ArchivedLogs:Support System

Support System
Also, tea.
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Jackson, Micah
In Absentia	22 July 2013 Lucien has some overwhelming news.
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. 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. Knock knock knock! A knock is sounding on Jackson and Micah’s door, Monday night. Outside, Lucien is waiting. Patiently, really; at least he is still, his expression calm if rather /tired/, eyes shadowed like he hasn’t slept overmuch lately. He is neat, as ever, crisp slacks, crisp vest, crisp dress shirt. His knock is brisk, though, a firm (crisp!) insistence to it. Jackson is less crisp-polished than his visitor, a little worn around the edges in black jeans faintly pinstriped in silver, a silvery fishnet shirt over seafoam-green tank, bare feet, glittery purple eyepatch. He answers the door promptly, nudging Obie back with an ankle as he pulls it open to let Lucien in. “Hey, honey-honey. I was surprised t’get your -- well. I didn’t expect to -- um, hi!” His nose crinkles. “Sorry, hi. Can I get you a drink or somethin’?” Micah is sprawled out over the couch in a chocolate brown T-shirt, on which a stegosaurus is cursing a T-rex's 'sudden but inevitable betrayal', and a pair of faded jeans. He has a half-glass of lemonade handy on a nearby table and a graphic novel in his hands, a copy of Neil Gaiman's “The Kindly Ones”. The knock at the door causes him to sit up a bit, moving the book from in front of his face to see who has come visiting. “Lucien!” he calls in greeting, tucking a bookmark in the book and depositing it on a table. “How are you? S'Desi gone missin' again already?” Lucien inclines his head politely to Jackson, slipping inside to toe his shoes off just inside the door. He doesn’t enter all that /far/, moving to the entrance of the living room and folding his hands behind his back as he looks between the other two. “No,” he answers Micah’s question, skipping past greetings. “I apologize for dropping in on you so late and I --” His head dips, the very /faint/ curl of his lips a touch self-conscious. “-- apologize again, because I’ve come asking a favour. I --” His eyes flick between Jackson and Micah. Back to Jackson. “-- was not sure who else to -- I have found myself in somewhat of a situation and it seemed like you would best understand.” “Oh -- oh,” Jackson’s brow crumples into a worried frown as he locks the door behind Lucien. He trails back into the living room to lean against the back of the couch, palms braced behind himself against the sofa. His nails scritch absently at the corduroy. “A situation? You? Um -- what kinda -- I mean, m’sure I’d be glad to -- give what help I /can/ --” He glances to Micah uncertainly for a moment. “Is there -- trouble, are you aright?” Micah moves into a kneel-sitting position at the edge of the couch nearest the door, somewhat propped against the arm of it, just behind Jax. “Oh, it's not even late. We don't...sleep much. Not this early, at least,” he reassures with a little half-smile. “A favour? Gosh, if there's somethin' we can do. Just...that sounds like it's kinda serious.” He pats the couch cushion next to him, worried eyebrows coming into play. “Come sit. You need somethin' t'eat or drink?” It is hard to get away with not having /something/ when visiting this apartment, between Jax and Micah. “My mother died yesterday,” Lucien says, without preamble. His hands are still folded behind his back, his head still faintly tipped downward. His tone is even, a touch detached; his words continue in precisely the same level intonation for the quiet answer: “-- Some tea would be lovely.” He looks at the offered couch cushion with a faint furrow of brow, but after a delay slips around to take it. He eases down onto the seat, folds his hands in his lap, instead, sitting very upright. “The children have come to stay with me. In all likelihood, I will gain custody of them.” Jackson’s eye widens, at this first news; there’s a brief shiver of light around him, and when Lucien moves to sit he skirts around to /squeeze/ the other man briefly in a quick-tight hug. He steps back just as abruptly, ducking his head. “-- oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Luci, I --” His teeth drag against his lip. “Yesterday, what happened? Was she --” He hesitates, teeth digging in further, this time. He studies Lucien’s expression with a slow uncertain frown. “I don’t know if I should be -- are you -- okay?” Colour flushes into his cheeks, head ducking again. “/Tea/. Right. We got some -- Assam brung fresh from India recently um. If you like -- Assam.” He’s backing away, scooting towards the kitchen. “-- How’re the kids doing?” “Ohgosh. Oh, gosh, honey. Your poor family. How are the little ones holdin' up?” Micah reaches out a hand to rub comfortingly against Lucien's back when he sits. He shifts and pivots around to settle onto the couch cushion properly, not breaking contact in the process. “Are you set up t'handle 'em full time? If y'need any help with 'em, just let me know.” He lets Jax handle the tea, that being more his wheelhouse than Micah's. “In all likelihood...were there no legal documents drawn up t'establish custody?” “No. It was very sudden and -- regardless, my mother was not the sort to --” Lucien exhales slowly; his posture has been tense through Jackson’s hug and beneath Micah’s touch it remains tense. “Forgive,” he says, very quietly, very /carefully/, “my bluntness, but it was not sympathy I am seeking. Matt’s death was -- is -- very difficult, on my family. /This/ one is no tragedy. The children --” His eyes lower, fixing on his hands. They lace together in his lap, then unlace. Re-lace. “/Upheaval/ is never easy. They are not -- /mourning/.” Slowly, his eyes close. The breaths he takes are slow as well, long and deep, his back rising and falling gradually beneath Micah’s hand. “Assam sounds wonderful, thank you.” His eyes still do not open. “I expect I /will/ need help. Perhaps a good deal of it, I -- do not know. My life is not much structured for /children/, but I will do my best to remedy that. In the meanwhile it will be a lot of -- tedious bureaucracy, and a lot of --” His lips