ArchivedLogs:Dysfunctional

Dysfunctional
family.
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jim
In Absentia	2014-01-06 '
Location <NYC> Candyland - Village Lofts - East Village
This bedroom is bright, bright, bright, a cheerful riot of colour in contrast to the more minimalist scheme outside. It, too, has a plethora of lamps to lend it even more light than what comes in from the large windows opposite the entry; many of them bear stained-glass coverings in cheerful mosaic patterns to add still more colour to the room. The walls have been painted in pale blue with darker blue trim, though one is instead a mural of surreal fantastical artwork, odd unearthly plant and animal life spread across it in vivid colours. There is scattering of furniture here -- a bed on the wall adjacent to the window (usually dressed in vividly patterned mismatched sheets), a dresser opposite the bed, standing beside the large closet, both in wood that has been painted black and then covered in a swarm of brightly coloured images, too. The wall near the door bears an enormous handmade shelving unit, similarly painted; it is filled largely with meticulously organized art supplies. By the window, a desk stands in as-yet-unpainted wood; besides laptops and drawing tablet it often bears an eclectic mix of items, too. Comic books, knitting supplies, a hiking pack of climbing gear. With his apartment eerily devoid of life in the wake of Dusk's arrest and Flicker whisking off to be a fugitive, Hive has for the past few nights been sleeping down at Lighthaus. Or not sleeping, as the case may be; he doesn't look at the moment like he's gotten a whole /lot/ of sleep the previous night. The fact that he's /awake/ before noon is probably evidence enough that he hasn't yet bothered with Sleeping. He's still dressed, in jeans, 'resistance is futile (if <1 ohm)' t-shirt, a Cornell sweatshirt that sits far too big now on his sharply bony shoulders. He's sitting on Jax's bed though on top of the covers, laptop in his lap, eyes fixed blankly on the screen as he watches -- video. Flicker's video, at the moment; today the news and internet have been flooded with a deluge of Promethean stories. There's a mug of coffee on the nightstand beside him, but it's both still mostly full and stone-cold. Through mindsight, Jim's hard gnarls and deliberate latin mantra can be felt solidifying as he comes within range - what manages /to/ leak through his default shields is... well. Jim. Bleak and dry and focusing forward. Studying every apartment door he passes in the hall, marking any new scuff on the all or skid in the carpet. He's apparently finally realized you can't just open a door by jiggling the knob once and SLAMMING shoulder-first into it. It makes the heavy knock he does make feel almost subdued. KNOCK. KNOCK. ...aaand KNOCK. Hive doesn't answer the front door. It /is/ eventually answered, by a small squinty-eyed blue shark, stifling a yawn as he pulls the door open. His brother is curled up asleep in one of the overlarge beanbags in the living room, a damp towel draped over him like a blanket though he's otherwise undressed. The twin at the door has towel (also damp) wrapped around his waist, at least. He blinks at Jim, and gestures without saying anything to the closed door of Jax's bedroom. Jim makes a kind of grim 'chk' sound of thanks in the side of his teeth for the helpful indication, skimming a glance over either sharktwin while crossing the room. There's really no point in being surprised at the lack of clothes, though there is an unease (be real, it's a worry, though it's a heavy and moderated thing in his mind) for << -the silence of them. christ, kids. >> He doesn't /actually/ lurk in the doorway, though there is a reflexive feeling of invasion to be wandering into someone's << Jax's... >> bedroom, WHILE just plunging on in. Habit also closes the door behind them. "--that one of the videos?" SmallBlueShark returns to beanbag once the door is locked again behind Jim. Curls up in a small ball, towel rearranged now like blanket, soothing-damp against idle gills. He tucks himself beneath his brother's arm, dropping back off into sleep. << The pups smile when Micah or Spence are around, >> Hive's heavy mental voice thuds into Jim's head kind of unreassuringly. << Talk, joke, laugh. Then they're alone and -- >> A brief flicker-image of twins, just quiet and huddled up together. Sometimes reading, sometimes tinkering with robots, sometimes playing violin. Rarely smiling. Rarely talking. << House is bugged. >> This is probably already evident, the /multiple/ vans lurking in the vicinity of the Lofts for days are all so very /extremely/ nondescript as to be glaring, but by now the telepathic reminder to anyone who comes in is just habit. Hive doesn't look up from the screen when Jim comes in, though he does slowly tip it a little more towards Jim. Halfway through Flicker's. Hive's fingers clench and unclench at his side. "There's a fuckton of them." << Guess we smile more for other people's benefit, lot of the time... >> Hard to really say if this a response /for/ Hive or if Jim is just mind-muttering to himself, mulling over nebulous thoughts of what is comforting when one is also able to /be/ comfortable. He's heading towards the bed without much thought, positioning himself where he can see the screen so that he's almost just incidentally at a proximity that, when Hive's head tips, it can come to a rest against the side of Jim's hip. If it doesn't, Jim will probably /drag/ it there, draping a forearm atop his head while he watches. << Yeah. Saw the vans. Some day I'm gonna /get/ me one. >> "...Christ. Y'don't actually get used to hearing about it." << Suppose it's good. The house really could use more -- >> Hive shrugs uncomfortably, his fingers still clenching and unclenching as Flicker's short video comes to an end. A click of his finger plays Sebastian's, next, a harder tension twining through his shoulders as it starts and his eyes reflexively flicking towards the door. "I was fucking in there with them and /I'm/ not even used to hearing about it. -- There's one from Vector. Somewhere in here." He doesn't resist the dragging of head, but it comes with a very brief /flinch/, wince-ducking his head before gingerly settling it in against Jim's side. "Just hope it does some damn /good/, don't think things are going to be much more /comfortable/ for anyone in them." "I dunno." Lips barely move with this murmur, Jim steadily watching the little blue face on the screen. "...might give catharsis, some ways. Be able to say out loud. This fucking happened. It's fucking - real." There's not a lot of optimism. Not a lot of... anything. Dark cavities between clenched root knuckles. And that sick familiar sense of a deep gut-roiling for the things he hears. << -lot of that. i didn't know. damn them. >> Jim doesn't /leap/ away when he feels that flinch, but he pauses and lifts his arm off Hive's head, looking down at the /telepath/ now. Searching him over with more attention now. << -hurt? >> "Maybe. Still probably shitty for the kids at school and all I mean -- everyone knows. But that's different than /hearing/ --" Hive shrugs a shoulder, lapsing back into silence as he watches the little blue teenager on the screen. "I made one. But, uh." There's a brief meaningless twitch at the corner of his mouth. << We're supposed to be convincing the public they /shouldn't/ be locking us up. Think anyone who knows what I do pretty instantly jumps to holy shit why isn't he in a cage somewhere far away. >> The uncomfortable bludgeon of his mental voice is followed with a familiar digging of sharp mental /claws/, curling into those dark cavities in greedy-hungry pull. His eyes fix on the screen as Sebastian's video comes to an end. << Damn them, >> is a sharper echo of Jim's sentiment. The question of hurt earns a quick shake of his his head once in hard negation. "S' different," Jim agrees, numbly. Then less so, with an abrupt and harsher grate, "It's about time we stopped pretending it was." Like a ship against cannon fire, Jim weathers against Hive's mental storm as best he can, digging against it, though it rips chunks off his shielding. Leaked through, black hateful reflections, as silence from the screen falls: << they did this to /him/, too. >> << it's just /hearing/ for you, jimmy >> << /reality/ for them. >> << don't you fucking look away. >> He pushes back harder against (...up to) Hive's mind. So tempting, to let him try to fill up the void, or barring that... share it. Roots and earth strain under pressure as he rasps, "Play another." "S'just fucking weird having all this shit --" Hive