ArchivedLogs:Cleaning Up

Cleaning Up
Serious Talks
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah, Lucien
In Absentia	7 April 2013 Jax and Micah go to remove Jax's arting from Lucien's wall. Serious Talks happen.
Location <NYC> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. Hello Lucien's house! You are acquiring +1 Jackson. Also some other things. A bucket filled with scrubbers and cleaning supplies. A giant trash bag, who knows what /that/ is filled with. A Micah. He's like a /bonus/. Jax is fidgety-nervous as he rings Lucien's doorbell. He is fidgeting, frowning at the door. He is pretty much as colourful as he usually is, though, dressed down today he looks somewhat more /normal/. His faded blue jeans are liberally splattered with paint, and his pink t-shirt reads 'I'm one of the bravest girls alive.' His hair is bright pink, streaked with black, and he is largely sans makeup, save for silvery eyeliner around his eye. Also fidgeting! He's doing a lot of that. "-- You ever been here?" he asks Micah, quiet under his breath. "This neighborhood seems kinda, um. Posh-like." Micah is in patched jeans and a plain white T-shirt under a long-sleeved, button-down green flannel shirt. He has also acquired a bucket filled with a stiff brush and a couple pairs of rubber gloves. He has a container of what claims to be graffiti remover that is also water-based and biodegradable…so who knows what /is/ in it. There was this nice older gentleman at the home goods store who recommended it… “I…have never been in this neighbourhood, no. What made y’come over here to start with?” Micah looks slightly intimidated by the surroundings. The door opens. Eventually. Lucien doesn't seem like he was in much hurry to open it. He's a little bit less casual -- /little/ bit. Jeans, neater than the other two pairs in tailored dark denim, and a pale green button-down. "Jackson. Micah." He looks over them with a slight frown. Over their clothing. Down at their shoes. He is not wearing any. His floors are rather spotless. His lips press together, and after a moment he waves them inside. The house smells like baking. Warm and banana-y. There is classical music playing, softly, violin strains that spill out into the world when Lucien opens the door. "I see you came prepared." "It ain't so /far/ it's just -- different. I don't know why I come here, s'just -- I like making places more cheery," Jackson says, sheepishly. "I just wanted to --" He flushes immediately when the door opens, standing up straighter. Not that he really slouches to /begin/ with. "I, we, hi! Yeah. I mean yes. I mean we got work to do so we -- came to -- do work." He steps inside but doesn't go any further than the entryway, his eye wide as he sloooowly toes off one shoe and then the other, mostly just -- looking around. "/Wow/. You got a nice -- wow. Um. Sorry. Your place is real gorgeous." “Ain’t physical distance so much as…yeah.” Micah flashes a smile in greeting when Lucien opens the door. “Hiya, Lucien! ‘Course we did. Can’t do a job without proper /tools/, y’know. First step’s all in the prep.” He shakes the bucket a bit, goods rattling inside pleasantly, then also begins the shoe removal process. "I am glad it meets with your approval." Lucien sounds sort of bland-dry, closing the door behind them. Locking it. He gestures them further inside, through the living room and towards the kitchen. "A pair of Boy Scouts, then. Mm. I suppose I do always take care to go to work prepared. What," his head is turning to eye Jax's trash bag, "is that.” Jax lines up his shoes neatly by the wall, somewhat slow as he follows after Lucien. "-- I was an Eagle Scout," he acknowledges, blushing again. And still sort of /ogling/ the house. The books, especially, hesitating in the living room to let his gaze drift over the shelves almost hungrily before he hurries along to catch up. His smile brightens wide at the question, and he lifts the bag. "Oh! Oh, s'candy. Sweets. Cuz I -- I mean like I totally mussed your wall but maybe it's like a sorry? In sugar." Micah rests his shoes up against Jax’s, trailing along after the other men. “Scouts didn’t want me!” He chirps, almost too cheerfully. “Wait…Jax. That /whole bag/ is full of candy? Isn’t that sorta overkill?” He is giving the bag an incredulous look. "Were you. That doesn't surprise me." Lucien's eyebrows quirk up at Micah. "What axis of bigotry did they get you on?" He also stops to /eye/ the bag. Somewhat incredulously. "Candy." It's flat. A little bemused. "That /entire thing/ is candy." "Was, 'fore the whole gay thing an' they wouldn't let me help out at my troop no more." Jackson stops to glance at Micah and his too-cheerful tone, pausing to bump his shoulder lightly against Micah's. "Whole thing is candy!" he agrees cheerfully. "For you." “Hrm…it’s a little bit hard to say between the ‘kid frequently in wheelchair’ thing and the ohgosh I’ve kind of been out since before I knew what out was. Listed reason was that they didn’t have appropriate accommodations.” Micah shrugs and