Logs:Love and Stubbornness

Love and Stubbornness
cn: some suicidal ideation
Dramatis Personae Hive, Matt
In Absentia	2020-10-09 << {You're a lot more than the sum of your parts.} >>
Location <NYC> Creative Little Garden - East Village
It's not a big park, really. A small secluded garden in the East Village, quite close to Tompkins Square. The trees stretch overhead to both sides of the mulched paths, forming a leafy canopy through which New York's murky city-sky is visible. Between the paths the grounds spill over with an abundance of flowers, hedges, community-tended, in here. The paths all wind together into the small central clearing, a little circular retreat with fountain and benches. The ripples were small, at first. Faint trickles ghosting out into the city and then pulling back -- running down just one street or just one building, it was probably easy enough to overlook. At first. They've been steadily growing, though. A cascade that started first with -- pulling back a little less each time and then pouring out farther and farther, an invisible but massively growing psionic presence that is expanding through one neighborhood and then another. The oddly diffuse nature of Hive's myriad presences likely makes it hard for most people who could even sense the spreading influence to pinpoint its origin but -- -- one mind does, still, register more uniquely him than the satellites, for those who know what they're looking for. One currently fairly tipsy mind, unstable and wobbling in its hungry (lack of) control. Though there are, currently, only too many Hive to be found throughout New York, Hive Prime is at this exact moment perched on the edge of the fountain in his favorite garden, where he has likely been for quite some time. He's in jeans, workboots, an ancient Theta Tau sweatshirt that he's shivering inside, though it's mild enough out here. The bottle of Herradura Reposado in his hand is more than half gone, though where it started out is anyone's guess. He's been gripping it, tight, by the neck for a while, eyes slightly unfocused and fixed in front of him since -- probably somewhere around the time he hit Chelsea. It would suit the spirit of the season to encounter Matt in the dark right about now: he's a ghastly sight, so pale and skinny and slumped in a hovering wheelchair--an eerie glow emanating from the repulsor beneath it--adorned with small animal bones. His thoughts, accessible to Hive long before he himself comes into sight, are mostly focused on tracking down that one in a myriad, carefully feeling along the gradient of the psionic network spreading through the city. The edges of his pain and exhaustion have been smoothed over somewhat with marijuana, though the effect is steadily fading. He wears no wig tonight, but a black tuque with "NHL" embroidered across the fold, a soft green ombre scarf looped casually around his neck, a green and gray soft shell jacket over an ill-fitting black t-shirt with a blue graphic of a house on the front, a spiral staircase winding deep into the ground beneath, ancient blue jeans worn through at the cuffs, and comfortable old gray hiking boots. The moment his power can reach Hive Prime, he settles its feathery light touch--sensible only is the subtle shift of his mind--on the telepath, though he makes no attempt to shut down the hiving. His progress is leisurely at best, but he eventually find his way to the fountain and coasts to a stop beside Hive. The touch of his hand on his friend's shoulder is light, too. "{Well, then. Mind if I have a nip?}" His French is casual, quiet, deeply Québécois. << {I wish you'd come over,} >> though there's no admonishment in this, only weariness and a distant, elaborate, artificial concern. << {You still can.} >> There's no outward response from Hive. Not to the touch, not to the speaking; just a continued faint trembling of his shoulder beneath Matt's hand. His glassy eyes don't shift from their vacant forward stare. The vast web of his mind does flutter, though, lightly up against Matt's; in this state the quiet attempt to insinuate himself into the other man feels barely like anything. A soft touch, a faint and gentle ghost of a thing that masks the immense power it brings with it. << {yes} >> murmurs back into Matt's mind, a soft echoing whisper of so many minds in chorus, << {we are there.} >> << {I mean this you.} >> Matt's hand squeezes down on Hive's shoulder, his grip weak yet steady. A gentle flex of his power suppresses the attempt to assimilate him and stays Hive's more general outward expansion. There's no anger and no fear in answer--he fully anticipated it. << {Not right now, my dear.} >> He unwinds the scarf from his neck and drapes it, warm and plush, around Hive's. He makes no attempt to meet the other man's eyes. << {I'd like it if you get a bit smaller, so we can talk properly. I can do that, too, but it'll take a while.