ArchivedLogs:Brains, Brains, I Won't Lie...

Brains, Brains, I Won't Lie...
Dramatis Personae Doug, Hive, Ryan	2013-03-12 ... sure they might think it's deranged, but they won't give it a thought after I've eaten their brain.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Laundry Room - East Village
This laundry room looks as many laundry rooms do. Fluorescent lights a little too-bright, linoleum floor is chipping, lint-dusty and occasionally stained sticky with spilled detergent. A broom and dustpan in one corner encourage its users to contribute to its cleanliness, which they do with intermittent conscientiousness. A bank of quarter-fed washing machines along the wall have clear windows on their doors to watch the laundry spin and turn within. On the wall opposite, a matching row of dryers near-perpetually has at least one out of commission. A rickety folding table and chairs at one side provide a place to sit and wait. There's a dispenser on the wall that will provide single-use sized packets of detergent or fabric softener, but it is hit or miss whether it is ever in stock. It's creeping up on the lunch hour, and Doug should /probably/ be out enjoying the sudden spate of sunshine and relatively warm weather and looking for food. Instead, the blonde is firmly sequestered in the laundry room of the Village Lofts, an empty basket and bottle of detergent at his feet confirming that the two running machines are, inte fact, his. Dressed in sweatpants and a grungy-looking red t-shirt, Doug doesn't seem to be very focused on anything, despite the thick-looking textbook in his hands and the black-framed glasses on his nose. Instead, he stares at bank of dryers thoughtfully, his mind tumbling over images of the night before, and bits and pieces of /other/ nights. It's a rapid sifting, information being reshuffled and re-categorized like a spinning rolodex. Hive can be felt before he can be heard, not in his usual uncomfortable-painful mental jarring but a quiet-gentle whisper of mental touch that creeps in, not prying so much as just touching. Sort of like scouting. Sort of like greeting. Hive himself arrives a minute later, dragging a very large pair of hampers behind him with quiet grunts. His skinny frame is not really /built/ for dragging heavy things around and he lets them drop with a whumph and a relieved sigh once he's inside. << Yo. >> It comes quiet-gentle, too, nothing like his usual painful abrasive mental voice. It comes, also, in not his voice alone but a chorus of voices, a chorus of feeling layered underneath it in sort of city-like white-noise. This person getting lunch, that person reading, that person searching for a job, that person struggling to fend off nightmares and sleep, and on, and on, mingled together till they are not so much distinctly heard so much as just There. Doug is familiar enough with Hive's mental presence that he doesn't flinch when his mind is brushed, although the oddness of the delivery does sort of stop the mental shuffling. There's a closing off, then, as the rolodex is shoved into a dark corner, and the blonde looks up, frowning at the older man's struggles. "Hey," he says, dropping his book to rise and help get the hampers in the rest of the way. The multitude of voices pauses him for a moment, as he tries to sift through all of /those/. "I bet you guys will be burning through the quarters, for a while," he offers, moving one hamper closer to the washers. "Unless you've got someone up there who can rig machines for free play." There's an instinctive /following/, as Doug shoves that mess of thoughts away, Hive's mind /following/ in reflexive -- curiosity? Hunger? It carries overtones of both, teasing out bits and pieces of spinning-rolodex thoughts before, apologetically, he ducks his head and pulls back sharply. << Sorry, we -- >> He nods a thanks to Doug, dragging in one of the hampers and letting Doug take the other. There's a large jug of detergent on top of the basket, and Hive pours a bit into each of the remaining washers, loading them up as much as he can. There's still a decent amount of laundry left even after this. << Burning through a lot of shit, >> he allows. << You okay? >> It's a hard follow, but there are bits to tease out: embarrassment, disappointment, Micah, Jax...and a thread of irrefutable logic that runs annoyingly through it all that is the hardest to push away. Doug blushes as those spin to the surface