ArchivedLogs:Be Better

Be Better
Dramatis Personae Micah, Hive
In Absentia	20 July 2014 Working past that whole not talking thing.
Location <NYC> {Lighthaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
Bright and sunny-light, this house lives up to its name. With a plethora of enormous windows flooding the place with light and an open layout, the ground floor feels more spacious than it is. The small entryway has a closet space for shoes and coats, and doors at either side leading to the neighboring apartments. Past this it opens straight into the living room, a wide expanse of space bordered on one side by a curved set of stairs leading up (with colourful glass tiling on the risers between each stair) and next to these, the half-wall into the kitchen. Cool pale tile underfoot and many dark cabinets with a small walk-in pantry, plentiful custom granite countertops, black and speckled faintly with rainbowy flecks, lots of hanging space overhead for cookware, a large double-oven. There's a strip of rather detailed mosaic-work in the kitchen backsplash, colourful glass tiling depicting strange fantastical herbs and small faeries and firelizards darting among them. In back of the kitchen, a door opens up to a small sunroom, wide and two-stories high with a balcony overlook from the second floor; two of the windows here have cushioned windowseats, and there's a wealth of herbs growing in hanging pots and small window-boxes. The back wall of the living room is nearly entirely dominated by windows, huge and allowing a view of the river beyond with bench windowseats lining the sills. There are plentiful paintings on the wall, surreal and fantasy-inspired, mostly in shades of blacks greys with bright bursts of colour that are mirrored in the decor -- monochrome upholstery on the couch and armchair but colourful throw-pillows, black and white huge corduroy beanbags (and one large red doggie-bed,) soft throw rugs also in mostly black and white with splashes of rainbow woven in. The hand-built furniture -- tall chairs by the kitchen/living room counter, dining table and chairs in the kitchen, low coffeetable in the living room -- has been hand-painted as well, black with bursts of colourful abstract designs. Along the living room's other wall, doors branch off to a full bathroom -- in white and deep blue with one wall of the shower done in colourful intricate mosaic too, an underwater scene full of strange mythical water-creatures; tiny water-sprites have been interspersed at random points in the rest of the wall tiles, as well. There's a small studio space beside the bathroom, large windows as well and a gratuitous amount of shelving and cabinets along the walls; this room has very /little/ colour in it, just white walls and black furnishing. What a grey rainy day it has been. The Lighthaus windows are closed, for once, against the incursion of /wet/. It certainly smells cheery inside, however, like spices from dinner hours earlier and /heavily/ citrusy from /all/ the cleansers. There may have been some mopping, sweeping, vacuuming, dusting. General /frenzied/ house cleaning between the simple need for it after having quite a number of guests and the taking out of tension and /fretting/ through chores. One might, as they say, eat off of these floors by now. Micah has added to the overall bouquet of scents and sense of /clean/ with a pile of fresh from the dryer laundry washed in citrus and lavender soap. He is ensconced beside the pile heaped onto the couch to make room in the basket for folded items to be carried off and put away later. The folding is almost meditative, easing out some of the snarls and wrinkles in his mind. Since he's been at cleaning most of the day, his outfit has changed from its earlier interview neatness into impressively tousled hair, faded jeans, and an olive T-shirt depicting a Darwin-inspired sketch of finches with adaptive /technology/ upgrades. Into that snarled-wrinkled mind, enter one more crinkle. Given their last encounter, the familiar heavy press of Hive's mind after a day of fretting maaay not help /ease/ that fret. But here it is anyway: a curling squeeze of mental fingers that pushes against Micah's mind with as much intrusive heavy-handedness as ever. Even when /trying/ to be gentle Hive -- can't really be gentle. But he's quick, at least, one touch and then gone like testing the waters here. In the midst of tuned-out repetitive activity, Micah's brain first relies on initial instinct, well-used to that familiar touch and /leaning/ into it. Perhaps not the best instinctual reaction to foreign presences in one's mind, but there it is. At least, at first. Then there is a startle akin to someone sitting stark-upright upon realising someone is in the room with them when they had thought it empty. A hurt retraction comes now, a withdrawal reflex from pain. Then just /hesitation/. Hello, ambivalence. There's a stretch of quiet following this, the mental touch withdrawing and staying gone. For a minute, at least. Eventually it thuds back in, though, a thump of mental slam that is hammer-heavy in its feel and -- contrastingly tentative-quiet where it carries Hive's uncertain /voice/ with it. << Knock? Knock? >> It's followed by an /actual/ knock, two short taps on the door between their apartments. Micah doesn't answer that with words, trying his damnedest not to think less than polite thoughts about having been thrown out of the space just to the other side of that door himself, thanks so much. There is an image of the door opening by way of permission, however. Easier to control the mental imagery than the internal monologue, it would seem. There's a brief fumbling at the door before it is pushed open to admit one skinny telepath, still in jeans and 'ceci n'est pas une