lifts his hand, fingers curling into his hair (grown out long, now, shoulder-length and messy, unbrushed today though at least its bone-straight length resists much /tangle/) to press hard up against the knotty scar alongside his head. "Everywhere. Spent so gorram long hiding and now." His mental claws initially stubbornly dig in harder when they encounter resistance, but they leave behind a sense of apology as they withdraw. "Sorry," he mutters, oddly rarely in English after weeks of avoiding the word. "Been. Not great lately at. Boundaries." His teeth grind slowly together as he starts another one, Daiki's softspoken words filling the room. For that one moment, when resistance meets sharper talons, Jim almost throws himself into it. To mindlessly do battle - "Yeah well." His raised arm is gradually settling back atop Hive's head again at a kind of awkward slowness. "I got plenty for both of us." It could so easily be just that.His gorge constricts and eases in pulses with Daiki's quiet account, his own hands already formed into fists that slowly clench tighter. But it still rattles, inside him - << 'not been great'.. >> << ... lately. >> << something happen? >> << can't even tell if I'm fucking paranoid anymore. >> "Better or worse," he's sinking down to sit on the bed as well, knees giving out slowly as he listens. But he's also /smiling/ now. Viciously. Unkindly. "There's no hiding it now." The touch to Hive's head meets with another brief wince, another sharp-digging /clawing/ at Hive's mind, but this time he pulls it back unprompted. His weight sinks in slowly in a heavy physical connection as his mind pulls back, slumping in against Jim's side as he watches, with hard-clenched fists and lips pressed tight together like he's trying to stifle nausea. A click of the mousepad brings up Parley's video, starts it playing on the heels of Daiki's. The nausea doesn't leave his expression, spasming there again with Jim's silent wondering. His eyes track slowly off towards the bedroom wall, and then return to the video. << Not great, >> he affirms again, with another clenching squeeze; as his mind digs in hard against Jim's its clenching fingers leak fragments of feeling. Memory. Numb hollow emptiness and a deep aching need that /clings/ desperately to these snippets of connection. A fierce flush of desire that doesn't quite taste like /Hive's/ mind, quiet hungry words, << (please) >> << (love) >>, cold hard wall at his back. The aching mental grip relaxes again, reluctantly. Hive shivers at Jim's side, eyes locking onto the video screen, watching Parley speak with gritted teeth. "Nope. S'all fucking out there. Only going to be a matter of time before /someone/ does -- fucking. Something." << Though, /what/ -- >> is a question that he doesn't actually finish. Jim's shoulder braces to support Hive's lean; it doesn't take much << -that bone's his shoulder- >> << fuck >>. In mind, it takes more; familiarity has left him unrelaxed and ready, for the next wave of pressure, that irregular /rhythm/ of claws and apology and claws once more. << - hadn't thought about what they'd do with psionics... - >>. And while it's an empath speaking on screen, in Jim's mind it's Hive. And he /lets/ it be. And doesn't let himself recoil from it. With no telepathic understanding, he muddles, delayed in switching between trying to understand and trying to keep up his boundaries simultaneously, uncertain and /angry/ with himself for it, at that feeling from Hive that /isn't/ Hive, the confusion of ache and need. << --who. - what? >> A wall-... Hive is watching Parley's video with teeth gritted, hand lifting again to press to the scar at the side of his head. "... I lost track," he says, in softer affirmation of something Parley is saying. "The ones that died /in/ me or the ones /I/ killed. It got hard to. Keep straight." His hand falls back to his lap, fingernails scratching against thick construction-work-heavy denim. << It's been hard, >> he kind-of-doesn't-really answer, stiff and prickly-reluctant. << Since the. Everything. Hard to keep my fucking brain in order. Especially now with -- >> His eyes lift towards the ceiling, his eerie-empty apartment above it. Then return to the video. "...in you." Is what Hive said. And Jim's revulsion seems intent to only strive to imagine it. It comes to him in