ArchivedLogs:Break

From X-Men: rEvolution
Break
Dramatis Personae

Jackson, Micah, Hive

23 August 2013


Hive drops by. Life is what it is.

Location

<NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village


This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within.

It's getting late on Friday night, and Jax /should/ be getting ready for work. He's sort of halfway there, silver-dusted black jeans, a black tank top embroidered with a pair of red cherries on the chest. He's stopped in the course of make-up application, though, to check in on Spencer getting ready for bed. This elicits only a deep frown, a stop to check the loft instead, and then the remains of the couchfort in the living room. "-- Micah-honey, did Spence slip out next door 'stead'a bed?" He sounds -- slightly harried. Slightly weary. Spencer-disappearances are not an /infrequent/ occurrence.

Micah is /inside/ the remains of the couch fort, curled up with his laptop. He pops his tousled auburn head up from the pile of sheets and cushions prairie dog style, peeking around. “Well, if he did, he did it the /poof/ way an' not the sneaky way,” comes the less than helpful reply as he clambers out of the clothpile. He is apparently in for the night, because pajama o'clock has already come, leaving him dressed in a solid blue T-shirt and a pair of pajama pants decorated with dozens of tiny, tumbling TARDIS-es. “You want I should pop next door an' see? Might could be he went up t'play with the ferret again, too.”

<< Fell asleep on Daiki's lap, >> comes the answer, habitually gruff even though it's /quiet/, of late, whisper-soft in its chorus of echoes. Outside the door there's a rattle of keys, for a moment, but then it quiets. And there's a knock. Three quick raps. Outside, Hive is shabby as ever, faded jeans fraying at the bottoms, a t-shirt reading 'Resistance is futile (if < 1 ohm)'. He shoves his hands back into his pockets after knocking, frowning uncomfortably at the door.

"Oh -- oh." Jackson exhales, quiet and relieved, almost reflexively turning to duck back towards the bathroom at this assurance before he realizes where it has /come/ from. He freezes, scuffing a hand across his head and glancing upwards towards the /ceiling/ with a mental thanks before he hears the keys at his door. Looking towards it expectantly, it fades into a frown of confusion when the door does not /open/. He slips over to open it for Hive, stepping back to gesture the other man in. "Y'got a key, honey-honey." It's sort of puzzled.

“Hm. I'll slip over an' scoop 'im up in a bit. Unless Daiki's keen on bein' a Spence-pillow for the rest of the night,” Micah replies mostly to Jax, since Hive is still outside. He moves closer to the door as Jax opens it. “Hi, Hive. Y'want a drink or anythin'?” he inquires with a lazy waving gesture in the direction of the kitchen. As that place with the drinks and things.

"I want." Hive steps into the apartment, but no further, hands still in pockets and his shoulders hunched. "All the fucking drinks. Hey." His brows are creased, eyes slanting between the other two. "Still a goddamn couch -- thing." Now he is glaring at the couch fort with some measure of reproach. "Were you sleeping in there?"

He lifts a shoulder jerkily. "I have a key. I didn't want to -- interrupt. Am I -- is this a good -- fuck it. Shit. Good time." Maybe this is a question. He's mostly still just glaring at the couch.

"That was -- a lotta nothin' you just said, honey-honey, y'want to maybe finish a sentence for the not-telepaths here?" Jackson closes the door behind Hive, fingertips resting at the small of Hive's back as he guides him further inside. "Y'ain't interruptin'. Was just doin' nightly Spence-roundup. Daiki can be a pillow a bit more. Are you --" He doesn't finish this with 'okay'; he almost does, but there's a reconsidering second-thought that answers for him: of course not. How long has it been since he's been okay.

Instead his hand just rests more heavily against Hive's back. "What's up?"

"Well, we got drinks, but I dunno about /all/ of 'em. An' if y'mean /drink/-drinks, I'm not even sure...might be a bottle of cider hidin' in the fridge." Micah slips into the kitchen to search the refrigerator for drink options. "The couch fort has collapsed in on itself /so/ much. Couldn't take /all/ of it away at once. Prob'ly clear up the last bit by the end of the weekend. Just leave enough of a Spence-sized fort in the meantime. An' /no/ not sleepin' in it. Maybe workin'. A little." His voice becomes muffled by the end of this with digging around items on the shelves. "Not interruptin'! I was doin' some work stuff that could do t'be interrupted now an' then. Jax's just gettin' ready for /his/ work stuff. Time for Spence t'be in bed. Nothin' as can't handle another body bein' around."

"I'd sleep in a couch fort. If we had enough shit upstairs to make one." Hive finally withdraws a hand from his pocket, scuffing it in a familiar path along the side of his head. "Sorry. No. Not -- staying long. I just." He shifts restless for a moment, and then settles back down into habitual slump, leaning slightly against Jax's hand. "Just came -- fuck. I'm just." His teeth grind. "-- Fucking sorry," he finally grumbles. "Look everything is just bullshit, right? And I just wanted it to not -- I shouldn't have -- Jesus Christ. Sorry."

