ArchivedLogs:The Bad Company Club

The Bad Company Club
Dramatis Personae Hive, Matt
In Absentia	2016-08-23 "We need to get some better fucking clubs, man."
Location <NYC> {Workhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
The wide entryway leads into a semicircular sitting area with plush modular chairs, sofas, and huge beanbags arranged around two low tables. The bright, open expanse of the house fans back and out from here, executed in stunning industrial style with extremely conservative usage of rough stone walls. Through a door on the right is a library boasting an eclectic but extensive collection of books, a cozy reading nook, as well as a state-of-the-art computer work station. Opposite this is a media room with a projector mounted overhead and a formidable sound system on all sides, the windows still admitting plenty of light when the blackout curtains are pulled back. Beyond the sitting area, toward the back of the house and separated from adjacent areas only by plentiful black granite counters, are a pair of kitchens, each stocked with their own appliances, cookware, servingware, and utensils. Adjoining the (vegan and kosher) kitchen on the right is a simple dining room with a long oval table and chairs designed to accommodate a range of body shapes. On the other side, tucked between the general-purpose kitchen and the media center, is a guest room and a full bath. At the center of the entire house is a cylindrical elevator shaft of steel and glass with two floating stairways coiled around it like an immense double helix. Both elevator and stairs lead down out of sight and up to a circular landing joined to the second storey wings by walkways that leave the space above the sitting area open. Above the kitchens is a sun-drenched split-level recess, the lower half a conservatory enclosed by glass and the upper half a rooftop garden. The whole is walled with glass and lets in copious quantities of natural light softened by lush greenery. Though long past dark outside, it's light enough in here -- the glass-walled garden overlooking the kitchen is illuminated with myriad star- and dragonfly- shaped fairylights strung through its plants and trees and over its furnishings, casting a shimmering glow down into the kitchen. It mingle with the light of the half-full moon glimmering off the river. Even with the kitchen lights currently off there's plenty of light to see by -- Hive's sharp bony face is cast in its own strange glow, both from the flame of the stove he stands by and from the pale lines of his holographic computer terminal display hovering over the rainbow-flecked black granite countertop. Though half his attention is on the video playing nearby -- a spindly girl with sharp horns and long tail scaling climbing wall -- more of it is on the rice and egg frying in his pan, smelling heavily of coconut and ginger. A roiling chaotic mass of mental noise preceeds Matt: a snatch of s.j. tucker's 'Song of the Witches', a sharp pang of sadness upon seeing his destination, followed by rage, followed by solace, a casual weighing of the Stonewall opening, a mental note to pick up more treats for Fleche, all against a constant background of shapeless worry. He lets himself in after only a perfunctory knock on the door (and a more personal if equally reflexive brush of power against Hive's). He picks his way across the sitting area and plunks himself down without preamble at the kitchen counter, laying his Blue Suns bag on the stool beside him. He wears a red t-shirt featuring Calvin and Hobbes riding the Millennium Falcon, faded, fraying jean shorts, and brown athletic sandals. His shoulders are slumped just a touch, his weariness only in part physical, but his smile is buoyed with genuine pleasure. "You got enough for me to mooch?" "You seen this? You'd think she's some kind of goddamn spider-monkey the way she's scaling this thing." Hive's chin tips jerkily towards the video; he hasn't looked toward Matt but his mind presses in a heavy squeeze back against the other man's. "It's not ready yet. Figured you'd be hungry once you're all -- perforated. There'll be some when you're back down." Matt folds his arms on the counter and leans forward for a better view of the holographically projected climber even as he leans into Hive's presence. "Actually, I suspect she's doing /better/ than a spider-monkey would on that wall." His smile grows a touch wider. << Is Taylor competing in that event? >> He withdraws a slim black thermos from his bag, pops the cap, and sips from it before waving it in Hive's general direction. The sense of the ice cold Three Treasure oolong in it comes across in hyper-sharp clarity. "I'll be glad of it after, yeah." There's a flutter of something like excitement in him that almost, /almost/ cuts through the stress and the worry and weak center pawns. "Well. Maybe not /immediately/ after." << Yeah. Taylor'll be up soon. This one is