ArchivedLogs:Talk
| Talk | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
7 January 2015 ' |
| Location
<NYC> Candyland - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side | |
The stairs lead up into a landing hall, bright as well with a set of bay windows and a wide cushion-strewn ledge beneath them at its far end. To the right of the landing the first doorway opens into the bathroom, warmly coloured in yellows and reds and sandy tiles; its large bathtub-shower also holds a mosaic on one wall, strange fire-creatures and manticores echoed in the small fiery faeries sprinkled at sporadic intervals around the rest of the room. Past the bathroom on the right-hand side is a smaller door into a linen closet before the actual door into Spencer's bedroom. Spencer's sturdy furniture set has been designed with rambunctious children in mind, most of its structure climbable with a loft-bed connected by a short tunnel to an also-lofted reading nook with a sliding door to turn it into its own private cave; the desk and dresser sit beneath the bed and there is a shelving unit beneath the platform that serves also as steps up into it. A slide down off the bed falls down into large squishy beanbag and the whole of the structure has been designed and painted reminiscent of a spaceship, a theme echoed in the way the closet doors have been painted to look like the TARDIS. On the left-hand side the first door leads into the master bedroom, bright-lit not just from its huge windows and skylight but from a rather exorbitant overabundance of lamps. It's colourful in here, the hand-crafted wood furniture (king bed against the left-hand wall, pair of small nightstands to either side of it, a pair of dressers flanking the closet on the right, a large desk with a multitude of drawers and shelves along the back) cheerfully painted, the walls home to plentiful artwork, brightly coloured glass figurines scattered around the shelves and stained-glass suncatchers hanging in the windows. One set of windows leads out onto a balcony, stretching out to share with the guest bedroom adjacent; it's set up for /lounging/, a large hammock at one side, a pair of hanging net chairs flanking the table on the other. Next to the master bedroom is the smaller guest bedroom, sunny-yellow and furnished with queen bed, dresser, a small desk of its own; doors here lead out into the balcony as well. At the end of the hallway shortly before the window nook, a hatch in the ceiling drops down a rope-ladder that leads up into the tiny attic-space; not so much a proper /floor/ as it is a sloped-ceiling nook of space beneath the roof, it nevertheless has its own circular window and skylights and rather than left unfinished it's been furnished with beanbag and folded futon-mattress and a tiny low table with drawers tucked beneath it. Micah is curled up on the mattress in the guest bedroom-become-nursery, Eri wrapped in a knit Browncoats flag blanket for cuddle purposes and attached to him by a larger thin cotton blanket arranged almost like a sling. He has one sleeve of his off-white henley rolled back, a square of white bandaging loosened to expose a space on his forearm for the youngling to latch onto. Many red spots on his arm tell the tale of repeated bites in kind. He is humming softly as he cradles the little one, random kid song generator set to 'You Are My Sunshine' just now. There is a general warm feeling, on the surface, eyes focused on the little tail wrapping around his wrist to form a small smile that brightens his tired features somewhat. That surface ripples now and then, however, occasionally dipping into pools of worry over Jax-Spence-the pups-Dusk-Hive-Isra, fretting through plans to figure out feeding Eri better and containing Eri better and...anything. Better. Better is his job just now. Whenever the worries and frets bubble too far to the top, he focuses in again on the curling tail, the soft purr that starts to accompany the feeding when Eri feels more sated. The crash-thud of Hive's voice into Micah's brain is sledgehammer-heavy. No /warning/, really, just a sudden painful thud after a long-long stretch of radio silence. << You know you're a fucking idiot, right? >> Tone dry under the pounding. It's almost like, hello, Micah, how've you been. Aaaalmost. There is an initial cringe-wince at the thudding in Micah's mind, though it immediately switches into a longing-reaching-wrapping around. << I'm aware. Remind me why this time, though? >> The question is firmly lodged somewhere between exhausted-serious and dry-joking. << I miss you. I hope you're okay. >> In answer