The confusion in Jackson's mind only grows, at first, at Hive's apology, bit it's soon followed instead by a shiver of guilt. His fingers press harder to Hive's back. "Sometimes I think we should keep actual alcohol around," he admits wryly to Micah, though he -- admittedly drinks it rarely if ever. "You ain't interruptin' us. An' you don't gotta -- Hive, that -- we --" His hand drops away; he moves aside to lean back against the couch, knuckles scrubbing into his eyes. "I'm sorry, too. You been runnin' yourself so ragged for so long and I ain't been --" His eyes skip over Hive, then lower the the ground. << /Everything's/ not bullshit. >> His objection is quiet, followed up by: << ... but I've heaped a lot of it on you. >>

"... It's alright t'want a break. Need a break. Be kinda worrying if you never did."

“You guys got a /couch/. Which is the only requirement. But also sheets an' pillows. I've seen 'em. Totally could couch fort--aha!” Micah emerges from the refrigerator with a lonely bottle of cider that had been all but forgotten at the back of the fridge. “Think this's been just sittin' in there since some party or other,” he explains as he pops the top, walking back out to the pair and handing Hive the bottle, whether he's planning on leaving soon or not. “Breaks is nice. I mean...that was the whole instigation of the epic couch fort party. Well, at least the couch fort part of it.” He takes a few steps into the living room once more, leaning himself against the back of the couch.

"We have -- the sheets that are on the actual beds. Not really spares." Hive takes the bottle of cider with a small twitch of lips. It's not really a smile but it comes with a silent press of << thanks >> regardless. But after this he just shakes his head, stepping back. "And when the fuck do you take a break." It's not even a question and it's not even angry; it's flat and lifeless-dull, Hive's head shaking as he turns for the door. "We don't get breaks. S'just this until we fucking die. Which." Now there /is/ a smile, a sharp thin sliver of one that Hive offers both the others before he pulls the front door open. "Will probably be sooner rather than later. Fuck else are any of us going to do, though." He lifts the bottle of cider to the others in salute, and pulls the door heavily shut behind him.

Jackson is silent as Hive leaves, not much there to read in his quiet expression, eye fixed on the door for a while. << -- Probably, >> he can't help but agree, but after this even his mind is largely quiet, rather /consciously/ so, focusing deliberately on steady breathing and inward focus in some small attempt at mental obfuscation that, past its muted surface layer, is more out of not wanting to /inflict/ his thoughts on Hive than out of any personal desire for privacy, at the moment. His palms press back against the couch, fingers squeezing down slowly until his nailbeds turn white.

And then suddenly not white, red dusted with a faint veneer of glittery silver, instead. There's red dusted fainter over his eye, black liner sweeping outward into distinct points, shimmer on his lips, his scars vanishing into vibrant whole tattoos with /just/ a hint of shimmer to them, too. His eye is still fixed on the door, though, at least until he turns to Micah with a sudden quick -- /smile/, to go with his new application of cheerful colour. "-- He took the last cider, didn't he."

“We got more spares'n anybody could use, between rescue efforts. If you're ever in a couchfortin' mood,” Micah reminds. He manages to fit in a little wave before Hive has hurried himself out the door. “An', yeah, that was the only one we had. Sure I could find you another one over Ryan's on the way to or from pickin' up Spence, no problem, though.” Shifting himself just slightly, he comes up behind Jax, wrapping arms around the other man's torso in a hug. “People are gonna get a little exhausted with all of this. S'normal. Even for you', hon.” He adds a light kiss on the cheek. “So. One cider an' one sleepy kiddo, comin' up.” Micah will move soon to achieve these objectives. Honest.

Jackson rests his hands over Micah's arms, instead of the couch, fingers feverish-warm as they curl in against Micah's wrists. "I ain't -- a little exhausted, Micah, it's --" He looks towards the door again, but then just squeezes Micah's arms tighter, leaning back into the embrace.

Just for one brief indulgent moment, at least, and then he straightens. He turns his head to return the kiss, soft against Micah's jaw. His habitual warmth is in his smile though as he pulls slightly away the air around him shivers with a brief unsteady flicker of light. "Naw, s'alright, honey-honey. I gotta get to work nohow. I don't hardly never drink anyway, right before shift prob'ly ain't the best idea to be dabbling." He pats lightly at Micah's arm, and lets his hands fall away. "-- I love you, honey-honey."

"I know, hon, I know." Micah curls his arms in tighter, rocking Jax ever-so-slighlty with the movement. The heat doesn't seem to bother him any. His fingertips trace from the angle of Jax's chin, along his jaw, gently down the prominent neck muscle to his collarbone. "Ain't like one cider's gonna make much of a difference, 'specially considerin' where you're workin'. But it's up t'you, as always." The fingertips continue their trail along Jax's sternum before lifting away. "I love you too, hon." His weight shifts forward and up onto tiptoes to allow another kiss to find Jax's forehead. "Okay. Kiddo delivery service. Definitely goin' this time," he adds with a smile, actually making his way out the door as promised.

"True enough. The number'a drinks folks try to /buy/ me any night I'm at work is --" Jackson laughs quietly, head shaking as he turns to give Micah one last squeeze. "Right. You're branchin' out. Orthotics /an'/ deliverin' children. Guess that could be a specialty niche for -- particularly violent births." The smile lingers until Micah has left, fading then sharply. His hand comes up once the door has closed to press his palm hard to his eye, his breath shaky when he draws it in. Not for very /long/ though, before he has found his smile again. He has a night of bartending ahead, after all. He will need to be wearing it for a /while/.