ArchivedLogs:Blankets

Blankets
Dramatis Personae Flicker, Hive
In Absentia	2014-11-26 Coping.
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Treehaus - Lower East Side
A spiral of sturdy slatted wooden stairs winds up the trunk of an enormous oak, leading the way up to this treehouse positioned between a pair of trees at one side of the Commons yard, abutting the river. It's clear enough upon ascending that this is no ordinary treehouse, built sturdy-strong and with a polished finish that would rival most /regular/ residences. Spanning the distance between the pair of oaks, the treehouse is a long one-story building, equipped with both plumbing and electricity. The stairs lead up onto a wraparound balcony that projects out at one side to overlook the East River rushing by below. The doorway inside leads to a furnished sitting room, long low futon-couches on the pale wood floors, walls painted in leafy shades of green, exposed-beam ceilings that seem to have worked some of the actual branches of the tree into the curvature of the roof. The front room is bright and airy, large windows looking out on the Commons grounds and the river outside. Recessed lanterns in the wall give the room a warm glow, come nighttimes, and in the center of the room amid a stone-tiled patch of flooring there is a squat glass-encased gas fireplace providing warmth in winter. Off to one side of the room there is an elevated loft up nearer the ceiling, accessible by ladder and furnished with pillows and plush futon mattress and lots of blankets. The adjoining room is decorated in watery river-blues instead of leaf-greens; in here there's a small kitchenette to one side with sink and stove and toaster oven and counter space, cabinets on the walls. A long dining table in this room seats eight; by the windows, plenty of cushioning sits in the wide window-seats. Off in the very back, a tiny half-bathroom holds a sink and toilet. No stove in here; the wintertime tends to find this room much chillier, but there's generally plenty of warm blankets lying around the house. Snow to ice, ice to hail, hail to rain, rain back to snow. It hasn't been a welcoming day. Treacherous footing on the pathways, treacherous footing on the ladders, unkind to unsteady legs and shaky balance. Maybe that's why Flicker's hanging out here. Curled up in thick-wool socks and thick-wale cords, thick-rib sweater over a long-sleeved polo, bundled up under blankets up in the treehaus's little loft. The fire's on, in its fireplace. Thermos of cocoa in hand. /Rachel Rising/ in his lap. His mind isn't /quiet/ but carefully, guardedly blank, the kind of whitespace only achieved through good hard practice. Flat-blank. Nothing. His eyes are focused down on the page in front of him, but if it's registering, it's only filtering in slow and careful. Hive isn't much good, lately, for climbing up his basement /stairs/ unassisted let alone icy ladders; he's probably curled up in bed under blankets of his own. Amid a sea of noisy mental clutter, that quiet empty space stands /out/, as easy identification as any. The touch he brings isn't physical, an incoming pressure of mind that is heavier than it used to be, harder, more blindingly painful. Unfortunately. It coils around Flicker's mind and squeezes in, a slow wordless question. << (you want) (to be) (alone)? >> A beat of hesitation, before, more uncertainly. << (Or you trying) (to let) (/me/) (be). >> Sharp hiss-gasp. Tense. Flicker's teeth reflexively clench at the sudden painful intrusion. Eyes close. Fingers clench too, on his thermos, and his book slides closed. One breath. Two. Three. On the third he relaxes, oddly welcoming once the shock has passed. Settling into his nest of cushions, slowly opening the closed-off whitespace of mind. Underneath it roils. The deep quiet well of warmth that usually surrounds his thoughts is churning. Hot and angry, sick and /tired/. Somewhere in its midst Flicker is clawing to stay afloat. One breath. Two. Three. On the third there's the mental equivalent of a shrug. Shoulder lift, hand turned up -- is that your answer? The initial shock of pain quiets into just a heavy squeeze. A mental lean, butting up strong and firm against Flicker's mind as the other man lets him in. Hive doesn't shy away from the roiling, though he doesn't pry deeper either, skating thoughtful along the surface of what Flicker chooses to show and staying there. His mind wraps in, blanketing in a slower more even press. Asked and answered -- and answered again. No need to stay /quiet/ on Hive's account. The settling of Flicker's mind into Hive's is like a sigh. An exhale of breath, a release of tension. A cosy-comfortable nestling into a pile of blankets, familiar and soft and warm. And /home/. The pain it comes with might be near as intense as the one Hive brings, these days. Gutwrench, twist, stab. An ache that wants to latch /on/ to the presence leaning up against his and hold tight. Some days, he can deal. Some days... He caps his thermos, lying down to rest his cheek against a soft fold of fleece blanket. Eyes closed. Breath slowing. << (don't even think about) (feeling guilty). >> Oh hey look at that, a pang of guilt was just starting to surface, pinging up along the connection where Hive's mind touches Flicker's. It melts back away, dropping off into just the same quiet familiar comfort. Contact, ease, closeness. He thinks about saying, I'm sorry. He thinks about saying, I'll stay. He thinks about saying a lot of things. Flicker doesn't, though he shrugs these thoughts aside nearly as soon as he feels Hive start to think them (think about thinking them? Meta-think them?) << I want you happy, >> whispers across the turbulent surface of his mind. << I don't just want you /here/. >> Thoughts subside, once more. Something tightens, uncomfortable and brief, in Hive's mental presence. It takes a long while for it to relax again, but eventually, relax it does. Settling, slow and calm, back in to wrap itself once more, mentally up against Flicker. Not promising, not comforting, not anything at all but just tucking in strong and present against the chaos. Flicker's eyes stay closed, through that tightening. His breath shivers. Calms. The chaos doesn't. It keeps battering at the hard mental walls of Hive's mind till long after the teleporter has fallen asleep.