again, and lifts a shoulder at Hive, offering a sheepish grin. "'Sokay," he says, beginning to lift clothes out and separating them into machines. "You've got a lot on your mind." Was that a tease? His eyes are crinkled a bit as he offers it, so probably. The mental question gets a deeper blush, and Doug's sifting gets a bit more rapid. Oh shit. I probably kept him up half the night with my thinking. "Just feeling a bit stupid," he says with a scrunch of his nose. Which is true. There's definitely a streak of awkward ignorance in there. "I'll get over it." More clothes go into machines. "How has it been at Camp Hive?" << We overhear a lot, >> Hive says in quiet acknowledgment of the ohshit. << But we're used to it. Micah's adorable. Nothing stupid about liking someone. >> Once the machines are all filled -- with, sadly, still about half the laundry /left/ -- Hive pulls two rolls of quarters out of his pocket. He breaks one open, loading up all the machines and starting them, one after the other. The question is answered in a brief chaotic flurry of feeling more than words: hungrypaingriefsafetiredhappypainfreedompain << Busy, >> Hive sums up, wryly. "I guess," is Doug's murmured response, the images tumbling a bit faster. "But I probably overdid it. He's too old for me, anyway." Which comes directly from that stream of logic, and is less bitter-sounding than it could. "I was just being...a dumb kid." He lifts a shoulder, and returns to his chair, dropping heavily into it. The metal flood makes him blink, and he actually reaches up to rub at his temple. "So I see," he replies, in a similarly wry voice. "I told Joshua and those other two that they were welcome to stay with me, but I don't think they're going to." That's another simple fact, and is offered with no emotion attached, save a little twinge of sadness his apartment is quiet again. "How are /you/ doing? With all of that," he twiddles his fingers at his temple, "going on?" << There'll be other adorable guys. Your age, even. >> Hive slumps against a dryer, pulling himself up to sit on it and watch the clothing tumble sudsily. << We are -- >> Hive doesn't seem to notice his plural pronouning, though after saying this much it does take him a long moment to tease through the jumble and actually /give/ an answer to this question. It's the same as the last: << Busy. >> He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. << But people have been helping. Lots of people. >> "Hopefully," Doug says of potential adorable guys. "I mean, there /will/ be. I'm just letting myself be disappointed for a while, though." He offers a game smile, and leans back, the expression fading as Hive answers his question. "Well, busy I figured," he says, reaching over to pat Hive's back in awkward comfort. "And I could tell you guys have had lots of help when I dropped that stuff off at Jax's yesterday." Clothes and food, his mind provides unintentionally, secured by a carefully crafted lie to one of his mother's friends about a halfway house for runaway kids in need of supplies. "But lots of help coming in...doesn't that leave you guys open to the same sort of security risks as lots of people knowing about your rescue attempt beforehand?" Hive is not expecting the back-patting, and his startle response is immediate, muscles tensing as his mind bears down on Doug's instantly; it's not painful so much as swiftly disorienting, a sudden recalibration of thoughts as gentle but firm mental fingers close down to grip Doug's thoughts securely. Integrate them with their own. For a moment things are /loud/, a chaos of OtherPeople'sFeelings, but then it quiets abruptly into stillness. Or near-enough stillness. There's still a sense, somewhere niggling in the background, of many other /presences/, but they're shadowy-distant, just quiet murmurs that are hard to distinguish. Hive, though, sounds singular again when his voice sounds in Doug's head. Just his voice, this time, not a chorus of voices, though it sounds more like it is arising from Doug's thoughts than being spoken externally. << There's always risks. It's different, though. Easier for them to kill people before we get there, or be ready for us and kill /us/, than to get people /back/ once they're out in the world. Still careful about who we let in, though. Always careful. We watch people closely. >> The /we/ there, this time, is not just plural-Hive, but the other telepaths in the