ArchivedLogs:Where To Go

Where To Go
Dramatis Personae Micah, Jackson
In Absentia	13 January 2014 (Part of morpheus tp.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. All is quiet in Lighthaus as Micah enters through the front door, pausing to stow his shoes and winter gear and locking the door behind him. As he looks up again, the lights have gone out. His brow furrows, heart starting to race, that sick feeling of dread welling up in his stomach without a clear source. He moves down the hall, stopping first at the twins' room and finding it empty. Two neatly-made empty beds, two empty desks, a clean-swept and empty floor. He frowns, backing out of the dark room with strangely echoing footfalls, closing the door behind him softly, yet with a loud report as it pulls to. He is at the door to Spencer's room without turning, finding the door open slightly with an odd red light spilling out from under it. His heart seems to stop for a moment, then speeds without settling on a particular rhythm to follow, the sick feeling turning bottomless in his abdomen. His hand reaches for the knob and tries to fling it open, though it moves as if through a thick syrup. The movement of his feet is likewise slowed, painfully dragging. Spencer is tucked in the corner of his bed, faded Care Bears sheets pulled up to his chin, eyes wide and face pale with terror as he screams (quietly, distantly). A shadowy-dark figure looms tall over the bed with a large, gleaming, wicked knife raised in one hand. Micah finds his own hand full, cold and heavy. He lifts it, now unthinking. Automatic. Steadies his grip, goes through the steps of being firing-ready. Automatic. Pulls the trigger. A hole opens instantaneously in the back of the dark figure's head when the gun fires (quietly, distantly). The figure does not fall, but turns. Malthus's face smiles at him calmly, ignoring the hole clean through its forehead. "You can't kill me," he says in that steady voice. Almost soothing. Paternal. Then he turns and plunges the knife home, blood soaking the sheets as the small boy's form slumps and stills. The room is empty, save for Micah. And a pool of blood. Jax is standing in the doorway with a look of horror and betrayal. Then turning, fleeing. Micah tries to drop the gun but finds it fused to his hand, metal meeting seamlessly with flesh. His feet are fixed to the floor in the dark, sticky, expanding pool of blood. It's almost like a movie playing in reverse. The pool of blood /shrinking/ instead of spreading, till it has vanished into the impeccably clean wood of the apartment floor. The gun shifting and warping in Micah's hand, growing larger, growing softer until where there was once gun there is now -- plush stuffed teal /bear/ with smiling shooting stars on her belly. Spencer's bedroom door pushed open now but Spencer inside it just quietly sleeping, Jerusalem clung to his chest. The house smells like baking -- a little chocolatey, a little /spiced/ with spicy-hot chocolate snickerdoodles on a heaping plate on the counter. Outside the windows is, oddly, not the East Village. Warmer and more /animated/ than the East Village, it's the peaceful lush Miyazaki forest Micah and Jax were engaged in. But inside: warm. And baking. Micah blinks down at the bear, first, clutching it unthinkingly under one arm. He moves over to the bed, rests one knee on it to lean over Spencer and kiss his forehead. To feel the boy's breath warm and steady and /alive/ against his cheek. His own breathing slows to match. He tucks the bear beside him under the covers before retreating quietly into the hall, pulling the door to softly. His feet wander into the kitchen on their own, expression only briefly confused as he passes the windows on his way toward the pleasant-warm smells. "Mmm." It's hard to tell at exactly /what/ point Jackson has returned to the apartment, dressed now in bright orange capris, mismatched black-and-white socks (stripy on one leg, checked on the other), a black fishnet t-shirt with armwarmers up to his elbows that match his socks. His arms are slipping around Micah now, though, from behind, hair bright orange too when he tips his head forward to bump lightly against the back of Micah's shoulders. "Packed a picnic," he says with a small squeeze around Micah's waist, fingertips lacing against the older man's stomach. "Don't know when y'last ate." The sight of Jax draws a bright smile across Micah's face. He leans back into the hug, pressing against the other man as he reaches a hand around to play through his neon-orange hair. "Mmm, sounds perfect. Where we goin' with it t'day?" The question of when he's last eaten earns a chuckle. "Starvin' already. It's been too long." His other hand reaches up to swipe along each eyelid, earning a confused look when they come back damp. Micah just shakes his head, drying the fingertips on the hem of his Reading Rainbow-dash T-shirt before sketching them along the back of Jax's arm. "Maybe the lake. The pups said we could join them." Jackson doesn't let go, yet, though. His face tips in, nuzzling against the side of Micah's neck, his arms squeezing tighter. His fingers track upwards, running up against Micah's sides. "Oh gosh you ain't nothin' but skin and bones," he chides lightly with a curl of fingers against ribs as he turns the other man around to face him. "S'a good thing I packed a lot. It's been --" He trails off here, forehead bumping lightly against Micah's. "Too long. But it's okay now. I packed /seventeen/ kinds of chutney." Micah's head tips back into Jax's shoulder. “We'll have t'wake Spence. Sleepyhead's still in bed; I couldn't bring m'self t'disturb 'im, he looked so sweet'n peaceful.” He shivers slightly under Jax's touch. “Ain't gonna be no trouble with you feedin' me the way y'do. Have a /tummy/ on me soon enough.” He nuzzles his nose softly against the bridge of Jax's when their foreheads meet, his arms wrapping around the other man and hands falling naturally to the small of his back. “Don't even know as I could /name/ seventeen kindsa chutney,” he observes with a giggle. "Don't hafta /name/ them. Just hafta /eat/ them. But