Logs:Friend Zone
| Friend Zone | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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2019-09-27 "I'm -- probably getting all over you." |
| Location
<NYC> Chimaera Arts - Dumbo | |
This is just one of the many abandoned warehouses in DUMBO, and like many of them it has recently changed hands. Unlike most of those, however, it does not have some corporate developer's sign out front promising a transformation into luxury condominiums or a boutique shopping center or the latest concept restaurant. Instead it's marked by a piece of weathered but wildly colorful plywood propped up on a stack of broken pallets, which reads "Chimaera Art Space!" above "chimaera.org" in smaller letters. The warehouse is moderately large and decorated with graffiti art in various styles--some of it recognizable as the work of renowned local street artists. A pair of monstrous scrap metal sculptures, perhaps still works in progress, flank the entrance. The building itself has undergone significant renovation recently, complete with wiring, plumbing, and a modular partitioning system. The grounds, too, have been cleaned up, ramshackle fences torn down and rusting detritus removed in favor of reclaimed (and brilliantly repainted) outdoor furniture ringing an impressively engineered firepit. It's early enough that it's not too busy around Chimaera -- the round of evening classes has yet to begin, many of the regulars still at work. Not all, of course; the kitchen is still occupied with a trio of bearded young men hotly debating kombucha brewing techniques, a small group practicing fire spinning in the courtyard, a lumpy pile of blanket on one couch that possibly has a person under it. Off along one side, the door to one of the sometimes-classrooms has been left ajar. Just a crack, at first, though soon its pushed open much wider by a skin-and-bones white and tan pitbull who has recently taken off tearing around the warehouse exuberantly. Some very desultory calls from the courtyard suggest he perhaps belongs to one of the circus performers outside, though his lack of collar makes it unclear how official a Belonging it is. Inside the classroom-turned-workspace, Hive has been lying sprawled on the floor, staring up blankly at the hovering holographic display in front of him -- right now it's a living room space, with furniture mapped out onto its floor plan. In his mind, mingled excitement and wariness. << be a hell of a lot nicer >> overlaps with, << will we even recognize this adult-ass apartment >> and, quieter underneath all that, << ian would flip. >> He doesn't sit up when the dog careens into the room. Just throws an arm over his face and resigns himself to the incoming licks. Nearby, one of those pieces of holographic furniture is slowly coming to life, to the sound of much grinding and buzzing. The chair has a ways yet to go but is by now recognizable as such, legs and seat -- though the low cut-out back piece Flicker is working on doesn't look quite like most. Dressed in his usual khakis and a green polo -- both somewhat older, worn and a bit faded and looking still more worn under their thin dusting of sawdust -- he has large clear goggles over his eyes and has for quite a few hours now been hard at work. There's something quieter, calmer, in the steady focus of his mind today, carefully carving out a tenon on the end of a short round rail. The sleek black tentacle-arm he wears holds the wood steady as he holds the chisel with his left hand. << Dusk will like being able to sit in our kitchen chairs. >> His only reaction to the incoming pup is to glance up at his saws, make sure the power ones are in no danger of any kind of jostling. Then turn back to his work with an inward flush of amusement. Steve has recently arrived, clad as usual for his afternoons at Chimaera in a paint-splattered black t-shirt, blue jeans, and combat boots. He lingered outside a while, chatting with a few regulars smoking by the fire pit, watching the fire spinners at their rehearsal. He heads inside, not exactly following the dog, although perhaps not not following the dog, since he drifts toward the open door of the classroom. And comes up short, eyes going wide. "Oh, I'm sorry --" His cheeks flush, his thoughts flashing automatically to the last time he'd seen Flicker. It's only at a delay that he recognizes Hive, and it's a beat longer before he finally says, still blushing, "Hey." "Mrggnh," Hive is saying -- not really in greeting to Steve, just vague and disgruntled beneath his half-a-face full of licks. "You want a dog?" He's unfolding his arm, very gently wrassling the pup's face away from his so that he can sit up. His cheeks have flushed, faint but noticeably pinker, and between him and Flicker some part of their mental connection abruptly slams shut on the wave of nauseated discomfited shame that has started to rise. His eyes skip between Flicker and Steve. << Should I go? >> There's an uncharacteristic dose of uncertainty in the mental voice. Flicker's face has flushed deep red, too. His segmented arm coils a little tighter against the wooden rod in time with a sudden chaotic flutter -- (a warm hand pressed against his chest -- a wash of pleasure so intense it feels like drowning -- the curl of strong arms like a lifeline supporting him) shunting aside the quiet focus that had been there previously. Battling for space with a quiet twinge of longing, of uncertainty; all of these are, oddly, much louder than the guilt that wants to make itself known. << Stay, >> answers Hive, gentle but pleading. He bites at his lip, looks up at Steve. Sets down his chisel to wipe, fussily, at the sawdust on his clothes. "Hey. Um." << don't be awkward don't be awkward >> just falters into another uncertain, "Hey. How...'s it going?" "Funny you should mention, but -- yes?" Steve's relief at having something