group. Watching. Vetting. Hive doesn't /say/ this, but -- somehow he doesn't /need/ to. He thinks it and Doug knows it. The sudden inclusion to the collective consciousness forces Doug to close his eyes, his own mutant ability struggling to translate the sudden babble before it stills and Hive is discernible. << Holy crap. That was...wow. >> seems to be about all he can offer, at first. Then he opens his eyes, and nods at Hive. << I figured you guys had it under control, but I was curious about it. >> He blinks when the other telepaths chime in, his own natural curiosity threading his thoughts back after them briefly before he pulls them back to join the tumble of almost-questions that roll around his mindscape. << What's the plan, now? Just keep them here until they're healed up and the heat dies down? >> << shitshitshit, >> Hive doesn't so much say as /think/ and so Doug thinks it, too, a sudden reflexive stab of apology. The apology comes with a withdrawing, voices pulling back one by one to leave Hive's mental fingers slowly pulling themselves out of Doug's mind, too. Oddly it's a less pleasant process than the initial taking over, a painful tearing-away, a disorienting empty void left behind as Hive slides down off the dryer. << Sorry, fuck, >> this time comes with that same surreal chorus of pluralvoices, said distinctly /to/ Doug rather than from within Doug's own mind. << I didn't, shit, sorry. >> He's ignoring his laundry, hastening away towards the door. Doug winces, visibly at the tearing-away, and the sudden emptiness is enough to leave him sitting looking and feeling a bit shell-shocked. So, it's only after a moment that he's aware of Hive making his exit, and he comes to his feet. "No, wait," he says, stepping after Hive. "It's okay. I just wasn't prepared for it." His tone (and his thoughts) is placating, and his expression concerned as he follows. "Hive...." << We don't usually -- that's not a thing that -- fuck, >> Hive isn't looking at Doug, tense and stiff with his hand resting on the door. There's something /pressing/ at Doug's mind again, seeking, hungry. << Whatthefuck, it's not /okay/. >> comes with a quiet undercurrent feel of: are you crazy? << Most people freak the fuck out just /hearing/ about what we do you're pretty complacent learning about it /and/ getting your brain eaten all at once. >> Doug lifts his eyebrows. "Hive, in the last month, I have met people and learned things that I never heard about outside a science fiction novel. That was...just in line with everything." There's patience in his brain, although the emptiness lurches towards the pressure, as if attempting to rejoin. "And, yeah, it wasn't /pleasant/, but it's nothing to freak /out/ about. It's not like you were in there fucking shit up. You just..." he waggles his fingers near his temple "..latched on." He smiles, and reaches out to grasp Hive's shoulder lightly. "And I'd be a pretty shitty friend if I lost it on you because you were tired and lost control for a minute." He tilts his head. "To be honest, it was kind of neat, to someone whose power is language-based. It was a /whole new level/ of understanding and communication." He lifts his eyebrows. "But if you want me to scream at you about going into my head, I guess I can." He takes a deep breath, and there's amusement in his mind as he begins shouting. "WHAT the FUCK, Hive?! Don't you have any FUCKING MANNERS? Jesus!" He flaps his arms, and stomps around for a minute, before stopping. "Better?" Hive's control is clearly stretched thin; when Doug rises /towards/ the hungry pressure his mind is quick to bite back down, sinking sharp teeth quickly into the other man's thoughts. Gripping hard, with the same disorienting melding of voices, enveloping Doug's, taking over. Sinking back to the background. The shuddery breath Hive exhales with this sinking-in is slow, relieved, maybe, maybe almost pleasured. His shoulders sink, tension easing as his head drops forward to rest against the door. << No manners, >> rises in Doug's mind in Hive's voice, once again more like /Doug/ is thinking it than like he is being spoken to. His mental grip is harder, this time, fingers reaching -- gripping tight to Doug's mind, sinking in to rifle through thoughts with a casualness that seems less like prying and more like he belongs in this house. Searching through drawers, looking through cabinets. Making himself at home. << Better, >> arises unbidden as