speed. >> Hive's eyes flutter shut for a moment. A faint relaxation creeps through his shoulders as the tea washes through Matt, though he pays little attention to the offered thermos. "I'll keep it hot. Between lead this afternoon and bouldering tomorrow Dusk'll be glad of you." << Hardly any contest at all. >> Though for all that Matt isn't any /less/ impressed with the current climber as she reaches the top, rights herself, and throws her hands up, tail lashing wildly in triumph. "He's always glad of me, whether I'm not bleeding for him or not." << And he could be better fed, still. >> He snaps the lid of the thermos shut and puts it away, neither surprised nor bothered at Hive's reaction. "{Shall I bring anything up for him? Or Isra, if she's in?}" "Well. Who wouldn't be?" Hive sprinkles sesame oil and soy sauce over the rice, turning aside from the video to add green onions and lemongrass and grated galangal as well once the climber has reached the top. "/Some/ company always just livens..." This trails off, hanging unfinished as Hive resumes stirring his food, a small furrow in his brows. Matt does not reply, but lowers his head to rest his chin on folded hands. His green eyes remain fixed glassily on the holoprojected stream of the Evolympics. He waits for Hive to finish the sentence, his own thoughts spinning toward and then veering sharply away from Sera, though not quick enough to escape a too-real memory of her laughter or the effervescent joy that came with it. He draws a long, tremulous breath, holds it, lets it out. "Don't think I've been the best of company, these last few months," he says at last, softly. << Not like I've exactly been a delight lately either. >> Hive's breath pulls in in shaky tandem with Matt's. Holds, lets out together as well. “You've had a lot on your mind.” His tone is neutral. “We've been no less glad to have you.” He lowers the heat under his pan, palm pressing against the edge of the counter. His other hand lifts, fingers skimming up through his messy scruff of hair, running a slow path along the side of his skull. “Here. With us.” Matt's power coils tighter, sinking into Hive and just holding him. His own mind quiets by degrees, though the song continues, quietly, in the background. << Shameless and shining, we always ask why, for what cooks in our cauldron could call down the sky... >> He watches the camera switch to the contestant seating area, where the last climber is receiving the enthusiastic welcome of her friends and supporters. "We can form a club. Be terrible company together." Hive's mind shivers, melting in against Matt's hold. In and then through, twining tightly into the other man's thoughts with a heady rush of identity melding with his friend's. "We need to get some better fucking clubs, man." A flutter of thoughts comes with this wry statement; a cabinet full of prescription bottles, the stark lights shining over a hospital bed, scratchy over-bleached linen bedsheets, sterile antiseptic smell. "...You got your results back yet?" Matt closes his eyes and breathes low and slow, folding Hive into himself. And then the distinctions between them become purely circumstantial. The worry in them recedes a little before the swell of warmth and comfort. The sense-memories, however, bring a cold wash of dread. "No. Soon, I think." A sharp, physical longing follows fast on the heels of his fear, but he doesn't reach for Hive. "You?" Hive tumbles a small plate of seared pineapple chunks into his pan, stirring again briefly before switching the flames off. His hand curls tight into a fist at the dread that rises in them -- but it's soon followed by a fierce, intense push of warmth that envelops Matt even without the benefit of physical touch. "Soon." There's a faint flutter -- nausea, guilt -- but it fades soon. Hive turns aside to fill a pair of bowls with the fried rice. "You should take this up to Dusk." Buoyed up by the surge of warmth, Matt lets out the breath he had not realized he'd been holding. << You'll tell me when you know. >> He stands up and rounds the counter, not to take up the bowl but to wrap his arms tight around Hive's bony frame. Relaxes into the contact as if he might collapse, though he does not. Then finally releases him, picks up the bowl. "Thought /I/ was the food." Hive leans heavily back against Matt, wiry arms curling back tight around the other man. His head tips in, breathing growing shakier as he buries his face down against Matt's shoulder. "Needs a balanced diet," comes in tandem with his silent assurance: << I'll tell you. >> His hold is tight-tight-tight. Slower to let go. Reluctant. Matt manages a lopsided smile. "I have pretty decent balance," he retorts, just a touch defensively. He gives Hive's hand one more squeeze before he pulls away (though inwardly they remain entwined). Picking up the food, fragrant steam rising from it still, and his bag, he makes his slow way upstairs.