} >> << {please} >> slips across Matt's mind, and for a time that's all there is, echoing there plaintive and aimless. Not really asking for anything; there's no further attepts on Matt's mind, only a rote and quiet << {please} >> like so much psionic echolalia. Underneath it, though, the enormous tide of power is ebbing. Slow, but steady. It has not faded altogether, still a wide web around them, when Hive's hand lifts, bringing the bottle slowly back to his mouth. << {Why are you here? It's late.} >> It had not been obvious, before, that Matt was tense at all, but he gradually relaxes as Hive's network shrinks. His power remains coiled around the telepath's in companionable quiescence. << {Thank you.} >> He makes a sort of slow grabbyhand at the bottle after Hive takes another sip. << {You were so big. I was worried about you.} >> The components of this meticulously constructed worry orbit his thoughts lazily, but the actual emotional landscape beyond remains calm for the most part--even just a bit bored. << {What happened?} >> Hive sips again slowly, then passes the bottle over to Matt. He slouches forward, elbows braced against his knees and the slump of his posture heavy. << {happened} >> echoes back to Matt, a quiet puzzlement twined through it. << {No. Nothing. What happened?} >> This time snippets of imagery accompany the confused words. Polaris sitting on his couch, a bowl of soup grown cold. << {Did you know Flicker's dating now?} >> Matt takes a generous swallow of the tequila, and hums in quiet appreciation. << {I'd heard.} >> It takes him a moment to fit Hive's mental image of Polaris to his own, layered as the latter is with the sense of her power, thrumming around her in subtle, unobtrusive layers until it flares to life bright and loud and dynamic. << {One of the Blackburn girls, no?} >> His head cants, one eyebrow lifting fractionally. << {How serious is he about this?} >> Hive's head shakes slowly, his shoulders tightening inward. << {Don't know. She's serious. Was serious. Wants to be serious.} >> The wash of fear that accompanies these words is deep and raw, twisting hard into Matt even without a mental link there. << {He does like her. And he's always wanted --} >> His eyes scrunch closed. << {Something. Something serious.} >> Hive's fear rushes through Matt, and he shudders hard, though the uncaring stillness inside him barely stirs. His power twines deeper into Hive's, bracing hard against it. << {Mm. He is also serious about you.} >> Not a question, but a statement. << {And you worry he may soon have to choose?} >> The uplift of his intonation is very light, here, as he hands the bottle back to Hive. << {He wants a normal life. Wants -- some part of a normal life. S'a fucking -- uphill fight enough where he is without. Without --} >> When Hive's eyes open again they lift, slow, focusing on Matt with some brief bewilderment. There's an uncomfortable internal roil that only now bucks hard, throwing his vast weight irritably against this mental tether. A grimace settles into his expression, and he peels his eyes back away, gripping the bottle tight. "Shit. The fuck are you doing here." This is followed, soon enough, by. "The fuck am I doing here. Every fucking headache these days I think thank fucking God, maybe this time --" His eyes cut to Matt's chair, teeth grinding. Then up to his face. The apology that is twitching at the edges of his mouth doesn't come; just another swallow of tequila, a small hiss through his teeth. << {Family is hard.} >> Matt's mental voice is soft and even. << {That doesn't mean you must sacrifice it to give him some degree of normalcy--or that he would want you to.} >> The grip of his power eases, after the brief struggle, though he does not let go altogether. << {Perhaps he'd rather be with a woman willing to share him in this particular way, even if you must rethink some things. I don't know. But it seems like something you should discuss.} >> He doesn't react outwardly to the spoken words--at least not at once. Inwardly, though, the response is instant and dramatic: a crushing wave of anguish and exhaustion, a faint spark of hope buried beneath it, an abrupt organic fear blossoming around the complicated, artificial engine of his love for Hive. He draws a shaky breath, taking the bottle and downing a long swig, unflinching. "I'm not--the best authority on love," he admits, finally, "but I'm pretty sure that's why we're still here. Love and stubbornness." << {There are no good choices here. Where the fuck does that conversation -- go?