well, and this -- is /probably/ not actually an answer to Doug's question. Just a soft contented /sigh/. Doug does not fight the mental bite of Hive re-joining his mind. Instead, it's like a door opens, and the blonde lets Hive have it all, however fast he wants to discover it. He's doing his own exploring, touching those various voices before they're pushed back, and it's just the two of them again. << I'm glad, >> is a shared contentment, flooding back along the link with sudden warmth, coupled with the fall of Doug's hand on Hive's shoulder again. << Manners are over-rated, anyway. I'm a nice guy, and it doesn't do /shit/ for me. >> There's wry amusement that comes with that thought, smoky tendrils of mental laughter. << Personally, that is. So. >> He lifts his eyebrows, and inclines his head back towards the chairs with a wide grin. << C'mon back. We're good, and I am /not/ doing two hundred pounds of laundry for you. >> Hive's breaths come slowly, carefully. In. Out. In. Out. With each he is prying deeper, luxuriantly searching through Doug's mind. Poking at this memory of Micah here, that thought about Anwyn there. His parents. His life. He is standing /at/ the laundry room door -- currently closed, with Hive's head resting up against the door. At Doug's invitation back into the room he doesn't pull away, just relaxes further, lips parting slightly and his breaths slow and soft through his teeth. There are, slowly, /other/ minds trickling in to the din; it's not overt but it's there, noticeable, a quiet steady dripdripdrip growing of the background clutter. << We're rarely nice. But we manage fine anyway. >> There's an undercurrent to Hive's voice at the moment that's almost like a sigh, relishing, relaxing. Streeetching. << Don't think we'd know what it takes to be a Nice Guy anyway. >> Doug grins, releasing Hive's shoulder and moving towards the chairs. << No, you're definitely not a Nice Guy, >> he responds playfully, tweaking an image of Hive growling at him a few days before the raid. << But you're a /Good/ Guy, and that's more important. >> He lifts a shoulder. << All it takes to be nice is to not be a jerk. Being Good is a lot more complicated. >> The other voices get a pulse of curiosity, with an attempt to 'tune in' on one or two before he winces, and blinks. << That is...just amazing, Hive. Really. >> Enter Ryan, summoned via text or some alternate form of communication with supplies for the laundry endeavor. Large, round headphones covering his ears, music blaring, he looks to be coming from /outside/ through the lobby and into here. A plastic bag dangles from one hand, a bright orange box visible through the semi-transparent white. In his other hand, a cardboard cup-holder laden with two iced coffees from a local (non-commercial! organic! vegan(?)!) cafe. Total schmuck; he's not around to stay, and has arrived armed with BRIBERY. Hive is only now pulling away from the door, straightening to return instead to the chairs. He pulls one closer to Doug, settling down into it with a lazy drape, one leg hooked in towards himself and the other extended beneath Doug's chair. << Dunno about /Good/ either. I think it's all mostly grey. >> The other voices are many. Some familiar, like Flicker, pained but slowly recuperating bit by bit as Joshua gradually returns his acid-ravaged body to some semblance of health. Some not, like a woman passing by outside the building, on her way to meet her boyfriend for lunch. << Amazing. >> Hive says this with an undertone of laughter, wry. << That's one word for it. Not the one most people use. Not the one we use. >> His head turns, slowly, as Ryan enters, and the lazy stretch of his mind is almost reflexive to touch against the audiokinetic's. Touch and then /burrow/, mental fingers seeking purchase in Ryan's mind, a lot smoother in touch than his usual heavy bludgeoning. Smoother, too, is his quiet (almost guilty?) << Yo, >> it comes, sounding not like Hive's typical stabbing pain but like Hive's voice -- or, well, like /many/ voices in unison with Hive's buried among them. He's reaching a hand out. /Physical/ fingers grasping, too. For coffee. << Nah. You're good, >> Doug offers, scrunching his nose as Flicker's voice filters in, and sending a warm pulse of comfort back along that thread. << There's a bunch of people upstairs who'd back me up on that. Just because you do what you have to... >> he lifts a hand, glancing at the