ArchivedLogs:Cages
| Cages | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2014-12-23 Shortly after Mel & Micah visit. |
| Location
<NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side | |
There's an open airy feel to the floorplan of this unit. The door opens up into a wide expanse of common space that is not so much divided up into rooms as it is simply multipurposed. Ash-grey resin flooring underfoot runs up against the paler grey of the exposed stone in the walls; between the stone support there are wide floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the river on one side of the home and the Commons' central yard on the other. Half of the space has a ceiling at one-floor height, though half of the space is left open with a balcony up on the second floor overlooking the living space below. A slatted stairway heads up to the second floor balcony; on the other side of the room, a fireman's pole running straight down the the basement provides a quicker way /down/. The wide open space here is combination living and dining room; near the windows there are a pair of couches and large armchair around a wide coffeetable; further off a steel-and-glass dining table is surrounded by eight tall black chairs. A full bathroom behind the stairway is done up in dark granite; the glass-doored bathtub/shower is rather expansively large. It's well after dark by the time Flicker returns home. A little bit damper, a little bit more exhausted. /That/ can be felt in the dragging-slow pull of his mind, the heavy tug of worry and stress it brings with it when he pops into the entryway to shuck damp jacket and boots. His fingers scrub through also-damp hair, eyes shifting automatically to the couch where he last left Hive. << You awake? >> rises softly in his mind before he can actually /see/ though couch, though he's /there/ a moment later, touching down lightly to the floor in socked-feet. Hive hasn't moved. Still where he was, sunk deeper into the ballpit. His movie has finished, the screen returned to a default browsing-Amazon-Prime splash. His IV has finished, its alarm thankfully switched to silent but a notification on the screen that it is done. Someone has clearly been here, though; there's a thermos of coffee untouched on the table nearby, and a small green flowerchild tucked asleep against Hive's chest in the ballpit. Hive might almost be sleeping, quiet and still where he cradles Tola on the couch. The trails of wet glistening on his cheeks belie this impression, though, still slowly trickling from closed eyes. Flicker stoops by the ballpit, mechanical arm resting against its barrier with a thunk. His other hand reaches out, thumb brushing gently down one of Hive's cheeks. Leaning over the barrier, he presses lips to the other cheek lightly. Then moves to turn off the IV drip, lifting Hive's hand out of the pit so that he can remove the catheter from it. << Is Mel here? >> Telepath-roommate means less concern about waking sleeping babies. Hive's cheek presses into Flicker's touch, his breathing soft and unsteady. He grimaces at the removal of the IV, though doesn't actually protest this. His head gives a small shake, his other hand moving gently in small circles against Tola's back. His mind thuds heavy-painful up against Flicker's with an unhappy twisting jumble of feelings. A sick wrench of guilt, a chaotic-spinning instability, something deep and hollow and empty clawing up at him like so many chomping-mindless mouths. << Sent them off, >> overlaps with a deeper more wordless second-layer feeling: << (drove) (them off). >> But, clearer once more: << You were -- going to. Go. You -- were. You had to... >> he trails off here, too, a little fumbly like he can't quite /remember/. Flicker sucks in at his cheeks as he drapes the IV line back over its stand. Sticks a small bandage on the back of Hive's hand. << I couldn't bring him home. They're keeping him. >> It comes with unhappy surfacing images, Dusk in handcuffs being led back away somewhere into the bowels of a police station. << He's been in violation of his probation -- it's not like it's even /possible/ for him to fulfill those terms but. It's still going to need to wait for a judge to -- who knows when /that/ will happen with the holidays. >> Grim, unhappy. /Great/. Another holiday season with everyone locked up. He's trying hard not to think of last year, and thinking of it pretty hard anyway. His fingers curl around Hive's hand, squeezing gently once he's free of medical leashing. << You're going through a lot. I'm sure they'll ... >> This breaks off, too. /Feels/ hollow even as he starts to think it: Of /course/ they won't understand. It's not like anyone's /told/ them. It's not like anyone has a framework for comparison even if they knew. His forehead rests against Hive's knuckles. "Tola still likes you." His mouth has curled into a wry smile with these teasing words. "Too young to have discerning tastes." Hive hisses, sharp and -- half a laugh. Half a gasp. His hand rubs at Tola's back again, gentle, a little concerned the sharp-noise might wake her. The next /thud/ of his mind up against Flicker's is just a little more abrasive. Jostling-punch. But it settles there afterwards, leaning, resting. Prodding uncomfortably at the mental image of Dusk-in-chains. << Doesn't do well in cages. >> His fingers curl tighter in Flicker's. << They'll appeal? >> His breath is a little more ragged-rough at the thoughts of this time last year. << I told Micah and Mel. We're making it a -- tradition. >> "Oh. Good. You told them." Flicker's cheek rests against Hive's knuckles. His mind doesn't tense at the blow so much as roll with it, shudder back, /loosen/ in sharp contrast to where most people's would jar. Habitually relax to /ease/ the long-familiar jarring mental process that -- doesn't follow. (Something in him kind of aches for it to follow.) << They'll appeal. >> His eyes have focused down on Tola. "Can't we have a better one? Maybe something with cake. Sparklers? I'm burnt out on cages, honestly. That was totally last year." << Yeah, I -- >> Hive's mind fuzzes out into blurry uncertainty. His head shakes, eyes fixing on Flicker's and his fingers twining through the other man's. "Tradition," he mumbles, aloud. The clench of his mind around Flicker's is harder, tighter. But doesn't sink in, doesn't /hold/ like it used to. Just grasps and grasps and -- His breath rushes out, sharp. "I'm burnt out on them, too. But I don't --" His eyes close, the mental image here, now, one of the Commons, the city, the /world/, all of it rendered in concrete-and-metal prison-starkness. Thick walls, institution-bland colors, heavy bars blocking a clear view of the sky the globe over. His head shakes again, forehead tipping forward to rest against Flicker's as the images just blur, and fade into blankness. | |