there's mango an' tamarind an' cilantro." Jax tips his head to brush his lips lightly to Micah's, and then turns aside. "An' I made one out of sunlight, and I painted you another. -- One's written into a song," he confides, absently humming a few bars of one of his favourite tunes. He slips his hand into Micah's to tug-tug-tug eagerly towards -- the windows, not the door. It's certainly not /wintertime/ out there when he opens the window, either, a warm spring breeze blowing in from the animated forest that's replaced their fire escape. "S'okay, Spence'll catch up. Did you know there's whole chutney /trees/ out here? But I can't find the tree that grows pakoras." "Well, as long as there's cilantro, I'm happy. Okay...I definitely want some of the tamarind, too." Micah's lips press soft and warm against Jax's. "What /don't/ you make out of sunlight?" The question is amused as he squeezes Jax's hand, letting himself be led away. Out the window, as if this were completely natural. "Wouldn't a chutney tree be a little...drippy?" he asks with a chuckle. "Though not sure what I'd /expect/ Miyazaki trees to be made of if y'needed t'eat one. Pocky? S'like sticks of yummy." His head tilts as he thinks on that a moment longer. "Prob'ly chutney's better. Pocky's not vegan. Even if it /is/ like sticks. Pakora'd be on bushes. You're lookin' too high." He traces his fingertips along Jax's jawline, tilting his chin down gently. "Chutney rain." Jackson says this wistfully, turning his head up towards where the sky would be, if it were not largely obscured by foliage. "Not drippy. /Fruit/ chutneys." He reaches up in passing as they head through the trees, to pluck a tamarind-shaped ball off of one of the trees, offering it to Micah to bite into. "Not sure what flavour this one is. S'like Gushers. Except if Gushers were delicious Indian foods? Hm. Someone should make that snack." He stops in his walking, head slowly tilting downwards, when Micah's fingers trace against him. There's a sudden dampness to his eyes, too, both of them glistening bright. He smiles bright too, though. "Oh. Oh, look, just there. So many spinach pakora. Aloo, too." He stoops to nab one of the latter, to offer it with Micah's chutney-fruit. "/Now/ it's perfect. But we're going to be late." There's a soft lapping of water, coming now from beside them, a vast (still animated) lake glittering wide and blue to their right. "Hm...makes sense. Tamarind...is a fruit. From trees." Out of curiosity, Micah just bites straight into the fruit offered to him, finding it...rather expectedly tasting of tamarind. "It is. Tamarind, but not just pulpy-mess. Actual chutney." He takes the pakora, dipping it /into/ the fruit before holding it back out to Jax. "S'always perfect. Can't be late; we're here." He gestures at the lake. Intended destination reached. "Precisely when we mean t'be. Like wizards." Jackson leans in, nipping a small crunchy bite from the pakora with a happy hum. He /giggles/ at Micah's answer. "/You're/ the wizard. But okay maybe we're not late. Maybe lunch moved for is. We should still go." He slips his hand back into Micah's, continuing to lead the way, straight into the brilliant blue waters of the lake, which press in around them warm, but not wet. "Do you think --" This trails off as Jax makes his way beneath the lake's surface, tiny jewel-bright fish darting around. A school of dragonflies with stained glass wings. A brilliantly sunburst-coloured reef of coral. "Do you think --" But he trails off again, squeezing Micah's hand tight. "How did I get t'be the wizard when /you're/ the laser beamin', shield-makin' illusionist?" Micah teases back, dipping the pakora in the fruit again to take a bite for himself, chewing contentedly. His hands are empty without needing to drop anything, when Jax's hand reaches for his. He squeezes it tight and walks forward at the other man's side, again without hesitation, though his eyes are drawn every-which-way to observe their new surroundings once they arrive. "Think? Think I love you more'n anythin' else in the world." He tugs Jax close to him, closing his eyes to all of the surreal beauty around them as if in proof of his words, to draw him into a long kiss. Jax's arms wrap around Micah. Tight. He returns the kiss with fervor, the colours around them brightening. "I love you," he agrees softly. "I love you. We should get to lunch." This is soft and tremulous. Even here underneath the water it's easy enough to see the tears in his eyes. It takes quite some time for Micah to break away from the kiss. Even when he does, he doesn't release Jax from the tight hold of his arms. "I love you." His head turns again: right, left, surveying the colourful underwater scape. "I don't know where t'go without you." His own voice has taken on a shaky timbre. Jax tips his head down when the kiss breaks, burying his face against Micah's neck. "Not without me. M'here. M'right here. The /boys/ are here." He says this last one like he's reminding himself of it, suddenly unfolding to get Micah to his feet. There is a picnic basket hung over his arm. Maybe there's always been. "Don't hafta go nowhere alone, see?" Micah's fingers slide up the back of Jax's neck and twine themselves in his hair as the other man nuzzles close. "Never...never without you." The thumb of his opposite hand runs over the little glass bead of the narrow silver ring on his finger. "We should be with the boys," he accedes softly as he stands next to Jax, taking the other man's hand and squeezing it tight again. "Not alone." --- It's still dark in Lighthaus when Micah awakes. No blood, no warm spicy-chocolate baking, no cartoon forest sprung up outside. There /is/ more colour in the room than there had been before, though; resting in light weight against Micah's chest is a small metal dragonfly, wings wrought in Jax's typically vivid stained-glass patterns. --- In Jax's cell, it's never dark anymore, the brighter light provided there shining around the clock. But tucked up into his cot with him there's a splash of teal where there was not previously, Wish Bear tucked beside him under the thin grey covers.