lune' Death Star tee, bare feet, Theta Tau cap pulled down over his head. Given that he only recently threw Micah out of his own house it is probably not the most polite that he heads straight in to take a /seat/, crumpling himself down onto one of the large beanbags near the couch -- but judging by the way he leans on a cane that is only doing a middling-good job of keeping his very-unsteady self upright this probably has less to do with making himself at home and more to do with an /inability/ to stay on his feet all that long. There's a stretch of silence afterwards, anyway, once Hive is settled. His hand lifts to rub against his cheek and for a brief moment there's another brief pulse of mental energy -- but this fades away without words as Hive takes a deep breath, steeling himself to speak with his /mouth/, instead. It takes a moment, though. A swallow, his hand dropping to his lap. "{I'm sorry,}" finally comes, in quiet French. Micah certainly isn't working to break the silence after Hive enters, barely even looking up from his folding at the other man. He does his best to rein in a lot of /hurt/ feelings that seem to want to fill up the quiet on his behalf. He nods slowly in response to the apology, not /quite/ trusting himself with the whole speaking thing just yet. "I had this. Whole lot of. Other shit I thought about -- saying, about. Where my head was -- at that evening and. What I'd -- been --" Hive only speaks choppily, words dredged up slow and halting as though finding them is a struggle. He breaks off with another scrub of palm against face, closing his eyes and then opening them again. "... doesn't. Really matter though it was. Not important compared to --" There's another press of mental energy, here, pushing out and pulling back in sharply. Hive's teeth grind, his fingers clenching in hard against his cane. "The world just keeps getting shittier and shittier. And scarier and scarier. And that's when you need family the fucking /most/ and you -- never. Stop. Being there for /yours/. And I -- Christ. I built this whole fucking place to. To /have/ a safe. Home. For a lot of people who. Really needed one. For my -- my --" His teeth grind again, eyes briefly scrunching shut before he manages again, "-- for my family. {And I am so sorry}," this time in Thai, "that I ever made you feel like you aren't. A part of that." "I know," Micah says simply, after awhile, hands still working at the folding because that's something clear and easy for them to /do/. "I know what kind of...place y'must've been in. That's /why/ I didn't wanna press an argument 'bout somethin' heated an' emotional that has every /right/ t'be heated an' emotional 'cause I could tell y'weren't in the place t'do it right then." He /might/ look a little like he's talking to the laundry just now. "An' sometimes there's miscommunication an' sometimes there's misunderstandin' an' sometimes people's intentions don't come off clear, but it's pretty hard t'feel that way when it's /such/ a departure an' y'can hear what I'm /thinkin'/ an' not just whatever...else." Micah sets aside the folded pair of shorts to pick up another T-shirt, both of the items Spence-sized. "Just seems like whenever things start gettin' harder an' scarier people start treatin' me more like I'm on an opposin' team. An' I kinda expect that from strangers. Or people who just don't know me that /well/. But more'n more it's things slippin' from...other people. Makes it real hard t'think that they even /trust/ me much less want me around." The fabric in his hands is, perhaps, being treated less delicately than it deserves, fingers twisting in tight. "D'you know how many people in m'life that're really /important/ t'me /don't/ have X-genes? I can count 'em up without barely havin' t'move on to a second /hand/. An' m'/husband/ an' all three of my /children/ an' just about everyone I /love/. T'say that I get t'walk away from things that affect them like it's nothin', it's just... Like nothin' I do or say or feel /matters/ past the fact that /I'm not one of you/." Hive nods, slowly, his eyes dragging upwards to look towards Micah. His fingers grip tight at his cane, still, other hand resting against his knees where his nails scrape against the thin lines in the denim of his jeans. "I know. I --" His teeth grind again, the cane clattering from his fingers down to the floor as he lifts his hand to press knuckles against his temple. "It's not --" But here he stops again, shaking his head quickly. "Fff. /I/ want you around. Things have been fucked -- up as hell and I'm. You shouldn't. Have to keep feeling like --" He shakes his head again, exhaling sharply. "... Kind of wish you /could/ actually. Just walk away from all this shit, it's. All just too fucking much." He slumps backwards, sinking into the beanbag. "... s'not a question of trust, though. Or want. Just gets fucking hard sometimes to -- relate. Because this shit /does/ affect your life but not -- in the same /way/. Doesn't matter how much I /love/ Jax or Dusk or you I'm never going to get what it's /like/ being gay or visibly mutant or having a disability and that's not --" He hisses out a slow breath, shoulders tightening inward. "But what I said to you was still. Fucking -- shitty, there's. A way to talk about this shit and that. Wasn't it." The drop of the cane more than the subsequent clatter draws a wince from Micah, followed by /waves/ of concern and worry directed at Hive that he scrambles to put back under wrap. Assuredly he has enough worry and concern for his /own/ condition without adding Micah's on top of it all. “I don't /want/ t'walk away. There's a right an' a wrong side t'this whole fight an' you all are so far on the right side that...even if I /weren't/ so attached to it i'd wanna be