ArchivedLogs:Being Breakfast

Being Breakfast
Dramatis Personae Shane, Sebastian, Micah	5 January 2014 Okay, seriously, that title was intended cleaner than it came across... >_>
Location <NYC> The Sharktank - Village Lofts - East Village
Everything in this bedroom comes in pairs. Two beds (pushed together to the center of the room to form one larger one), two desks, two bookshelves, two dressers, two closets. The walls hold a scattering of artwork in Jax's typically whimsical-surreal style. The right side of the room is impeccably tidy; desk neatly arranged: often a laptop or a nook, but otherwise cleared off, everything tucked in its drawers save for a small arrangement of textbooks and music books and little colourful glass figurines or pale bone sculptures on its upper shelves. Closet neatly in order, clothing (favouring pinstripes, vests, slacks) pressed and hung, shoes on a shoe tree inside the door. Books on the shelf neatly categorized. The left side of the room is a riotous spill of colour, bright eclectic wardrobe (lots of skirts and dresses and clothing with many bright patterns) haphazardly thrown together; desk cluttered with books and notes and an assortment of bones, its shelves also holding little glass or bone sculptures, though this alongside a wealth of mechanical parts or small robots in various states of completion. The floor here tends towards clutter; more robot-parts, clothing, treacherous Legos lying in wait for unsuspecting feet. Sunday mornings are usually quiet, around here. Jax off at church, people sleeping in late until he gets home and the rest of the day is spent in cooking enormous brunch and then also-enormous dinner to serve across the street in the park. And it's quiet, today, too. The living room is dim though the Christmas tree lights are still on. The house still smells of pine, even here in the bedroom. Micah may not have fallen asleep in here but at /some/ point he has been relocated, possibly for fear of neck pain from sleeping in beanbags. Possibly just for /cuddles/, because currently he is having those in spades. He's been tucked into the twins' bed -- beds, really, both full beds shoved together into one with larger sheeting to accommodate -- and now has not one but /two/ tinysharks nestled into bed with him. In sleep it's harder to tell which is which; Shane's earlier light bruising is /already/ fading by morning and in just identical black pajama pants there's not a lot to distinguish them. One twin is nestled up against Micah's chest, arm curled loosely around Micah's waist. There are occasionally tiny-unhappy whimpers from him, in sleep; these draw reflexive pettings of gills from his brother, nestled at his other side, who doesn't seem to actually wake /up/ to deliver them. Just, pet-pet-pet. Zzz. Micah had, in fact, finally fallen asleep in a beanbag in the living room. Since he had been sleeping on the floor in Jax's room, anyhow (not comfortable with sleeping in Jax's bed without some direct invitation thereto, last conversation standing), Micah has since moved Hive into that room for the duration of his Lighthaus stay. In the meantime, Micah had been borrowing Shane's bed, but relocated again to the living room when surprise weekend sharktwins arrived. While sleep has been very reticent in coming to him of late, once he /finds/ it, he is still one of those deep-sleepers who takes some rather deliberate efforts to wake. He is dressed as is typical for him at bedtime: steel blue henley shirt and pajama pants dotted with tiny TARDISes tumbling through space. The left leg of the pants has been tied up around his residual limb, his prosthesis resting against the beanbag for donning again in the morning. And yet. Here is morning and Micah is in the twins' beds, none the wiser for it. He is lying on his side with his arms are wrapped around the twin that ended up in front of him, lips pressed against the back of the same teen's neck. His right leg is tangled up with the legs of the twin behind him. Over the course of the night there have been some twitches and whimpers, the occasional tossing and turning betraying troubled dreams--but nothing akin to what would be typical from sharing a room with /Jax/. Between the restless moments, he always returns to this snuggling close to whatever forms happen to be near to his reaching arms. His