ArchivedLogs:Troubled Dreams

Troubled Dreams
Dramatis Personae Micah, Jackson, Shane
In Absentia	15 March 2014 Shane has very disturbing dreams. (Part of the Future Past TP.)
Location <NYC> Candyland - Village Lofts - East Village
This bedroom is bright, bright, bright, a cheerful riot of colour in contrast to the more minimalist scheme outside. It, too, has a plethora of lamps to lend it even more light than what comes in from the large windows opposite the entry; many of them bear stained-glass coverings in cheerful mosaic patterns to add still more colour to the room. The walls have been painted in pale blue with darker blue trim, though one is instead a mural of surreal fantastical artwork, odd unearthly plant and animal life spread across it in vivid colours. There is scattering of furniture here -- a bed on the wall adjacent to the window (usually dressed in vividly patterned mismatched sheets), a dresser opposite the bed, standing beside the large closet, both in wood that has been painted black and then covered in a swarm of brightly coloured images, too. The wall near the door bears an enormous handmade shelving unit, similarly painted; it is filled largely with meticulously organized art supplies. By the window, a desk stands in as-yet-unpainted wood; besides laptops and drawing tablet it often bears an eclectic mix of items, too. Comic books, knitting supplies, a hiking pack of climbing gear. It is late enough to be early, still dark in the hours before dawn. Micah is curled up on his side, facing away from the room, snuggled warm in a tangle of blankets and navy henley shirt and Mane 6 cutie mark pajama pants. His Apple Family quilt has slid half off the bed at this point, one corner of it puddling on the floor. His face is mooshed up into Jax's shoulder, an arm thrown over the other man's torso. By now, his auburn hair has already moved from daytime-tousled to impressive bed-head, sticking out all at angles. Jackson is tucked up against Micah, fiercely warm beneath the other man's arm; he's in black terrycloth pajama pants and no shirt, stitches still marring the wings on the /opposite/ shoulder than the one Micah's face mooshes against. In sleep he'd almost look peaceful, though his habitual dream-projection gives lie to this. Around the edges of the room, much clearer near Jax's nightlight but still hazy-distinct in the darker corners away from it, shadows roil and shift, bloody and violent in their tearing-rending flesh. It's probably a mercy illusions have no sound to accompany them. The opening of the door is creeper-quiet, just a wide-enough crack to let one tiny blue shark slip in before Shane closes the door behind himself. The illusions around the room get only a cursory glance, a cursory /shudder/, and then, timid-quiet, he sneaks over to crawl up onto the bed. He packs himself in a tight (cool-damp) ball against Micah's back, gills fluttering rapidly as he presses in close and snug. The door opening is not enough to cause Micah to stir. The cool-wetness against his back is another matter. He shivers, shoulders shuddering against the cold. Not-quite not-asleep, but truly not full awake, one hand gropes blindly behind him for the quilt to pull it over his form. Instead he grips at the fabric of Shane's pajama pantsleg, tugging at it a bit but obviously not succeeding in covering himself any better. The door opening /does/ cause Jackson to stir, the shift of light across his senses triggering some instinctive guard-prickling. His muscles tense, breathing catching as the illusions around the room freeze and start to fade. "Mnngh?" is as coherent as he initially gets, though, rolling over to face Micah and sling an arm around the other man. His hand falls against Shane's gills rather than against mattress, fingers brushing down against them and then curling snugly inwards when the unexpected texture is encountered. Shane shivers, pressing closer still when his pajamas are grabbed at. He lets himself be tugged, legs tucking up closer to Micah's. Beneath Jax's fingers his gills flutter, and then close. "Pa?" His voice is quiet in the dark. "Ba?" His head bonks in against Micah's back. The closer press of other bodies to his own would settle Micah back into deeper sleep, stilling again until words are spoken, sounding far louder than they are for the quiet of the room. "Hm?" he asks with similar eloquence to his sleepy husband. He turns away from Jax at the bonking to lie on his back, glancing over to see an unexpected sharkboy there. "Shane? Are you okay, honey?" his voice comes whisper-soft from sleep. Jax's arm stays draped over the both of them, though his eyes finally open when Micah rolls over. He grumbles quiet-soft, and then props himself up on an elbow to squint over at the other two. "Shane? S'wrong, pup?" His voice is soft, too, but sounds rather /awake/ already, a tense-alarmed concern filling it. There's already a glimmer blossoming over the door and windows, a small dim ball of glow lighting to flit about the sides of the room as though searching. "No, it's --" When Micah rolls over, Shane uncurls, crawling /over/ the other man to tuck himself in /between/ Jax and Micah. His gills still flutter quickly, his face turning to press in against Jax's chest. "No no no it's okay," he says apologetically, at Jax's quiet alarm. "It was just a -- just a bad dream, can I stay -- please. I don't -- it was –" “Oh, honey.” Micah turns again to wrap an arm around Shane when he tucks between them, holding him closer. His fingers pet along Shane's gills to soothe them. “Must've been a real bad dream. Y'can stay. D'you need t'talk about it? Or just wanna be here?” Jackson settles back down once this explanation comes, the shields and light vanishing as he just nestles back down under the covers. He runs his hand slowly down along Shane's other set of gills, palm curling in snug