helpin' you. But I am attached. I am so irrevocably attached...” Micah closes his eyes hard against a wavering warmth developing behind them. “I know it's not the same. I can't never /really/ know what it's like for you. But I am /the closest/ y'all are ever gonna have from the other side of the genetic marker. I've been /through/ wakin' up with strange things goin' on an' thinkin' ohgosh am I crazy? How is this happenin'? Is this me? /Weeks/ of thinkin' that whole dream manifestation thing was me. An' it was scary an' had so many implications an' I feel like that gave me a lot of understandin' for folks that've had powers appear suddenly. I've been /through/ actually /havin'/ an ability. Two of 'em, actually. I've been through the freak-outs over the colour-changin' leg. I've been through how /uncomfortable/ telepathy can be an' the moral dilemmas of it an' not bein' able t'/touch/ nobody but /especially/ m'husband. An' how stressful that was an' how hurtful it was not just t'me, but t'him... An' how much I wanted it t'go away but thought it never would an' how /terrifyin'/ that is. I'm not sayin' I understand it the same. Not like Rasa, havin' all that all the time an' hir whole body doin' more'n what that...stolen leg ever /did/. But there's no gettin' /closer/ t'understandin' from my end so I'm almost /glad/ all of that happened t'me. Because I /want/ t'understand.” Micah's teeth press into his lip before he finally looks back at Hive. “I've just been so scared for B. That I wanted this t'be an answer that wasn't necessarily the /worst possible thing/. So I was holdin' off judgement an' clingin' t'hope. 'Cause if I'd still had /my/ ability an' this thing came along? I know I'd've been thinkin' of goin' to 'em, too. Even without bein' so obvious a physical mutant as ze is. So I just...clung t'that hope an' wanted others to /try/ an' keep an open mind on behalf of those that were considerin' it.” With a heavy sigh, he drops the pair of capris in his hands back into his lap in a loose fabric bundle. “If it makes y'feel any better, you were right. That guy leadin' the place is this creepy, condescendin', out-of-touch... Actually accused me'n Jax of bein' there just t'/provoke/ 'im 'cause we tried t'explain how their PR materials come across. Pretty sure he doesn't even understand what's wrong with this idea that all mutants should strive t'be normal humans. Just...the /words/ of that idea are beyond messed up. An' his /daughter/. The spokesperson? She seems miserable. An' she's always, eyes down an' flinchin' like a beat /dog/. I can't wonder what her life must've been like an' what kinda /choice/, if any, she had in her 'treatment'.” The heavy squeeze of Hive's mind starts curling back out, as Micah talks. Slow at first and then firmer, tight coils wrapping around the other man with an aching /pull/; there's no words that accompany this but there is very distinctly a mental feel, regret and acceptance and acknowledgment and love all knotted up together. "Yeah. Yeah, you -- you've felt what. What --" His voice breaks off again with an uncomfortable mental /fog/ where words should be, << (you know) (us) >> filling in for a moment. His head shakes after this. "Wish it did. Feel better. S'not -- a lot of. Joy in --" His fingers curl down hard against his chest. "Fucking /wish/ people could just. Have. Free /choice/ in how to -- live. Horus, B -- goddamn everyone who just wants. A place to..." His brow rumples inward deeply. "Wish that whole fucking /question/ was less. Complicated. But I've been wishing a -- whole lot of shit these days. Doesn't really pan out. Too hard to find the right damn star in New York skies, maybe." There's a small sob of sound, choked off quickly in Micah's throat, at the pull from Hive. He tosses the pants back on the laundry pile, standing and transferring himself to Hive's beanbag in a collapsing flop of a motion. His forehead nods forward against the other man's shoulder. "There's just /so many things/ that this kinda technology could help. Kids whose abilities make 'em sick. Sera. An' what the dreams're sayin' is gonna happen t'Spence. An'...B, if it's really this feelin' like hir body ain't never been right an' ain't never been /hirs/ that I think it is. An'...Jax, t'get a few days off each month durin' the summer t'cool down an' /sleep/ like a person needs. An'...even Ion just gettin' t'maybe go out in the rain sometimes. Or /you/ gettin' a few days of quiet in your head now an' then. That'll all be good things. But these /people/ ain't comin' from a place that makes me wanna work with them. Or encourage anyone else to. An' it's so hard 'cause they all need so much...for things t'be /better/." Hive curls an arm around Micah's shoulder, squeezing in to pull the other man to him physically even as the tug of his mind reluctantly lets go. He presses his cheek down against the top of the older man's head, fingers kneading mindlessly at Micah's arm. "Better." He echoes this a little wistfully. "I think we could /all/ use -- use some -- some --" He gives up on words here again with a frustrated-unhappy noise caught in his throat. His lips press to the top of Micah's head, instead, holding the contact there as if /it/ can drive the rest of the world back. Micah's arms wrap right /back/ around Hive, holding him close and squeezing-tight around his too-thin frame. He tries to hold on against hurt and sick and the ongoing press of danger and threat of death, just /clinging/ to the other man. "I love you." Hive doesn't say anything in reply to this. He curls his other arm around Micah, his breath shivering out shakily into tousled auburn hair. The returning squeeze of his mind speaks clearly enough, a heavy /crush/ of warmth that wraps in to envelop the other man, and keep him close.