breathing is steady now, body still, breath warm on the neck his face is nuzzled into. It takes a while before Thing One, tucked against Micah's chest, stirs. Eyes opening, breathing stilling; for a long few moments he just lies frozen and quiet, listening to the breathing of the others in the room. At length his own breathing resumes, and he snuggles in closer, turning to press his face against Micah's neck in return, face tucked in against collarbone. Thing Two curls his arm around closer. Over Micah's side, fingers pressing down slow and gentle against his brother's gills. His cheek nestles between Micah's shoulder blades, leg hooking a little more snug against Micah's. His eyes don't open, but /speaking/ finally betrays Not Truly Asleep state. "You both have nightmares." Thing One just answers this with a softly contented murmur that probably has little to do with nightmares and everything to do with the cuddles and gentle gill-petting. "Mmm-mmm. Not here. S'nice until I'm awake." The sound of voices causes only a light stirring at first, with no opening of eyes. Micah's arms curl tighter around the twin in front of him, the lighter stage of sleep lending more strength to his muscles as he tugs the teen close up against him. Continued talking, the leg gripping his own, the arm sneaking over his side all slowly contribute to a flutter of eyelids. “Mmn.” The sound is somewhere between contentment and protest, pressing all the harder against the body in front of him. Sleep is slipping away, however. His eyes open more fully, blinking at his surroundings in some confusion. Thing One draws in a slow breath, at the tighter curl of arm around him. He tucks his head downward, slipping back into quiet and pressing his ear up against Micah's chest. Thing Two presses closer, squeezing the others briefly tighter. There's a small tremble to his arm and he pulls away with great reluctance. "... I'll get breakfast started. Maybe cocoa. Maybe grits." He carefully untangles his leg from Micah's, grudgingly pulling away to swing his legs down over the side of the bed. Micah's blinking stops, finally, though his look is no less confused. “I knew y'all had come home. So I didn't sleep here last night. I was in the livin' room. Pretty sure I remember that...pretty clearly.” His thoughts haven't quite gathered enough to even /consider/ moving out of the warm cuddlespot he is in, however. "{Sorry,}" mumbles Thing Two in uncomfortable Vietnamese.. "Do you want grits for breakfast?" Thing One doesn't move. His arm snakes around Micah's back to cling tight. "You looked uncomfortable," he explains, "the beanbag makes your neck go all crooked. We moved you." “Oh,” Micah says simply when he realises what happened. “I was just...wonderin' how I /got/ here. Beanbag's not so bad, though. Sorta cradles you into whatever position y'end up in.” He smiles lazily up at the standing twin. “I kinda always want grits.” Thing Two opens his huge eyes wider, giving Micah a briefly startled look that fades into relief. "Oh." A small smile tugs for a moment at his lips. "You're not -- oh." He darts in closer to peck Micah lightly on the cheek, and then scurries towards the door. "'kay. You don't have to get up. I'll bring them. Here." The other twin just nuzzles in against Micah's chest. "So do we," he answers, "but with less awkward neck-bending. We just -- thought it'd be nicer if --" His fingers press in against Micah's back. "... plus I get nightmares," he admits, a little more sheepishly. "I'm not upset, no. But...for future reference, it's generally better t'get folks' consent t'be movin' 'em about? 'Specially if they're gonna be unconscious for it." Micah smiles at the tinykiss, arms still curled tight around the twin in the bed. "I know...sleepin' can be...kinda hard sometimes. When your mind seems like it just wants t'punish you for tryin' t'take a break from thinkin' too much." The boy still in the bed just stays, happily snuggled up against Micah's chest as his brother leaves to prepare breakfast. "... can we move you next time, then?" he asks uncertainly, and then: "I mean, or, but, you could just sleep here /already/. It's warmer and you -- get sad. At night." For a moment his gills flutter, though they quiet again as he adds: "... but a little less sad when someone's holding you I think. You /need/ a break from