door when Ryan enters, the collective supplying the man's name as he lifts a hand in greeting. << Grey is a good way of putting it. But not a /dark/ grey. >> There's a crinkle of amusement at the mental laughter, and he lifts a shoulder. << I calls 'em likes I sees 'em. >> "Hey," he says to the newcomer, grinning widely. "You're Ryan, right? I'm Doug." << I will wait / I will wait / For you, >> drifts unconscious along a tendril of thought, a mindless echo of the lyrics playing through headphones as Ryan waggles his brows in greeting. Swinging the plastic bag, he tosses it over into Hive's lap in lieu of the beverage, grinning as he fishes in his pocket to dig out his iPod, pause his music, and pull his headphones down around his neck. "Yo. Nice to meet you." His grin is affable and friendly as he lays a hand on Hive's shoulder with a squeeze, pushing a drink in front of him. << Hey. Everything alright? >> The hand, the squeeze, comes with a deeper push of mental pressure. Hive's grasping fingers clamp down, worming their way deep into Ryan's brain with a rather /disorienting/ rush of presence. Many presences, clamoring chaotically before they are slowly filtered back to the background -- still /there/, minds still joined to Ryan's, but less overwhelming, now. The undercurrent of voices in Hive's mind grows by one. << Everything's great. >> Hive's voice now sounds in both Doug and Ryan's minds, arising less like an outside voice speaking in and seeming more like something they just /thought/ of themselves. But despite these words there's a subtle ripple beneath that is less great, a twisted wrench of emotions: << sick/wrong/monster/mindrape/fuckshitfuck >> is tangled together with a softer, hungrier: << more. >> Hive reaches for the coffee, and his thanks is more felt than heard. He's sorting, filtering the growing press of voices to isolate Ryan and Doug, shared thoughts between the three of them for easier conversation. << sing for me, >> is quiet, less a request and more a sudden hunger, teasing out that unconscious tendril of music and listening for more before the headphones come off. Hive sinks back into his chair in a slouch that pushes his leg more towards Doug. Doug nods at Ryan's greeting, lifting a hand and stifling whatever appreciative thought it is that flares quickly. "Same here. I've heard a bit about you, but we seem to just miss each other." He doesn't sound bothered by that, indeed, his mental landscape is clear and placid. Until he catches that ripple, and he purses his lips, pushing reassurance at Hive like a wall. Physically, he drops his hand to Hive's knee, mimicking Ryan's shoulder squeeze. There's worry starting to work its way in there, and there's another squeeze, accompanied by another wall of reassurance. Ryan blinks, << Woah, >> at the mental assimilation, eyes remaining closes a moment longer as he adjusts. Vocally, he remains upbeat, reflected in the general warmth his psionic presence exudes. He removes his own coffee from the cupholder, and tosses it in a nearby garbage bin for lint and stray trash found in pockets, retrieving two straws from his pocket and handing one to Hive. Sipping as though /all/ is well with an incorrigible good humor, on the mental plane there is a subtle vein of resistance to those appetitive urgings, though he does find himself checking his iPod to ensure it's powered off. "Yeah, it's tough being the breadwinner around here. Gotta support all these leeches." << Don't front like you don't love being a fucking rock star, >> murmurs up through the mental link, << it always comes with hangers-on. >> Hive eats up the reassurance, taking it, /absorbing/ it, letting it soothe away that twisted knot of reluctance. His lips quirk at the touch of hand to knee, his own hand dropping to rest fingers against Doug's. Lightly. And then pull away to pick up the coffee and drink deep. It's only when he encounters Ryan's resistance that that knot returns, sharp and guilty. The steady drip-drip-drip of aggregating minds tapers off, no new ones incoming though there's still quite a /crowd/ already there. << Fuuuuuck, >> he groans, and this sounds both dismayed and still yearning, over a whispered backdrop of feelings: << didn't mean to >> << didn't want to >> << /wanted/ to >> << fuckshitsorry >> and a rather /indulgent/, << you taste/feel goooood. >> There's a longer sucking sip of coffee. << Don't know how you missed him, >> is a