Logs:Support Networks

Support Networks
cn: brief mention of suicidal thoughts
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jax, Steve
In Absentia	2020-10-21 "-- jus' dont' seem right to be alone in here."
Location <PRV> VL 403 {Geekhaus} - East Village
This is a small, two-bedroom apartment, the living room semi-open to the kitchen and dining area, a single bathroom situated between the doors to the bedrooms. The common areas are beautifully appointed with solid, matching handmade wooden furniture in intricate geometric mosaics. The kitchen table is ringed with coordinated but not identical chairs, two of them modular with low scooped backs, designed with winged bodies in mind. The wide, low coffee table fits neatly into the corner of a modular sectional couch, and the immense television is enthroned in an entertainment center that also houses various consoles and video games. The walls are lined with bookshelves laden with comics, roleplaying supplements, board games, speculative fiction, and a grab-bag of technical texts. The walls in between are adorned with some framed posters of classical science fiction and fantasy media along with a few pieces of gorgeous if unusual original art. The apartment is very quiet, these days. Even when occupied, Hive isn't much of a presence in the apartment; currently he's tucked in a corner of the couch in green plaid flannel pajamas and an old black tee with a brightly colored image of Gunnerkrigg Court's Coyote, blanket draped over him. He's looking toward but not really at the television, eyes a little fixed and unfocused and the screen long since frozen on Netflix's "Are you still watching "Sense8"?" screen. The door unlocks, swings open. Jax is in black overalls swirled with abstract rainbow, purple Doc Martens, a soft blue-green flannel; he has a large paper bag in his hands smelling strongly of tacos. The usual vivid chaotic swirl of his mind is a bit muted, at the moment, colors washed out and faded under a bone-deep haze of exhaustion that shrouds but doesn't drown out the grief below. There's a clutter buried somewhere there, dancing restless and harried between Tasks Still To Do, and it's with a sort of teeth-gritted mental effort that he's focusing on the current one: check in on Hive, get food into him. Check in on Hive, get food into him. Repeated with grim mental determination like if he doesn't hold that thought tight he'll forget whatever he was doing. He leaves his boots by the door, sets the bag down on the coffee table, swallowing down the by-now-familiar knot that threatens to choke him as he looks at its polished mosaic surface. Crouches by the couch, just as determined with the curl of warmth he forces into his mind. His hand reaches for Hive's, squeezes it gently. "Hey, honey-honey. We brung food." Steve is a quiet presence behind Jax, physically at least. He's wearing a purple-and-black plaid flannel shirt, perfectly fitted jeans, and combat boots, his shield slung across his back. His mind is at once muddled with sleep deprivation and sharp with unpleasant hypervigilant clarity. That clarity becomes nightmarish when he enters the apartment, but he bears it stoically, shedding his boots and following Jax into the living room. << My God, he hardly looks alive himself -- but he can probably still hear me... >> "Hive," he manages, quiet and numb, "my condolences." Hive doesn't look up from his not-actually-watching of the television when the door opens. He doesn't react to the others' presences at all, until Jax's hand takes his. His fingers curl back slowly around the other man's, his eyes closing. What comes in answer isn't greeting but inquiry, a mental image of Kieow forming in the others' minds, wreathed with questioning. Something relaxes just slightly in Jax when Hive squeezes his hand back. << not dead >> is his reflexive thought, released like an exhaled breath. "Kieow's safe," he answers the mental questioning next. "Had a training. Got some tacos." The flutter of exasperation that comes with this thought is distant, muted. "She met Lily. You up for eatin', sugar? I know it --" He stutters on this thought << don't know you don't know >> "-- s'been hard some days." Steve lowers his shield to the floor beside the couch. His eyebrows crinkle at the image he sees, uncomprehending. The confusion this summons recedes only slightly at Jax's reply. He sinks down to sit on the far end of the couch, gazing at the coffee table, eyes distant for a moment. Takes a deep breath and deliberately lets it back out. << It's so surreal, seeing him like this... >> His mind is searching, straining for the sounds of Dawson moving in the bedroom, of a flickering at the edge of his vision, knowing it will not come. He casts around for something to say. Comes up with nothing. << I miss him so damned much, but I can't even imagine what he must