to say is profound. "I think that particular dog already has an owner, though." Flicker's words plunge him right back into the midst of a memory -- a gasp, a plea, an eager yielding. << Oh, Lord have mercy, he can see inside my head, I should not be subjecting him to this. >> He hooks his thumbs in the belt loops at his hips. Then immediately unhooks them again, trying desperately to think about anything but Flicker. Which proves difficult when he replies, "Oh! Um. It's ah...going." A beat. Then another, before he thinks to add, "Fine?" He finally stumbles across some success by concentrating on the woodworking Flicker has just set aside, his curiosity quietly displacing his embarrassment. "How are you?" comes more smoothly, his concern genuine. "I live in an apartment building. I've heard a lot." This gruff and perfunctory reply stands in contrast to the sudden deepening of the pink in Hive's cheeks, his gaze fixing on the dog. He scruffs at the pup's ears, leaning his head against the side of its neck to, at least briefly, hide his face. "It's gonna be a chair," he mumbles. Lifts his head to speak more clearly (or maybe just avoid the squirming of Pup, the attempted incoming kisses. "We thought it was about time for some real furniture." For just a second, Flicker's breath catches; the memory that rises for Steve freezes him where he stands, the longing sharply more acute. << Turn it off, >> is just as pleading, to Hive. "I'm..." He blinks, looks down at the wood in front of him. "Trying to get back in -- the swing of things. It's..." He swallows, wrestles down the pangs that are trying to draw his attention almost magnetically back to Steve. Finally looks up again only when his blush is starting to recede. "It's good to see you. I'm sorry I didn't..." << should I apologize? should I have called? >> "Shouldn't have waited this long to talk to you." Steve's blush finally fades. << Right. I'm sure -- well, it's not as if he won't have known, close as they are. >> "That's -- great!" He winces. "Not the -- overhearing, the...furniture." His eyes settle on Flicker fully again, but this time what stirs in him is affection and a fierce protectiveness. << Have I left him guessing all this time? >> "I'm glad to see you, too. And glad you're getting back into the swing of things -- I ah..." He gestures at the half-completed chair, his smile a little forced but not displeased. "...I didn't know you were a carpenter." Softer, "It's not your fault. I should have reached out, but..." << ...wanted to get my own head straightened out, first. Not sure what that even means, but I don't feel much -- oh heck, he can still hear me, how do people get used to this? >> He draws a deep breath and gathers in his anxious darting thoughts, focuses on the steady press of his feet against the ground, the pull of gravity, his keen sense of place. "Can we -- talk, now? Or..." He glances at Hive, uncertain. << Just because you hear a lot, doesn't mean you should have to hear this particular discussion. >> "No, it's -- You should have -- taken the time you needed." Flicker swallows, his shoulders relaxing slightly as Steve's thoughts stop finding their way into his head. << Thanks. >> "I mean it's fine. I wasn't --" He's acutely aware of his recent string of sleepless nights -- of a hundred text messages composed and deleted unsent -- of the lingering dreams, once he's finally fallen asleep in Hive's arms, that he feels like he ought to feel more guilty about. "... I was wondering, but I -- I wasn't expecting that..." He bows his head, rubs at the back of his neck. "Sorry. I just mean to say that I. Understand. And I'd like to. Talk." He swallows, glances briefly to Hive. << Sorry. I shouldn't have -- you don't have to stay. >> He doesn't need to add << (but I'd like it if you did) >>, the undertone more than clear enough in his mind. Steve blinks at the correction, unclear on the distinction between 'carpenter' and 'woodworker'. << I'll google it later. >> He pushes the door shut behind him, walks toward the other two men. Then he's suddenly blushing again, a mental connections snapping into place around information that he already had -- Lucien's quiet, even words, '{if you had broken it, I happen to know an extremely capable carpenter.}' His eyes slide back to Flicker, his cheeks going even redder. "I'm sorry," is what he finally blurts out. "And it's fine -- for you to hear, Hive." << What do we talk about? >> Steve kneels when the dog pads his way, dropping one big hand for the pup to sniff before scritching under his soft fuzzy chin. "I'm not in love with you, but --" He bites his lower lip. Forces himself to look up and meet Flicker's eyes. "-- I do love you, so very much. The one I am in love with is dead --" He swallows. Blinks his eyes clear. "-- and I haven't been dealing with that as I should. That's on me, and it wasn't fair to you -- wouldn't have been fair to anyone -- that I..." << Took advantage of you? Drowned my grief in you? >> Yet he remembers Flicker gazing up at him enraptured, no pain or doubt or longing in his eyes for at least that one sacred instant. "I wanted to give you solace, and hope that I succeeded. Certainly you gave that to me, and if you do not regret it -- then neither do I." Hive turns aside from the others -- goes to drag a folding chair away from where it's been stacked against the wall. (Like most of the furniture around Chimaera -- down to the handcrafted milk-crates -- it is oddly well-crafted for a piece of normally-cheap furniture.) He unfolds it, folds himself down onto it backwards, arms and chin hooked over the back and his eyes fixed steadily on the half-finished piece Flicker has been working on. There's a slow bolstering coil of his mind, wrapping warm and steady against his friend's. There's no surprise in Flicker at Steve's words -- but expected though they were it brings a pang of