return to Hive's usual snark, << I thought he'd worked his way through half the East Village by now. >> Doug doesn't immediately remove his hand, most likely because he's distracted by the many voices, his powers urging his mind to sift through the chaos and make sense of it. Which is like tossing pebbles down a well in the hopes it'll fill soon, for the untrained, and Doug blinks physically at the subdued enormity. He quirks a grin at Ryan, and lifts a shoulder. "Hey, someone's got to do it, right?" Hive's comment gets a snort of laughter that's echoed mentally. << Yeah. I went another direction, thanks, >> is his response, with a darkly guilty flash of a black-haired, very familiar-looking cop. There's a fair amount of embarassment and revulsion there, too, though mostly-healed. << And I'm still fairly new to the area, >> he adds, crinkling his eyes. << It takes time to get to know everyone. >> "No, some/people/ have to do it," Ryan shakes his head, grinning and running a hand through his hair, fluffing his bangs /just so/. His brows furrow, drawn together as he fights the thought-seeding, not without an indolent vision of fame that breaks through his resolve to Not Sing right then. To help, he inserts his straw into his mouth and practically inhales the milky brown liquid, diluted with copious amounts of soy creamer. Without break, he dismisses the attack and the apology altogether, choosing to address the resumption of snark instead, "What can I say, I'm a glutton for punishment. Always gotta be working something." He winks at Doug. Hive's response to the fighting is to push /back/, initially, mental teeth /sinking/ in deeper -- but then withdrawing. His shoulders duck guiltily. There is a jarring /wrench/ as he tears free of Ryan's mind, a temporary moment of disorienting empty-void sucking thoughts into blackness before things settle back into Ryan being singular again. << sorrysorrysorrysorry, >> is more a panic-stutter than actual speech, /felt/ by Doug and heard by Ryan as Hive shoves his chair back away from both of them. The sick-dull refrain of apology continues chorusing even underneath Hive's actual words: << If it's /punishment/ you're doing something very wrong. Or very right, I guess, >> comes with an indavertent mental image of Jax. On his knees, in a collar. << But I don't know what this kid, >> with a mental nod towards Doug, << is into. >> Doug /blinks/ as this struggles plays out, his eyebrows shooting up as Hive shoves back. << Easy, >> is immediate, pushed with more of that warm comfort. Like a big, mental quilt being wrapped /at/ Hive rather than around him. << Just breathe. >> Then he's blushing, the color creeping up into his scalp when Hive offers a mental image he was /not/ expecting, and then... << Oh, um. >> is a stutter of fluttery, wildly inappropriate thoughts, jumbled with a mixture of familiar faces -- Ryan, Jax, Micah, Eric...even Hive manages to tumble through. << Um. /Not/ punishment.>> And now his color is sort of a maroon color as he ducks his head, embarrassment rolling off of him. << Shit. >> Ryan /persists/ with the mental blocking without commentary; it's a silent battle that refuses to call upon any incipient guilt as a catalyst for withdrawal. He squints again when released from the mental deprivation, shaking his head to re-orient himself in the non-telepathic physical realm. Following the new train of images Hive pops into their heads, he gives an appraising look at Doug, promptly bursting out with laughter at his abashment. "Don't sweat it man, everyone pictures me naked. And my friends are a good looking bunch. You don't think I'd let a bunch of worthless uglies mooch off me, huh?" Yep, he's shameless, look at the charming smile he flashes. << We are pretty fucking sexy, >> Hive agrees wryly. He doesn't /help/ those inappropriate thoughts, his own thoughts pressing up against them, teasing them out into more vivid color, more out of reflex than interest. Luxuriating in Doug's mind like his own private playground. << Yeah, pain's not for everyone. But Ryan plays nice, too. >> Oh, man. Doug's mind is not prepared for the skilled teasing of his more inappropriate thoughts, and he shifts his weight, folding his hands in his lap. They are...very vivid. And in hypercolor and surroundsound. And none of the colors in them matches the color that is Doug's face. << Yeah, I noticed that. It's like the building of Hot People. >> is a