to the longing there are sharp prickles, uncomfortable prodding back at Micah's mind. Dipping in. Reaching to rifle through the other man's feelings pensively, not actually giving answer yet. Just finding those pools of worry. Dredging through the ones relating to Jax and the pups and Spence and Eri with invasively nosy fingers. Micah just nudges back at the prodding, glad for the contact regardless of its nature. << Love you. >> The worries are a tangle of snakes all trying to eat one another. The one with the biggest teeth is about the pups. Hurting them. Wondering if they'll ever come back. Pushing away Jax's children. Pushing away Spencer's siblings. Replacing them with a child that demands blood and imparts poisons (that might be building up in Jax's already tired system). A sibling that can't be left alone with their brother for fear that they'll hurt him. Each one a new snake with more attached. Designs for blood dolls to stop the biting and get the poisons out of Jax. Coming up with blood /sources/ that will keep the little one fed when it is no longer little. Designs for cribs and playpens to allow Eri to interact with others with less danger of biting, clawing, escaping. Designs for things that won't look like cages, won't make life harder on Eri, won't terrify the twins... Designs to craft that better life that /he'd/ promised when /he'd/ brought this poor creature into their family. Some of the snakes circle back and bite onto themselves, looping. << You didn't answer. >> << They're not your children? >> This is quiet and curious rather than a judgment, teasing slowly at the thoughts of the twins to unravel them from the rest. << It's just now you've driven your kids -- his kids? -- >> A little uncertain, there, << -- away you seem really determined to drive him away too. >> << I don't think they want to be, anymore. >> Micah tries to mute the intensity of the pain that shoots through such thoughts, knowing that it travels right through to Hive. << They were his. For so long b'fore me. I came along an' messed ev'rythin' up. This isn't the first time. Just...the worst one. They had a good thing... >> His vision swims a little, hotly, eyelids blinking down faster than usual. << I don't wanna drive 'im away! I'm tryin'. I'm tryin' t'do as much as I can. Tryin' t'make up for when I hafta be out. Tryin' t'make sure he gets enough food an' rest an' sleep an' take care of /him/. It's so hard on 'im. S'been gettin' harder. I just...hafta do more. So he doesn't need to. Winter's so hard on 'im already. >> << Don't want to be his anymore right now, either. >> Hive is so reassuring, today. The prickly mental touch spikes just a little bit sharper. << So he doesn't -- need to -- /what/. Be /useful/? All this goddamn time have you never /noticed/ how he deals with shit falling apart? >> Micah curls up a little on himself at that assertion, at least his mind does. He is already rather wrapped up with Eri on the bed. << He's bein' all kindsa useful. He's been doin' almost all the cookin' since Eri hatched. He's one of only three people as can /feed/ Eri right now. An' he has t'take 'em whenever I have class. An' he won't wake me at night, so he has 'em pretty much whenever I'm sleepin'. He needs t'/sleep/. An' not take in so much of that...whatever it is in Eri's bites. All at once. >> As Eri's feeding turns into more of a reflexive suckle-chew, Micah lifts a dark green triskelion-shaped Chewelry pendant and redirects the seeking mouth to that. He re-attaches the tape on the lifted edge of the gauze down over his newest wound. << This is all my /fault/, Hive. That he's goin' through all this. I hafta try an' make it...less bad. Somehow. I can't get the twins back. I can't make Eri...dif'rent. So I'm tryin' to at least take care of 'im so it's less bad. >> << Yeah, kinda is, >> Hive agrees wryly on the matter of Fault. His questing mental fingers pull back, the end of the uncomfortable digging really not much of a respite given the continued hammer-thud of his actual words. << Alright. >> This is just a little heavier, a little more tired. << Just keep doing like you're doing then. Tell me how much /less bad/ you think it's made things this time next year when you and the demonspawn have the house all to yourself. >> The agreement doesn't come with any more wincing or curling or cringing, just heavy resignation. << What else am I s'posed t'do, Hive? I can't just let 'im run 'imself into the ground. It's already so hard for 'im in the winter... >> Micah twitches a bit at Hive's word choice, but says nothing on that subject. << Could try actually