anguish he tries hard to push back down. His eyes meet Steve's, and at the end he just nods. "I know." His reply is quiet; less quiet is his very similar memory -- Steve's eyes wider, lips parted as his body shudders within Flicker's. The breath he draws in is slow -- as is the small smile that finds its way onto his face. "I don't regret it. I wanted to give that to you. I wanted -- wanted all of that." His cheeks are pinkening again -- though fainter than before. "I've just been worried. I --" << is he going to hate me? >> rises in him sharp and panicked, but he continues anyway, still quiet and even. "-- do think I'm. Kind of in love with you. But I swear I don't -- wasn't trying to -- didn't expect that you --" << don't cry don't you dare -- >> He leans back against the support Hive offers, something steadying within him. "I'm really glad you're in my life. I don't want that to change. I understand if it's -- not comfortable for you, though, but I. Swear I wasn't looking for anything -- more." "I didn't think that you were -- expecting more than what you asked. More than what I asked." Steve swallows. Tries not to think about they did ask and receive. Fails, for the most part. "But I knew that you probably wanted more, and I really wish that I -- weren't such a mess. I'm sorry." Something in him pulls toward Flicker, longing to fold him into an embrace, but he fights it down. << Wouldn't that just be cruel, right now? Coming from me, anyway... >> "I still want you in my life, and I want to stay in yours." His voice goes soft, here. "I just -- don't want to hurt you." << Should have probably thought of that before you pinned him to the Tessiers' dining -- oh gosh, did he make that table... >> The renewed flush of warmth in his cheeks is mostly, though not entirely, embarrassment. "He made that table." Hive drags himself up out of the chair. "And coming from you? It'd be a blessing." His eyes stay downturned as he heads toward the door, scritching at the pup's head but not looking at Steve as he passes. "I'm glad," is quieter, "that you're going to be in his life." He opens the door, pats at his leg. Lets the dog trot out before he leaves himself, shutting the door behind him. His mind gently uncoils, pulling back to untether itself from Flicker's. Flicker's breath comes out in a relieved rush at Steve's words. He blinks hard, looking up toward the ceiling; the sinuous black tentacle wraps itself loose around his chest. Even without hearing Steve's side of the exchange, his cheeks darken again in time with a sudden spike of heat. A memory of sturdy hard wood at his back, of the exhilarated freefall joy that accompanied it. His smile comes a little easier, this time. "I'm really proud of that piece. I have high standards, but the Tessiers' -- maybe even higher." His arm tightens around him as Hive takes his leave both physical and mental -- squeezing fiercely against his ribs as he swallows hard. Hive's reply -- aloud, no less -- only fuels Steve's blush. "Oh! It -- um...it's a very. Nice." Here he hesitates just a little too long, distracted by the vivid tactile memory of pushing Flicker down to lie on the table, before adding, "Piece." He straightens up even before Hive has quite departed, and goes to Flicker. << Is he, though? >> His thoughts fly backward through Hive's behavior since he walked in, his blushing and discomfort. Then he sets it all aside and opens his arms for Flicker, but despite Hive's reassurance he still asks, "May I?" Flicker drags his gaze down to Steve -- his eyes are bright, his arm slowly relaxing its hold. "Oh," is his first response, just a soft and cautious breath. "Yes, I'd -- please." He doesn't wait for Steve to close the distance, stepping in to the circle of the other man's arms, his own uncurling to return the hug, tight and grateful. It lasts only a second before he's pulling back with a deeper flush, wiping fruitlessly at his dusty clothes. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, I'm -- probably getting all over you." Steve's arms close around Flicker with a slow and relieved breath. The tension eases from his body and he rests his cheek against the smaller man's head. "I don't mind," he says, loosening his hold on Flicker only with great reluctance, though he doesn't actually let go. "Wouldn't even I weren't in my art clothes." He tugs the smaller man back toward him, careful of his strength. "It's alright." Flicker's "--oh," is softer still this time, just a ghost of a sigh as he lets himself be pulled back in against Steve. There's a slow tension bleeding out of him, too, weight gradually settled more against the other man's larger frame. He's left a very small trace of damp against Steve's shirt when he tips his head up, although now his eyes are clear. "Thank you." This is quiet, too. His hand lifts, fingers touching lightly to Steve's jaw just a moment before he lifts his head further. Brushes a gentle kiss to Steve's lips. Steve just holds Flicker, strong and steady and calm. He smiles at the quiet thanks, turns to press into the touch of the other man's fingertips. His eyes go wide when Flicker raises his head, but he does not pull away. A soft whimper escapes him, and his arms wind tighter around Flicker. In the next instant his calm deserts him entirely, and he's returning the kiss with breathless enthusiasm. Flicker's eyes close, his breath catching at the fervor in Steve's response. His body presses back into the other man's, his hand sliding underneath Steve's shirt to roam eagerly over the broad muscles. He's a bit flushed and a lot breathless when he finally breaks off, turning a searching look up to Steve's face as his hand drops lower. "Don't worry, I know." There's a half-smile playing on his lips even as his fingers play across the fastening of the other man's jeans. "Just friends."
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