fragmented concepts; of vital skin going soft beneath his fingers. Of a rapid fluttering pulse in a vein slowly relaxing to stillness. Of the give of fabric fibers; cloth being torn in two. He doesn't seem to notice, when his eyes have moved from the screen and up to the ceiling above as well. << s'empty now. Every last one of them. >> Ian, Dusk, Flicker --... Hive. << like the place is under a curse. fuck me. >> He's not actually leaning harder against Hive (if to not bowl the bastard over, if nothing else.) But his posture has changed to something more loomful; protective and yet protected as well. The prickly spikes only bruise so much as Hive's mind /always/ bruises. And with sinking yet, in his stomach: << the fuck does that mean, Hivey. >> "Yeah. When I'm. Joined to someone, and they die, it's." Hive's eyes close on these fragments of imagery, a slow swallow bobbing the prominence of adam's apple in his throat. With Jim's shift in posture, his shifts, too. Still leaning up against the older man's side, less /slumped/ now, though. As much /bolster/ as his bony-thin frame can achieve; it's echoed mentally in a firm settling of his mind (there's hunger there, still, aching-yearning-need but it /resists/ this time the urge to sink down and in) against Jim's, far more solid in raw mental /strength/ than he is in wasted-skinny physical presence. It's reflexive now, the stop of one video and the start of another. This time Liza, thin and wide-eyed, talking of being forced into rooms with other children to see how long before her power threw their brains into enough imbalance to kill them. Strapped down and drilled into to sap her cerebrospinal fluid for use in making drugs. That were then used on /her/ to see their effects. Acid melting her leg off when Prometheus turned a dragon loose on them; watching others in the cells simply shot like so much evidence to dispose of. Hive's fingers unconsciously rub against his leg. "I've never been good at being alone," he admits softly, the heavy mental press squeezing in firmer, though still not /digging/ in. "I just don't /know/ how to fucking --" He gives a strangled-wordless noise of frustration. "I think I had sex. Except I'd /taken/ -- jesus." The shudder that runs up him comes with another strangled-sickened noise. << I never fucking. Touch anyone I've taken, that's not. >> His shoulders are tensed, hunching inwards. "... he said it was okay. Says it was okay. And maybe it was but if I fucked up once I don't know how to trust myself not to -- fff. It won't /be/ okay next time." For a short time, as Liza's words meet the four walls of the room, Jim is intent to sit in this way; bolstered in company and sharing strength in these wordless ways. A little awkward, more than angry, hollow and with short, sharp breaths. All culminating in a massive inner explosion that Jim /battens/ down against. Against himself, this time. Hacking, slashing, clenching up against surprise to -- And he asks, low, outwardly only showing a clench across his throat. A tightness around his eyes. "You still got 'em?" Hive shakes his head mutely, shoulders tightened in on themselves. << No, he -- >> which sounds in his reluctant-unhappy mind a lot more like 'we', << ... s'gone. >> Though there's a very clear /intense/ feeling that he would rather this not be the case, a clawing emptiness to his rent-open mind that at this particular juncture doesn't care /what/ it's filled with. "Hivey." Jim hasn't even noticed that the current video has ended, he's turning in his seat and unthinkingly closing his hands around either side of Hive's head. Not rough, but /urgent/. "/No/." Nevermind the wire-twisting in his chest, the /recognition/ of that cavity. << - i admit that i am powerless FUCK - >> "Dude, you are backsliding. You gotta -." Got to what, Jimmy. Hive lifts a hand, curling fingers in hard clench against Jim's shirt. "Sorry," he whispers, rough and unhappy as his eyes squeeze shut. As his /mind/ squeezes in tighter, like he can /force/ the emptiness out of Jim by forcing himself into it. "I know, I. Everyone's just fucking /gone/ and he felt -- felt like." His shoulders shudder, and he shakes his head quickly. Hard mental fingers start /pushing/ into that emptiness in Jim. "... I'm trying, I swear, I just don't fucking know --" For a moment, it rises to a shrill