twitch, faintly, at their corners. “-- having rather no /clue/ what I am even doing.” “The -- boys had said --” Jackson hesitates, glancing at Lucien but then just filling a kettle and setting it on the stove. The light shivers around him again. “-- We’ll be glad to -- do what we can. To help with the kids. I’m --” His back turns as he gets out tea, mugs, starts making preparations. “-- glad they’ll have a stable place, anyway. M’sorry that --” Another hesitation, as he turns back around, leaning up against the counter as he waits for the water to boil. “-- well. Just kinda seems like a rough situation all around.” “Mmn. That's too bad. I hope it don't turn into too much legal trouble. You're kinda the logical guardian, it would seem, though. So maybe it'll go smooth?” Micah offers hopefully, his hand still working in small circles regardless. It takes him a moment to process the information, a brief nod given before he continues. “Mournin' or not...movin' an' changin' caretakers an' changin' schools, if necessary. S'all rough on kids. An' this all comin' right after Matt...” He rakes the fingers of his free hand through his hair. “Might not be a bad idea t'make sure they have access to a counsellor? It'd be somethin' a case worker would be askin' about, too.” His teeth meet with his lower lip for a brief moment. “Desi might know the younger ones’ schedules. Routines are helpful.” “It is rough, no doubt,” Lucien agrees, quietly. He leans forward, very slowly, hands lifting so that his face can rest against his palms, elbows propped on his knees. His fingers splay up into his hair, pushing it up into a spiky mess. “Routine. Mmm. She would know, yes. I -- again, am sorry to -- drop in on you with this I just.” His quick exhale is short and sharp. “-- Do not know how you manage, really.” His palms grind in against his eyes. “A counsellor. They -- likely should have all been seeing one years ago. I suppose this is a good time to start.” Jackson glances at the teakettle, and then slips around from the kitchen while it still heats, tucking himself up against the living room entryway. “Luci --” His tone is kiiind of hesitant, “-- Have /you/ ever made time t’see a counsellor?” “Don't...don't. Askin' for help when y'need it is about the best thing you can do. No need for apologies.” Micah's hand persistently follows Lucien as he leans forward. “You feel free t'ask whatever y'need. Worst that happens, it's somethin' we don't know how t'help with immediately. An' add me to your 'sitter list. I know your schedule's kinda unique, so you'll need one.” He nods at the idea of starting with a counsellor. “S'a good time, yeah. A lot of 'em will work combinations of family an' one-on-one sessions when young kids are involved.” That could be the more subtle version of Jax's question. “My schedule is --” Lucien breathes out a tired laugh. “-- Yes, I don’t imagine my clients often keep five-year-old schedules in mind.” Though he does add as a pensive afterthought: “-- some of them, actually. But not /many/.” Beneath Micah’s hand he is still tense, though it is -- very, very slowly -- starting to ease away. “It is kind of you to offer,” he manages, quiet still. And then a /long/ silence. “No,” he eventually answers, “I have never -- made the time for that. Given my -- history it is probably,” he admits, faintly wry, “rather a sore lack, in my life.” “The kids’re welcome to come hang out with Spence an’ the twins if y’ever need to -- time,” Jackson says with a small quirk of his lips, “it can be hard sometimes findin’ some for yourself. But s’important to.” In the kitchen, the kettle starts whistling; he heads around to pour it for steeping. “S’just -- important, s’all. S’why I ask. It ain’t gonna always be easy an’ it’ll probably be pretty stressful and -- if y’don’t take care’a yourself proper, y’ain’t gonna be no good for taking care’a them either.” He shrugs a shoulder. “We’re here t’help with whatever y’need for them -- but whatever y’need for /you/, too.” “Not many people keep five-year-old schedules in mind, generally speakin',” Micah agrees, a hint of a smile crossing his lips at Lucien's laugh. The smile twists into a smirk, accompanied by his own quick snort of laughter at Jax. “I'm gonna play that back t'you next time y'complain about me makin' you sleep,” comes as a good-natured threat, tossed lightly over his shoulder toward the kitchen with a look that manages to be both stern and gently teasing at once. Lucien just exhales again, almost a laugh, at Jackson’s words. “You are both very kind,” he murmurs down towards his hands. “I am feeling more than a little -- in over my head. It is -- good.” His head tips to rest in his hands again. His posture relaxes just a hair more. “To know there is at least support. If it is -- if I,” he says, slowly, “need it.” Jackson’s cheeks flush at Micah’s look, his nose crinkling up. “-- Well, s’/true/ even if I ain’t always /great/ at it,” he insists, taking the teaballs out of the mugs and bringing two cups of tea into the living room to set them down on the coffee table. He returns to the kitchen to claim the third for himself, moving to perch on an arm of the couch. “And y’do,” comes quieter still. “Y’always will. I -- we -- mmnh. I worry about you, y’know.” He leans in to peck Lucien very lightly on the temple. “Drink your tea. Everything feels less overwhelming with some good tea in you.” Micah's hand travels to give Lucien's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It's okay. I think 'overwhelmed' is a natural an' appropriate response, given the circumstances. An' the support is /definitely/ there. An' you'll prob'ly need it, which is also okay. S'a lot you're takin' on all at once.” He inclines his head slightly to Jax when tea is delivered. “Thanks, hon,” he says softly. “S'prob'ly best t'take it in small pieces. There anythin' you need help with gettin' done /tonight/?” “Tonight --” Lucien closes his eyes, actually tipping his head -- just the slightest bit! -- into that small kiss, a faint flutter of warmth accompanying the touch. “Thank you.” His eyes open again; he shakes his head. He leans forward, curling his fingers around the hot mug of tea. “Tonight, I think, I will just be glad to enjoy this tea.”