thinking too much." Micah's tightly clinging arms and curled-in body concede the greater comfort and warmth and the desire for closeness. “Prob'ly I should only sleep in here while y'all are away, honey. It's...everybody should have their own...sleepin' spaces. Does the two of you snugglin' up not help with the nightmares?” One hand slides up to pet the gills down. "Doesn't help with /your/ nightmares." The gill-petting brings a greater relaxation, as it always does; a soft-happy sigh, a quietly purring hum of contentment. "We used to go curl up with Pa when -- we were sad. Or /he/ was sad. He's -- sad a lot at night. Only then he had you and so he /had/ plenty of hugs when he was having nightmares. But now --" One thin shoulder shrugs quickly. "... now you're just alone and that's stupid. I don't think you /like/ being alone, do you?" "Don't think too much of anythin's gonna help with my nightmares. Maybe...time. A whole lotta time." Micah's breath sighs out heavily, though his fingers don't stop in their stroking down of gills. "I really don't /like/ bein' alone. But...honey, I can't just be...sharin' y'all's bed all the time. We've talked about this." The explanation is old, yet still reluctant, Micah's form still not managing to pull away. "We have?" Large black eyes tip a puzzled look up to Micah, but then he just presses ear to chest again. His fingers tap lightly at Micah's back, a steady rhythm that keeps time with the older man's heartbeat. "But you shouldn't. Be alone. You hardly sleep enough already now. And it -- at least /seems/ like it's -- better. A little better. Not like it can be /really/ better but." He shakes his head quickly. "There's plenty of room," he points out. “Maybe not...exactly,” Micah admits to the question of past discussions. “It's just...not somethin' that parents are usually s'posed t'be doin' with their teenaged kids. Right?” His hand lifts again to start another circuit over the gills. “The fallin' asleep part's the hard part. I'm usually...pretty good at stayin' there once I get there.” He chews at his lip. “Space...ain't the issue.” "... I don't think there's much about our family that's usual anyway. I just -- everything's --" Clawed fingers scrunch harder against Micah's back with a faint prickly scrape of sharp claws against skin. "... okay," he says, tired and reluctant and finally starting to loosen his grip. "I just, you shouldn't be --" He fidgets uncomfortably, pulling his arm back to flop onto his back, hand pressing hard down against his chest like if he doesn't forcefully /keep/ it there it may just sneak back around Micah. His brows rumple, and he bites down at his lip before volunteering a little guiltily: "... it's a really stupid rule." "I know. I know we're not, honey. An' I /love/ how close we get t'be with you boys, it's just... When I'm thinkin' of exactly what's okay...t'do. Of course I keep from anythin' that'd make /me/ uncomfortable. But I also have t'think what might make a stranger t'the family worry that we're hurtin' you boys. That's...where I put the line. At what might make a social worker wanna take y'all away from us. If that helps?" Micah unwinds his arms to let the teen pull away when he moves to do so. His hands /don't/ stop soothing the gills, however. For a moment the teenager's eyes just fix on the ceiling, jaw clenching and his claws digging down harder against his chest -- /probably/ in other people this would hurt but on his leathery-tough skin this just presses small depressions into it without actually puncturing. But then abruptly he laughs instead, lifting his hands swiftly to press fingertips to his lips and stifle his sudden fit of giggling. He turns in against Micah again to muffle this, shoulders shaking in laughter that grows silent as his gills flutter quickly open again. The door opens; his brother returns with a tray of food to set on the nightstand. Three mugs, one bowl of steaming grits. "I brought Spence his -- wait what's so funny." The other boy just clings tighter to Micah, still laughing in silence. Micah's eyes watch the gripping claws with widening concern, only joined with a head tilt as the strange /laughing/ starts. He finally sits up, looking down at the teen, still trying to figure out what to do when the /other/ twin comes through the door. “I...I think I broke 'im.” "What did