pitch that is ... silence. A single fragile thought; of a bloody street and the smell of frosting and gun powder. Ian dead and Hive crumpled. Of letting him/it/all of it in and sharing loss and understanding; of moving in tandem and twining like vines. His barriers sag like rotten wood. << -could (open your eyes) have that again (open your eyes). could- >> Break him. "STOP," it's like ripping off SKIN, pulling himself away from it, and Jim's palm smacks down moderate-/hard/ on Hive's cheek, pressing their foreheads together and staring /lividly/ forward, "/Open your eyes/ and /look/ at me. LOOK." Hive's breath shudders inwards at the thought of Ian, his posture crumpling in again. His head thunks down against Jim's and there's a /surge/ forward, hungry and needy when Jim's barriers crumple in. Grasping, holding, /pulling/ the other mind to himself with a powerful rush of shared feelings, shared memories, the screamingachingvoid starting to /fill/ with -- -- silence, mental fingers dissolving into nothing at that slap. Hive's head sags in heavier weight against Jim's, breath catching and fingers still fisting into Jim's shirt. His eyes open -- vacantly at first, pupils dilating. Until they focus, in on Jim's eyes. "... fuck," he breathes out. Jim exhales in a sharp choke; a naked pained sound. Of last vestiges of will - or just despair, when the pressure subsides. << ...fuck come back almost- >> "I'm /right/ here." Only in his mind it sounds like << /he/'s right here >>, keeping Hive held right where he is to give /himself/ a focus, hard haggard eyes dry and red and livid. "Right? I'm staying right the fuck here. There's not gonna /be/ a next time." He leans back and bonks his head against Hive's for emphasis. "Right? Til you got this kicked, you're on the wagon. And I'm you're fucking sponsor." << christ save us all. >> Hive's fingers tighten, pull Jim closer even as his mind slips farther away. His breathing is strained, his other arm lifting to wrap around Jim's back, hold /there/ tight as well. His head slips down, pressing against the side of Jim's neck, forehead dropped to the older man's shoulder. "Fuck," he whispers again, "God, Jim, I --" His mind leans up against Jim's once more, a wordless churn of feelings. /Gratitude/ but also fear, /apology/ but -- resignation, acceptance that yes, he /does/ need this help. And a still-keen hunger he can't quell. << Right here, >> he echoes, both relieved and reaffirming. << (you/I/we) (right here) >> "I just, fuck. I didn't -- know what to -- they're all /gone/ every one of them they're all fucking /gone/. Just -- wanted something to --" His shoulders shake once, a shuddering tremble like a sob, though no tears have fallen. There's still a default part of Jim at an utter loss with how to gracefully... do this. But it also just doesn't care right now. He folds arms around Hive and gathers him in, kind of /perfunctory/ about it to get past the awkward moment and just -- << have him. >> "Not," he says firmly, against all flagging inner doubt, against all lack of /certainty/, "/gone/." Somehow it's less trying to convince anyone and more just... << can't, right now. Fuck, too much. >> He rolls a shoulder to form a hollow to hide Hive's face. From himself as well, turning a head to look towards a window, a painting. This bedroom certainly lends itself well to distractions. << -wonder if that's on purpose. >> "...who was it?" Hive seems at this moment somewhat immune to awkward, just /folding/ himself in against Jim. Physically and mentally, face pressed to shirt, bony form full of uncomfortably hard /angles/ where he presses but the firmer weight of his mind just solid, blanketing. A thick heavy carpet of earth to be dug into rather than trying to dig in himself. "Ngh." The uncertainty he feels at this question of gone leaks heavily through the mental pressure. "-- We'd expected this so fucking long. But when it comes --" He shakes his head, eyes tracking over towards the painting too, with Jim's silent wondering a small tired smile tugs at his lips. "You see a /lot/. You always. See a lot." His fingers clench up harder at that last question, a wash of confusion-regret-/puzzlement/ surfacing in his mind. A little guilty, a little sick. The question is sort of /inadvertently/ answered far more than he /means/ it to be, memories bubbling