be going through. >> Hive just keeps close hold of Jax's hand. He's otherwise still and quiet under his blanket, his eyes not opening. << miss him, >> echoes in a ripple through the others' minds, the pressure of Hive's mental touch intense and heavy. He swallows slow, his mouth working slow too; when he speaks his voice is a little rough, a little crackly. "Need to eat. Dunno if I can." "Had some thoughts on that." Jax settles cross-legged on the floor, just by the base of the couch. (Check in on Hive, get food into him) is faltering as a mental refrain at Hive's answer; he struggles for a moment to come up with the correct adjustment for how to proceed. "If you want, we could help with that. I actually been thinking..." This comes with brief worried recollections of Matt's placid expression, Steve's grimacing face. "Would it be helpful to you if you had more -- different company, right now? It seems --" He's thinking of Geekhaus filled with the bright conversation and laughter of Game Night, of Dawson sprawled across Hive and Dusk's laps on the couch, of Ian perched on the kitchen counter, expression animated in the middle of a story. "-- jus' dont' seem right to be alone in here." Steve's eyes flick up from the coffee table to Jax. << He's so strong... >> Then over to Hive, though his mind immediately starts straining for Dawson again -- nothing psionic, just a habit of anticipation that keeps drawing more pain from him, every time it triggers. He just breathes in slow and out shakily. << I shouldn't be ask his help when he's in this state. (Jax thinks it might help him, too, and he surely knows him better.) >> "I suspect no one else can really appreciate the kind of burden you're carrying --" Frowns. << Probably not even if we were him. >> "-- but there's folks who can carry it with you." << Or at least try. >> Again, an answer is slow in coming. Hive does at least move, this time, pulling the other man's hand a little closer and resting his cheek against Jax's knuckles. "You don't want to be in my head, right now," is the answer he finally gives. "Matt shouldn't be. None of you should be." "'course I don't." Jax's quiet voice is matter-of-fact about this. "I barely want my own thoughts, I can't imagine I want yours." He's thinking back to the wrenching terror he'd felt after the Met Gala bombing, trying to envision a life without Ryan; pushing this thought away after a moment with the grim mental acknowledgment that even that staggering loss wouldn't be quite analogous. Some other part of his mind summons up old memories of devouring Pern books tucked away in the Xavier's treehouse, of riders after their lifemate dies -- he has more irritation with himself << (stupid) (trivial) this is real life >> when he shoves this thought back down. "What I do want is you here, with us. Safe, an' healthy, an' maybe that's a selfish thought right now but I can't imagine losing another friend. So if it'd help in any ways to keep you in some kinda balance, some shade of functional, eating and breathing and --" His hand squeezes harder at Hive's. "I think there's a fair few of us who could share that load." He nods towards Steve. "A couple of us who'd may even find some help out of it on the way." Steve nods his quiet agreement at Jax's words. << He probably wouldn't want to be in my head, either... >> The thought is vague, unfocused. Then sharpens into a vivid memory of a hospital room, of Flicker -- so terribly sick, but alive -- in Hive's arms, the rush of warmth as he's folded into them, the grip of his grief for Bucky easing in the care of their presence. << I might not have made it without them. >> A fresh wave of hurt wells up and he breathes through it again. "We'll bring our own pain, too, but..." He pauses, his eyes dropping to the couch between himself and Hive. "It's different pain, I think, for everyone. Maybe in the spaces between we can find ways to..." His mouth twists to one side, his jaw setting hard. << There's no making sense of it. >> "...get through it." Hive pulls in a shaky breath. Slowly cracks his eyes open, glancing from Jax to Steve and then back to the couch. His laugh, when it comes, is much delayed and a little ragged. "-- he fucking loved those trash books." He's pushing himself slowly upright, pulling the blanket a little more snugly around himself. << If you can get through it -- >> There's an undercurrent of quiet desperation in the sharp mental roots that start pressing their way into the others' minds; it blossoms, sharp and keen and nearly overpowering, into a vast anguish, deep and hollow and trying (unsuccessfully) not to fixate on whether or not death would quickly reunite him with his other half. The pain doesn't recede as the others' minds are fixed to his own, but something in their presence does stabilize the spinning thoughts, << -- maybe we can get through it. >>