to press them closed. "Oh, honey-honey. Of course y'can. S'it -- anything y'want t'talk on? Or just. Have cuddles." "Mmnff." Shane turns his face to moosh it harder up against Jax's chest, his breathing calming as slowly his gills settle back flat against his sides. At length he turns his head upward, voice steadier though his muscles are still tensed hard. "I don't know. I don't even know if it was a /nightmare/. Like in some ways it was /good/. B was -- he'd gotten into MIT and I was --" He hesitates, shaking his head. "But it was so /vivid/. And something -- bad had happened. Something really -- bad. In Vermont. And I don't want you to go." Micah snuggles in closer, hand continuing its slow-steady stroking along Shane's gills. "Honey...I know it was troublin'. Even if it was just a dream, dreams can be...real troublin'. But it ain't happened. Vermont is...where Matt is. They can't just /not/ go for Matt." His other hand moves to pet over Shane's hair spikes, brows knitting. "What...what happened? D'you wanna tell us what it was?" "Sweetie, it was a dream. It was jus' a dream. We sure ain't gonna go /rushin'/ into nothin' headlong -- we'll do everything we can t'prepare safe for it." Jackson tips his head down, pressing a kiss to Shane's forehead. "We're here now. Dream's over." Shane closes his eyes, pulling in a shaky breath. His gills press up against his fathers' hands, but then lie down flat again. "I don't -- exactly know," he admits, very quiet and a little sheepish. "I just know how /terrible/ it felt. I said that -- that there'd been a slaughter? B felt -- guilty over. Over being happy about school because of all the stuff that'd happened. And he'd been working to try and -- get his robots to -- fuck. Get his robots to work with -- the /brain/-chips? To /disarm/ the brain-chips. I was really worried about both of you, too. How you'd been holding up after -- leading. I don't know." Micah pulls Shane into a hug at the shaky breath. "Oh honey, it's...I know. It's hard /not/ t'think of all the death an' horrible that can happen on those raids. I'm sure that's what's fillin' up alla our minds. Thinkin' about those things." His brow creases deeper. "Disarm? Aren't they just mind control chips? How were they...armed?" These last words are rather halting-hesitant. Micah pulls Shane into a hug at the shaky breath. "Oh honey, it's...I know. It's hard /not/ t'think of all the death an' horrible that can happen on those raids. I'm sure that's what's fillin' up alla our minds. Thinkin' about those things." His brow creases deeper. "Disarm? Aren't they just mind control chips? How were they...armed?" These last words are rather halting-hesitant. "Disarm?" Jackson has the same question, puzzlement in his voice. "Honey-honey, those chips ain't no weapons -- I mean, I guess they are in the /mind-control/ way but they ain't -- how would you --" He shakes his head slightly, fingers trailing down against Shane's gills again. "But we're here now. No chips, no nothin'." "I don't know. I was -- I talked about them /blowing/, about them /mining/ people's heads -- god. OK, that's horrible even for them just -- fucking blowing up people's /brains/ -- the chips don't do that." At first Shane says this firmly, as though reminding himself, but afterwards he shrinks into a smaller tight-packed ball against Micah, his voice dropping shaky-small: "... they /don't/ do that, right?" “Like...charges controlled by the chips? In people's heads? Could they do that?” Micah shudders visibly. “Ohgosh, they /could/ do that. Would they /think/ t'do that?” He holds his breath a moment, subconsciously. It sighs a little noisily back through his lips. “Jax's right. We're...here. That's not happenin'.” Jackson curls his hand tighter against Shane's side, his eye widening in the darkness. For a moment, the darkness seems to close /in/, shadows collecting heavier than before. "No -- no, the chips. Don't do that, if they did that our raids would --" He shudders as well, turning his head down to press his cheek against Shane's spiky hair. "When we come half the time they start tryin' to pick people off one at a time, if they could just /mine/ everyone's skulls they'd -- they'd --" He trails off, breath catching before he can follow /this/ thought to its conclusion. The shadows blacken further, and then slack back to the previous night-lit pre-dawn state. "Was a dream, honey-honey. D'you think you can get back to sleep or should I go start some scramble an' hot cocoa?" Shane is quiet a long while; even with the hands pressed to his side his gills shift uncomfortably against skin, only slowly relaxing back down flat. "Yeah. If they could, they'd --" Now he burrows in against Micah's chest, shaking his head. "I don't know about sleep. But I don't want to go. /You/ go back to sleep. I'll try, anyway. Just want to stay here a bit." At the creeping darkness, Micah curls in tighter, bringing his knees up toward his chest. "They haven't done it before. That's...reassurin'. If they'd had that tech before, sure they wouldn't've been...takin' people out slow-like the way they was. Would just...take everybody out...at once. I can see how this was real troublin' t'you, Shane. S'hard t'even think about. {Sorry} y'had t'feel like it actually happened in your dream," he says with his hand circling reassuringly on Shane's back, the offending word coming in stilted Vietnamese. "We can just lie here a bit. An' start breakfast if that becomes just starin' uncomfortable at the ceilin'." Jackson presses another kiss to the top of Shane's head, this time. "Okay. /Try/ t'get some more sleep if y'can, honey-honey, you ain't been in bed hardly no time at all. But if y'can't just -- poke me an' we'll go start in on breakfast." Shane nods at this, silently, cheek rumpling at Micah's shirt. Breathing still shaky, he just presses in close, and holds on tight.