Logs:Rest

Rest
Dramatis Personae Dawson, Hive	2021-10-13 "You knock 'em dead, yeah?" (takes place the morning after Dawson and Steve's camping trip and before the Guardian showdown.)
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. << -- like a light switch, just go click, it's a cool little Mormon trick -- >> The overly chipper (overly familiar) refrain looping through Dawson's mind is given if contrast by the rest of the sensory jumble in his thoughts. smoke and crackling fire. Marshmallows toasting on a merry blaze. Skin bubbling and charring black in a building crumbling down around them. << -- we do it ALL the TIME -- >> Dawson smells like fire, too, toasty and camplike, starting to peel his hiking clothes off before he's quite gotten into the bedroom though in his haste he gets a bit tangled between his pack and the harness of his arm. Hive, just freshly showered and halfway into a crisp button-down and neatly ironed slacks, leaves off buttoning up his shirt to slip over and help remove Dawson's, instead. The strong steady press of his mind wraps out and around the other man's, rooting itself firmly into Dawson's. Quiet, wry, not asking so much as looking now for themselves, here we thought the Gunks were for relaxing. Dawson starts to lean into Hive's touch -- pulls back with a flicker of annoyance, a prickle of sudden remembering << important meeting we have important meeting UGH we JUST SHOWERED -- >> -- leans into the mental space instead, letting the climbing trip play out across their memory. << we're relaxed this is (say you got a problem well that's no problem) this is relaxed this is fine we climbed. >> They are thinking of the pleasant ache of a long day on the rocks, it's true, but also of Steve's knuckles brushing their cheek, eyes not-quite-meeting theirs, (I'll miss you) echoing in the back of their mind. The song turns up, louder. "Ffff." Hive curls his arm tighter around Dawson, squeezing briefly. He grabs the bag after, starting to stash the gear in it's proper place in the closet. "Lemme know how that fucking works out for you." << Wish it were that fucking simple, it'd be a blessing if you could just -- >> In their mind he is flicking off a light switch with a colorful Captain America shield-logo emblazoned wallplate. Flicking on a different one, its plate decorated with the constellation Ursa Minor. << have a meeting have a MEETING >> Dawson is very half-hearted about removing himself from Hive's touch, even as the More Responsible part of his mind protests this contact. "I like Polaris," he replies reflexively, even as internally a guilty pained twist is wishing, too, it were that simple. << don't love her >> << could we love her? >> << can try >> << gotta stop trying with him he won't ever -- >> "I like Polaris, and she..." But here he flounders, stalls, fishes through several possible endings to this that all feel inadequate. It's a determined struggle to keep his mind from wandering back to the thought of Steve's hand on his shoulder -- Steve's hand hastily pulling away. "I'll try to make sure our clients don't sniff me." Hive sounds dry as he emerges back out of the closet to continue buttoning his shirt. He pushes these thoughts away easily enough, brushing the memories of Steve off with a quick and slightly overprotective flick of trailing tendrils that wrap back tighter than before around Dawson. "You really should get some rest, man, you're a fucking mess." Dawson doesn't try to chase after the thoughts that Hive brushes away, though there's an ache that lingers in their wake. For a moment longer he settles, comfortable and warm into the nest of Hive's mental presence before deliberately prising himself free with a flutter of guilt. << mess I'm a mess he doesn't need this today -- >> "You knock 'em dead, yeah? I'll rest," he assures Hive in the process of disentangling their minds, "... later, I gotta shower and meet up with Leo and --" There's a tumble of unhappy anxious mess that follows this, unmoored, uncertain, but he shakes it off, squeezes Hive's shoulder quickly. "Then I'll rest." The faint brush of Hive's mind against Dawson's is the only concession to his reluctance to part. "Hrngh," he allows, as he picks a tie out of his closet. "That better be a promise."