> His longing to hold Flicker now, to comfort him, is overwhelming -- physically painful to resist. It's hard to say whether it's the soft brush of Flicker's thumb or seeing that last memory from the other man's perspective that undoes what's left of his restraint, but when it breaks it's only a quiet shift inside him. Outwardly, though, he breathes the word "Fuck" at the precise same moment as Hive. He shifts over to sit on the side of the bed so that when he draws Flicker's hand to the fresh, irregular scar on his left jaw, he does not disturb the tubes and wires attached to the smaller man. His eyes slide shut as he turns his face to press a soft kiss to Flicker's palm. The thoughts surface in a staccato jumble, << We have to stop -- /Hive/ -- we're here -- we can just /be/ here, now. >> << Can be here, now. >> Among the guarded protectiveness and the sick anguish that are churning in Hive's mind there is -- an intense desire for a cigarette. There's a slow and careful shuttering; it doesn't quite pull back all the way but it does compartmentalize a good deal more, Hive's presence tucking itself carefully behind a thick veil of leaves. He presses a firm kiss to Flicker's temple, stands up. There's more than the usual hunch to his shoulders as he slips out of the room. Flicker closes his eyes, his fingertips tracing lightly against the waxmelt scarring on Steve's face. The tumble of thought that accompanies this is muted and doesn't really make its way into words properly -- a deep yearning; an intense desire; a quiet marveling, still, at Steve here beside him. A soft wonder as his fingers trace over Steve's knotted skin, still a touch overwhelmed by an aching sense of beauty. << Here, now, >> melds with the others. << We're here. >> He presses just a touch more firmly against Steve's cheek, squeezing back tears -- though they don't fall he can't shield Steve from the softer << (love you) (please) (don't stop) >> that whispers beneath it. More firmly, more intentionally: << We're here. >> Steve's right hand lifts, trembling faintly as he traces mutilated fingertips up Flicker's arm, over his shoulder through the thin fabric of his gown, along his collarbone and around his neck to settle a warm, if calloused, touch at the back of his head. << Don't want to stop, >> comes dizzy and delirious, << want you. >> The heavy weight of anxiety behind this declaration does nothing to diminish its intensity. The moment Hive's presence withdraws from his perception he is falling into Flicker again, leaning close to kiss the hollow of the other man's neck, navigating the medical obstacles with unconsciously borrowed familiarity. His words are barely voiced, just a cool puff of breath against Flicker's skin: "May I?"