} >> The panic clawing behind Hive's words is barely contained. << {He says what we are is important enough to him to risk never having a normal fucking. Relationship and I spend my whole life wondering if I've kept him from his goddamn heaven or -- or he says it's not and --} >> The breath he lets out is ragged. His hand curls up into his hair, pressing hard against the side of his head. His eyes have fixed down somewhere between his boots. "Sure you are." There's a flatness to his voice, here. "You work harder at it than anyone." His fingers scrunch into his hair, clenching it into a fist. "What would Luci be doing, if you weren't here." An urge to take another drink rises, but Matt suppresses it with a casual and practiced inner violence, pressing the bottle back into Hive's hand. << {It can go toward figuring out how much normal he actually wants or needs, toward imagining what your normal could look like.} >> The plural "your" is especially emphatic in his casual mental vernacular. << {I'm sure that's a lot to grapple with, but I'm not convinced the only options are ripping away half of who he is or being a bachelor for eternity.} >> He goes still, his bright green eyes fixing sharply on Hive. The misery roiling in him has not passed, but it disconnects and recedes, leaving him with a kind of predatory clarity. "Hard work...only gets you so far," he manages, struggling to hold onto the hydrid mess of his feelings for Hive, to stop his mind from dragging that away from him, too. A wave of possessiveness rises and he latches onto it, bending it to his will. << {My friend. Mine!} >> Even so, it's through gritted teeth that he answers, "He'd probably have a better shot at a normal fucking life." << {Yeah.} >> Hive is doubling over, his rapidly hitching breaths kind of -- not quite -- approaching laughter. << {Maybe we'll decide we're better off just as friends.} >> When he gets to his feet it's jerky and unsteady, the bottle still clutched in one hand. "Would he want one?" comes just a beat before, "would he tell you if he did?" Matt is quiet for a moment, his thoughts darting quick and clinical around Hive and Dawson's situation, examining it minutely from various angles as his mindscape gradually returns to what passes for his normal. << {Have a little faith in what you can come up with together. You're a lot more than the sum of your parts.} >> Aloud he says, reluctantly, "I don't know. I don't think he would. {Come home with me.}" He waves Hive after him as his wheelchair unlocks from hovering in place. "{You can drink all night if you need.}" Hive's humming is a little disjointed, a little off-beat, but still clearly recognizable as "Stronger Than You" before it cuts off in another swallow of alcohol. "S'just the fucking. Problem. He wouldn't either. I've spent so goddamn long training myself to take people for their words. Their actions. Not what's in their --" He glances, quick, to Matt, and then down to the ground. "-- Fucking. Heads. But -- there are times when..." This just trails off. His shoulders slump heavily. The next twist of his mind against Matt's is more sluggish. "{I can drink all night wherever. You should go.}" "You do perhaps have a slight edge here." Matt halts the slow progress of his wheelchair. He is growing tipsy, his tolerance drastically lowered by his poor health. "But there is something to be said for taking him at his word and action, trusting that the decision he makes is more important than what he feels." He grips Hive's arm gently. << {Work harder.} >> The admonishment is quiet, directed inward. This time when the telepath's power reaches for him, he lets it through. Matt's mind is mostly placid again, the complex snarl of his love and care and desire to look after his friend drifting at a remove, as usual. "{I know you're not alone regardless. But I want to be with you.}" "Oh --" This is only barely audible as Hive's breath shivers out of him, his eyes widening when this time his overture meets no resistance. The curl of his mind down into Matt's is soft, slow, a gentle pressure that is followed swiftly by a flood of sensation. The fuzzy-dizzy wobble of the world swirling up against the storm of fear and uncertainty he is trying (unsuccessfully) to hold in check clashing against the sharp bright whirl of Dawson's thoughts (trying so hard to stay focused and steady with his patients even through the twinned battering of Hive's intoxication and his own clanging urge to get out get out GET OUT --) and beneath those, present but blended into their own indistinct stream, a ceaseless current of other-voices other-minds other-experiences drifting through the tangle of Hive's thoughts without quite rooting themselves. When his knuckles grind against the hollow of his eye, now, Matt can feel it; feel the headache behind it, feel the unstable teetering of the ground under their feet. << {My friend.} >> echoes somewhere within their mind. Hive's hand drops back to his side. "{Yeah. Let's go home.}"