up quietly where his mind coils against Jim's. << love you love you love you, >> echoing not in Hive's voice but in Micah's, a surge of /need/ and want that, while it echoes the ache gnawing at Hive is distinctly /not/ is own. Micah's hands sliding an undershirt off of him, auburn hair between Hive's legs. Hive pulls away sharply, awkward /now/, hand rubbing to his face as he jerks -- guilty, embarrassed -- away from Jim to slump back against the pillows. "Fff." His knuckles press to his eyes, mental presence jerking back as well, resettling -- more /carefully/. "Was just. Fuck. Fucking -- stupid. I shouldn't have --" He waves his fingers towards his temples. "Brain's too /fucked/ for that, everything was a goddamn mess once I took him." "Pff. Just 'cause you know it's coming doesn't mean you gotta like it." Jim mutters, breath ruffling through Hive's hair. Still looking around the bright-colorful room, taking in little details. Turning them over. Fitting them together. He does it feverishly, to combat the bright flare of - Hive withdrawing is convenient for Jim to also clench in and restrain some - cataclysmic THING that wells up in the back of his mind that has nothing to do with the normal level of reflexive squirming for seeing a very PRIVATE moment. A personal and... naked - His hands are curling tightly into fists, the mind Hive resettles on now serrated with angry thorns. Not /at/ Hive but present. << not gonna /help/ you here jimmy. take it easy. >> He remains resolutely where he is, not chasing Hive, but in no level moving /away/ either. "...how'd it happen." That's not right though, is it... << -what d'you remember? >> "No. And /how/ it happened just. Pisses me the fuck /off/, not even anything /real/ but the gorramn delusional ramblings of a /madman/." Hive settles his legs into a pretzel, resting elbows on knees and dropping his head heavily into his hands. His eyes flick back towards the floor, the wall, and he shakes his head sharply. "I don't even fucking know," he admits in a low mutter. "I wasn't thinking. I just /needed/ --" His fingers scrunch into his hair. "Everyone's fucking gone." Lower, rougher. His eyes fix down on the brightly colored comforter beneath him. "I've been a goddamn mess, Jim." Rough, too. "So many fucking days just wanting to put a gorram /end/ to --" His cheeks are flushed, his tone stiff and uncomfortable, but he continues steadily. "Was about to do it, too. When Micah dragged me out of my room and brought me down here. Said I shouldn't be alone up there, it's fucking /creepy/ all empty and -- he's right, I couldn't. Handle." His eyes close. Open again to fix on the covers once more. "But I was still a fucking mess. And he was /here/. And his mind tastes like family and with some people it's /so/ fucking hard not to --" His mind presses in again, here, fingers curling possessively around Jim's mind before releasing. "Not to just. Keep you. Everyone's getting ripped the fuck away. And I /wanted/ him. Not like -- fuck. Not like that I don't even think of dudes that way usually just. S'/family/ I don't want to let you fucking people /go/." His eyes stay fixed downward, teeth grinding slowly and his fingers curling tight into his hair. "-- But my brain is fucking /broken/ right now. I never. Fuck people. If there's a risk of taking them and /not/ becuase the connection /bothers/ them but because the second I'm in them like that, they /can't/ do anything but want what I want. Except it's all fucking /crossed/ now. I'm supposed to be in control but now I just. Disappear. Everything everyone else is just. Becomes me." Just a heartpulse; steady thick throbs, in the sides of Jim's temples. The words 'Was about to do it' echos down, down into a dark that has no bottom - and doesn't interrupt. Oh, he /wants/ to, throw the laptop across the room and shake Hive, kick over furniture, drag paintings from the walls. But he knows this old monster, has uncovered too many terrible truths in the course of his life. So he rides it out, listens, and takes it into some blood-soaked scrapbook, all filing cabinets and a beating heart. << Family. >> He, orbits it. Wantful and feeling too old to want -Sss! He digs in, in time - when Hive's talons return. And the possessiveness is /returned/. He lets it out instead by throwing a firm arm around Hive's shoulders