sort of weak response, his eyes flicking between the two men with another wash of XXX action shots that get squashed as flat as Hive will let them. There's no point in denying Ryan's assurance, so he gives a mortified little shrug and a weak smile. << Nice is good, >> is /barely/ audible in the mindscape. << Preferable. >> Thank God! The washers with Doug's clothes buzz and he fairly leaps up to move to the machines, busying himself. Wow. Wet clothes are interesting, aren't they? Ryan sips his iced coffee infinitely amused, hiding his smirk behind his straw. "Pretty sure you almost made the kid explode," he whispers once Doug peels away to shift his load of clothes into the dryer. Which brings his attention to the reason for coming to the laundry room at all, as he glances down at the bag with the fabric softener sheets. "Shouldn't you be finishing up with laundry too? We have an army to clothe. And I snuck my favorite hoodie in there." << We should be a lot of things, >> Hive agrees, and this comes with a sort of jumble of -- /things/. Jobhunting. Eating lunch. Grocery shopping. Going to the bank. A lot of things that are not /his/ things. Laundry is buried in there somewhere, and takes a while to tease to the forefront, /Hive/ submerged somewhat lost in a press of otherminds. << Right, >> he agrees, finally. << Right, right. Doug. You should come to the annual Village Lofts orgy. >> He's grabbing the fabric softener out of the bag, pulling a roll of quarters out of his pocket. << He's not as fun as Jax, >> he admits, and it /should/ just be to Ryan but with Doug riding along it is kind of to both of them, << just mention holding freaking hands and the whole /room/ turns red. Start talking about whips and you might as well have killed him with blush. >> It takes a little while for him to pull himself out of his chair, like remembering how to /move/ takes a bit of effort. Doug's head whips around at Hive's suggestion, the fading color flooding back into his face, making his confused expression seem almost hopeful. << Really? >> is dubious, at best, floated out towards Hive, then Ryan with skeptic shades. << I missed that flyer, >> he thinks, motioning at the board. Mention of Jax spurs first a pang of jealousy, then more of those highly inappropriate images when whips are mentioned. Which only brings the color bright as he struggles to wrestle with hormone-and-Hive-driven thoughts and get them into something respectable. Ryan raises his brow as Hive sorts through his collective catalogue of chores, craning his neck from side to side until it cracks. "S'cause it's an underground movement." Like so many activities by the Village Lofts denizens, as he watches the flustered Doug from afar. << Oh, I know. Jax throws the most adorable shade of pink on the walls. Think I almost gave him a heart attack once. He was catatonic for a good ten minutes. >> Ryan is there to help! He pulls Hive up to his feet and guide-walks him over to the idle machines, finishing off the last of his coffee with annoying slurp sounds. Hive starts moving when Ryan /reminds/ him to start moving, the contact coming with a press of mental pressure that pulls back apologetically almost as soon as it touches. The physical contact does, at least, remind him where his physical /body/ is, and he manages successfully to transfer his laundry over. With dryer sheets! And start the /rest/ of the large hampers-full in the washers. It eats through a good deal of his remaining quarters. Through this process he is /leaning/, slightly, into Ryan's touch, using this grounding contact to carefully sort through the minds he holds. Find his /own/. Keep the others separate from him. Separate from each other. "There's no orgy," he tells Doug regretfully, a mental nudge tamping down Doug's inappropriate thoughts back to Respectable. Despite the fact that silently, he adds to Ryan: << You should see how often /you/ feature in his dreams. >> It might be true. It might not be! WHO KNOWS. Well, Hive almost certainly does. "There is a roofparty, though. First day of spring." His voice is kind of rough-hoarse, like he has a hard time remembering how to use it. Like he hasn't been using it much lately. Doug's color is finally returning to normal, with the aid of Hive, and he inhales deeply, exhaling a contented, finally-comfortable sigh. "That's good," he says, offering a weak grin over his shoulders. "I never know what to wear to