you /do/?" Thing Two leaves the tray on the nightstand, clambering back up onto the bed to press a tentative hand to his brother's neck, pushing down the gills. "Oh," his brother finally manages in a ragged gasp. "Oh." He presses his fingertips to his lips again. "Just, just, oh. You're -- you're worried what /other people/ will think? Ba, they're. They're going to maybe /execute/ Pa because the whole world thinks he killed a /million/ people. I'm on video /eating/ a guy. You're married to the king of freaks. I don't," he mooshes his face up against Micah's chest again, "I don't think. If OCFS hasn't come for us already I don't. Think they're going to /care/ where you /sleep/ at night." “I'm not sure,” Micah responds with his brow steadily furrowing deeper. His arms just wrap around the teen when he presses up to him once more. “Honey...honey, I'd /worry/ less if people hadn't already /tried/. They took y'all /away/ before. I couldn't...just /could not/ handle it if they took you again.” The hug pulls tighter, fierce and protective. “People are watchin' our every move an' listenin' t'everythin' we /say/ anymore. I think a touch of paranoia might be /warranted/.” "They took us away when we were foster kids," Thing Two points out mildly, scooping up one of the mugs of cocoa to bump it lightly against his brother's cheek. "It's /way/ harder to get kids away once it's all legal. You could pretty much beat us every day and lock us in cages with no beds or blankets or clothes and feed us dogfood and they still would have a hard time doing anything. Especially cuz of we're freaks, nobody's going to /care/." "Trust him," the other boy still says this through /giggles/, "we /know/." Micah just hugs /tighter/, not willing to let go and /really/ not reassured by the recounting of what the twins have been through. "I just...I'm just not willin' t'/trust/ that everythin' will be okay with you boys. I gotta /make/ it be okay. Even if folks don't care what happens t'you, they sure would like t'make things harder for your pa. For all of us. I'm just...not puttin' it past anyone t'try an'... I can't. Let you go." "So don't let us go," Thing One says -- a little insistent, a little pleading as he curls in tight against Micah. His brother sips the cocoa himself. His hand slides down his brother's side, stroking down at the restless gills. For a brief moment his teeth bare, not smile but fierce-hard-snarl. "If they want to take us from you they can come here and /try/." Micah tugs the boy in front of him into his lap, reaching out to pull gently at the other's hand. “Oh, don't...don't do that. Just come here an' be here an' we'll eat breakfast, okay? Thank you.” The boy offers the cocoa to Micah, instead. He slips down to settle close at Micah's side, head resting on the older man's shoulder as his brother curls up in a small close huddle against Micah's chest. "There's garlic. In the grits. And the chocolate is spicy and." His arm curls around Micah's waist, squeezing close and tight. "And we're not. Letting you go, either." Taking the cocoa, Micah sets the mug on the nearby corner of a desk instead of testing it for drinkable temperature. He just pulls both of the boys into a tight-squeezing hug instead. “I love you. Love /all/ of you. An' we're gonna get through this. We'll keep pushin' what we can an' we'll get /through/ this together.” Each twin gets a kiss to the cheek nearest to him. “Now, let's eat before the grits go all cement-y an' m'stomach starts growlin' louder'n /you two/.” Thing Two returns the kiss with a little peck to the cheek. Thing One, with a tiny /nip/ to the side of Micah's neck. And a small growl. He hops down off the bed. "I'm going to go eat Hive," he announces. "... he means feed Hive." Though his brother sounds a little unconvinced here. "-- There's more grits if you need." But he's wriggling down off the bed, too, to hurry after his brother. And hopefully make sure Hive /gets/ breakfast rather than /is/ breakfast. Micah gives one last squeeze before letting the boys up. "OH, oh, we should go eat with Hive. If he's awake! Ohgosh, it's before noon maybe y'shouldn't wake 'im or /you're/ gonna be breakfast!" This admonition is given with more laughter than worry as he chases after the boys (a little slowly, a little /hoppingly/ until he can retrieve his /leg/), out of the room.