fucking talking to each other. This is like fucking teen soap opera levels of stupid, you know. >> There's a grumbly undertone of irritable in Hive's voice. << Never fucking understand this bullshit like somehow things are going to get /better/ if you both just /bullshit/ each other about how you're feeling. >> << He hasn't...seemed like he /wanted/ t'talk t'me lately, >> Micah admits finally, hand moving to pet at the top of Eri's head while they chew lazily at the pendant. << Don't know that I blame 'im. Ev'rythin' I hafta say is...upsettin'. Anythin' good I'm feelin' 'bout Eri seems like it's wrong t'say. Anythin' /bad/ I'm feelin' 'bout all of this seems like I got no /right/ t'say. >> He, in turn, chews at his lower lip. << I just /love/ 'im an' I hate what this is doin' to 'im. What /I've/ done to 'im. >> << You adopted a goddamn vampire are you really surprised they're draining the life out of him? >> There's a stretch of silence before Hive's voice thuds back in. << Fine, then. Both of you just keep on not fucking saying anything. That's working out great. >> << I'm sorry, >> is all Micah can think in response to this. << Guess I can /make/ 'im talk. Or at least listen. Say...all of it. Don't imagine it could make things much /worse/. If it does then maybe I do /deserve/ t'be alone with 'em. >> << You both need to talk. You're not doing any favors pretending like this is all shiny and happy and you're nothing but a barrel of perfect goodness here. >> There's another brief mental prickling, rippling up against Micah's mind and fading. The << (maybe you do) >> that shivers underneath it does not actually get put into /words/ so much as a licking whisper of sentiment. << I just...didn't wanna make things worse. I already made such a mess. I'm sorry. >> Micah's eyes slip closed, the reddish fringe made of his lashes sticking together with dampness. He nods. Swirls of vague notions of moving into one of the empty units. Getting Eri out of reach of hurting Spence or poisoning Jax. Perhaps opening the door for the twins to come back. Honestly not knowing if it would be better or worse for his family in the long run if he weren't there anymore, if he just took his mess and his mistakes bundled them away along with him. << Maybe, >> comes strangled-soft agreement. << Don't know why you're apologizing to /me/. You have to work this shit out with your family. You all -- suck at actual communication. >> Though after a moment he seems to rethinking that. << ... Shane's doing alright communication-wise. Maybe you all need to get angry and swear at each other more. Might help. >> It's hard to tell whether or not this is in jest. << Because I put /everyone/ through this. Even if you're just listenin' to it. That's enough. >> Micah's mind curls in again, smaller. << Because I've /been/ a mess since the beginning of all of it. I should've listened. I don't...belong. Just. Make a mess of everything. You tried to tell me before and I didn't listen. >> His head shakes, despite conversing with someone in another room entirely. << I'm not angry. I don't need to swear at anyone. No one else is doin' anythin' wrong. It's me. >> << No. >> Crisp and sharp and slamming a little harder than before. << No, you don't get to do this yet. You and your husband, you sit down, you /both/ have an /actually honest/ conversation about where you're at with all this. How you've been feeling, how you're dealing. And /maybe/ it'll turn out that some space is the best thing who the fuck knows. But I swear if you start the conversation /out/ saying how you don't belong and just need to leave and just fuck everything up and should go I will smack you down so fucking hard. /Maybe/ start out somewhere that doesn't give the impression that if he doesn't pretend to be doing well enough you'll leave. All this For Your Own Good crap -- >> There's a brief irritable ripple from Hive. << You /both/ are fucking morons. Guess that's why you're pretty well-suited for each other. >> << I'm not. It's not...I don't want to. >> Though the feeling that comes with this denial is almost berating himself for giving in and being too weak to do what would be better for everyone else. For recoiling from the thought of leaving for fully selfish reasons. << I can't. Not...at least. Not yet. Not without being sure it's the only way. >> << S'hardly ever just /one/ 'only way'. >> Even in mental space, now, Hive's words come across like he is gritting his teeth. << Just fucking talk to each other. >>
There's a small discomfited shiver, brief and unhappy, up against Micah's mind at that ache. And then silence. | |