those things, anyway. I guess stuff that's easy to take off." He scrunches his nose, shoving quarters in the dryer and punching the button. "The roof party sounds awesome, though. First day of Spring...that's next month, right?" He furrows his brow, pulling up a mental calendar and flipping through it. He doesn't really know what he's looking for, though, his thoughts heading more towards Easter. Ryan with initial reluctance dissolving (he originally intended to drop by!), remains beside Hive, serving as his anchor and lightening the burden of transferring clothes over to the dryer. He even digs up an anticipated roll of quarters from his pocket and entrusts it to the telepath. "Why would you wear anything to an orgy? A trenchcoat and a rubber's all you need, really." Pause, then, with a mischievous grin, "Besides, just because it's not an orgy, doesn't mean there won't be *nudity*. C'mon, man, you have to get as close to nature as possible in this stinking city." "There is Jax's roof garden if you want to get all hippie-nudist about it," Hive says seriously. Or /everyone's/ roof garden, really, just some people are more diligent about tending it. "It's this month. The twentieth." This is what he says out loud; through his shared mental link with Doug the knowledge surfaces in tandem with this thought: day before the twins' birthday. Good time for a party, those kids probably need one. "Trenchcoat, c'mon, man, even you're not /that/ skeevy." There's a moment where he leans more heavily into Ryan's touch, before he trusts himself enough to pull away. The mental link shivers, briefly clouding as Hive starts to slip back beneath the other press of minds, but with a determined effort he pulls himself back to the forefront. "S'gonna be a dress code anyway. Roaring twenties. We'll have a rooftop speakeasy. Flicker's bringing the bootleg liquor." This joke is probably for Ryan, more closely familiar with the teleporter, but once again the mental bridge fills in the missing: << fucking Mormon teetotaller, >> for Doug. "We -- I -- we -- I should go get, I was supposed to get groceries." Again. A near daily chore these days. "I should be able to get there and back before this shit all finishes." Doug wrinkles his nose as he returns to his chair, picking up his textbook and hefting it a bit as he speaks. "Ew. Trenchcoats are old-school pervy," he says, and it may or may not be because of Hive's input, but his own thoughts are very much in line with that. "Plus, what happens if it's windy and you get caught in an updraft?" Which is a fairly amusing mental image of Ryan all Marilyn Monroe, suddenly, in a 40s-style trenchcoat. "This month," he echoes, when Hive supplies that information, and rubs at his nose. "Roaring 20s? Holy fuck." There's a flash of a fund-raiser, about a year or so ago, with a similar theme, and a silk suit very much in the appropriate cut that he honestly thought he would never wear again. "I think I can swing that." He waggles a finger in the air. "Or, y'know, 23 skiddoo or whatever. Ha cha." Crap. The twins' birthday. Should at least get them a card. He nods as Hive turns apologetic, and waves a hand. "Go. I'll watch this stuff until you get back." He's got nothing else going on, today, as they both know now. "But I don't fluff and fold, so shake a leg." "I'll be all Gatsby'd up, so look out," Ryan shoots Doug yet another grin; some might interpret it as seductive. For the empath, it's innate. He rolls his eyes at Hive. He remains still to bolster Hive as need, supportive in more ways than one, such as, "Ugh. /Back/ to the grocery store? Bastard. You should have sent me the list when I went for fabric softener." Grunting, he slings his arm around the telepath in a show of camaraderie. "Flicker's a boozehound, he always brings the best shit to the party," he muses, feeding into the joke as he nudges Hive towards the door. "Thanks man. We won't be long. With all the grocery runs as of late, it's like we live there. I've got the aisles memorized." He taps his temple. "If it's windy and he gets caught in an updraft, there'll be paparazzi waiting to plaster his junk all /over/ the tabloids the next day," Hive says. Heading for the door, half leaning into Ryan and half dragging him along. In some sense dragging Doug along, too, given the continued mental link. But his /physical/ presence is departing. For a food run. One of maaaany. If Ryan's lucky, he /might/ even pay!