and taking up a fistful of Hive's opposite sleeve. Something to /grip/. "Not gone," he says again. Rich with complications, but pushier now. << --i'm here. and i'm gonna be righter here til we get them back. god save me, flicker'd be better. if i could swap places with him, in a heartbeat-. >> Regardless of the morbid appeal, he's shrugging himself away from stupid 'if onlys', abandoning them to the tarpits. << Micah. >> He's thinking; of the man crumpled to the ground. Clinging to Hive. Of Hive tightening his jaw and holding him back... "Fuck." He growls. "For /fuck's/ sake, you should be in a - god damn /rehab/ spa. Not." << -shouldering other people's /bullshit/. >> He's well aware it's not fair. But he's also well aware he doesn't give a shit. There's an almost-apology that surfaces in the lean of Hive's mind up against Jim's but he struggles and pushes it back /down/, sorry -- perhaps for /being/ a mess but not sorry for /admitting/ it, some part of him kind of sick to death of /pretending/, of people tiptoeing around all their messy-tangled-struggles when they're all -- << /Family/. >> He repeats this hard and /fierce/, bony shoulder leaning up against Jim's, his hand moving to Jim's side to curl up the older man's shirt in a tight fist. << (you're/i'm/we're) (here) >> His fists are clenched, teeth are clenched, muscles clenched up hard and holding tight. << And don't you dare, >> he's saying /over/ the 'if onlys' even as Jim starts to abandon them, << because I need you. Here. Too. >> The mental image of Micah clenches at him, too. He sucks air in through his teeth, drops his head to thud against Jim's shoulder. "Maaan. You want a fucking /spa/ weekend with me?" He's quietly entertained at this. Mental image of Jim in /cherry-tree/ form, a gardener there giving a manicure with careful /trimmers/ taken to his branches. But underneath this shared image it's just sick-tight-knotted. << I /wanted/ him, >> carries the same nonsexual connotations it had earlier. Wanted /closeness/, wanted to dig in and hold on tight. << Just got fucking /complicated/ with my goddamn -- >> His fingers squeeze in tighter, fist pressing knuckles to Jim's side. "Everyone's got so much bullshit these days. Think we /all/ kind of -- take turns. Shouldering it. For each other." For lack of better outlet, Jim turns his indulgent mental rampage on /Hive/ as well when the semblance of apology begins to form; the equivalent of a shove. Or a flail. And then grimaces and turns it on himself as well. << can't come to this table crippled, jimmy. eyes open, cards on table >> << he'll fucking /know/ if you're not. >> << and so will you. >> It earns its proper wince, but a /fire/ as well; he tightens his arm down. << Family. >> He surrenders it, with... minimal squirming. << 'm here. Not going anywhere, dumbass. >> Though until he thinks it - he hadn't aware it was the plan. And he sighs, relaxing into it just to see how it /feels/. And finds himself letting out a dry BARK of a laugh at Hive's mental image, adding to it a pair of cucumbers to cover his tree-bark eyes. Cucumber bits that promptly SHRIVEL as he gobbles the live and green vitality from them. Added to the image is a deck chair with Hive's scrawny body draped in it in swim trunks with a thick blobby mask of green on his face and a pair of huge bug-eyed sunglasses. And a STRAW HAT. "HELL no, I don't wanna fucking spa weekend." Not entirely mollified yet, the fire is burning out and resolidifying, the layered soil of Hive's mind finding him relaxing root tendrils to curl into it. Still braced and ready to harden, not /happy/, not okay with any of this. But controlled, as he contends more steadily, << Not if shouldering means needing a teetotaler to stand-in as a drinking buddy. >> The root tendrils meet deep earth; it's been /rocky/ in places but what Hive gathers to pack around Jim's curling roots is just steady and solid, cool rich soil that grips and holds. "S'okay they'd /blunt/ their damn trimmers trying to file /your/ horny old feet into shape." And over and beyond this just a drrrrry rattling, << /Hah/. >> His head lifts and thunks back against Jim's shoulder. << See we're at least normal in /one/ fucking place, >> he answers Jim's final contention rather darkly amused. << Like every gorram family I've ever met we are dysfunctional as fuck. >>