playfully bumps-back at Jax. “That…is a lot of candy.” Thanks, Captain Obvious! "Appropriate accommodations. I feel like there is a law about that." Lucien is still eying the candy. He takes it from Jax gingerly, peeking inside. His lips thin. Yep. Candy. "Ah --" Still gingerly, he puts it aside against a counter. "If Sera explodes from the sugar high, I am blaming you." He heads for the door, unlocking it to lead them out into the garden outside. Still barefoot. At least it's /warm/ out. "Yeah, um, wow. I mean I knowed they was kinda dicks but that's kinda dick. -- Man, though, out in rural Virginia, that had t'be fun." Jackson follows Lucien out -- at least as far as the doorway. Much like when he entered the house, Jackson is wide-eyed as they head out. Wider, maybe. "-- oh!" It's startled, almost involuntary, as he looks around. "Oh, wow. Lucien -- oh. Wow. This -- wow." He steps into the grass. Scrunches his toes down against it. "-- Is /everything/ about you beautiful?" “Eh…they’re kinda allowed to accept or not whoever they want, bein’ a club? It’s how they get to say, like, no women and no gays. And there are laws for employers and such, yeah. Most of those have only been since 1990 anyhow. Things are slow.” Micah shrugs again. So much shrugging today! “People often have to fight to make sure these things are enforced, too, which is a personal choice itself.” He takes a moment to gawk at the garden. “This /is/ pretty ‘wow’, I’d say.” "A personal choice," Lucien echoes. "Indeed. And on some level it seems one that -- well. Exerting a lot of effort to stay in a club that does not want you; there are so many better uses of energy." He watches Jax's face, watches Micah's; his lips twitch upwards, smile amused when Jax speaks. "Everything? You flatter me. Come. You have work to do." He's heading across the garden, skirting the vegetable bed to head to the far door, a heavy thick one that leads out to the city. "My sister wanted to be a Boy Scout. For a day or two. Her whims do not usually last long." "I wanted to be a Girl Scout," Jackson admits, with another blush. "But." He shrugs. Follows after Lucien, his bucket bumping against his leg. "Um, can we fill -- can I get water --" He's glancing around the garden. Hopeful. "1990 is a whole lifetime ago. -- But, um." His nose wrinkles. "I guess that ain't actually long. I can only imagine a lotta places still got a whole lot of work to do 'fore they're -- /actually/ accessible." His brows furrow at this, thoughtful. "-- Not flatterin'," he adds, quieter, "only just the truth." Micah grins at Jax’s scouting preferences. “The Girl Scouts do a lot more bakin’, s’true.” He tromps along behind the others. “And, yeah, it’s still rough. Don’t miss tryin’ to fit a chair into things at all. An’ I never had the kind of adult-sized power chair numbers some of m’friends still deal with. ‘Oh, the elevator is broken today’ is a /big deal/, for example. But! I am actually lookin’ forward to seein’ this mural.” "It is very colourful." Lucien's lips /thin/ at this. He unlocks the door and /shoves/ at it with a shoulder to get it to creak its way open. "Matt would enjoy it. -- It has occasionally been a trial navigating the city with his chair. And his is not even bulky." He's frowning. Maybe at the mural. Maybe at the thought of Matt. "How's -- how's he doing?" Jackson looks Lucien over for a long moment. He is passing by, slipping out the door, though he's careful once he steps out into the city, moving from grass to concrete. He holds the bucket against his knees, ignoring the mural for a moment to study Lucien. (It /is/ a ridiculously colourful mural, though. Vivid-bright and somewhat whimsical in style, a host of plantlife and oversized bugs that turn the wall into -- well, perhaps an extension of garden. Albeit one full of /odd/ flowers.) Micah nods, having been about to ask into Matt’s welfare when Jax beat him to it. “Yeah, I haven’t seen him in a /minute/…” He sets his bucket and jug down on the sidewalk, head tilting in a birdlike fashion as he inspects the mural. “Oh, Jax, this is amazing! It’s like…a grand scale Dr. Seuss book or somethin’. You sure y’want to take this down?” This last is directed to Lucien with a tentative sort of sidelong glance. Lucien quiets, at the mention of his brother, leaning slightly against the wall beside its bright painting. "He has been in the hospital. It was meant to be a week and has edged past three." His eyes have narrowed on the mural, now, looking hard at it and not at Jackson. "Your style is quite distinctive," he says, critically. "I found some of your work online. Even some reviews. You have quite an eye for colour. Though I admit at times I'm not sure if I am looking at dreams or nightmares. Still. It is highly -- recognizable." "Sometimes it's mebbe both," Jackson says, a little wryly. "But, um -- thanks --?" He doesn't sound /entirely/ sure what to make of this critique, although Micah's enthusiasm draws a warm smile from him. But it fades into a puzzled expression. "I mean, I guess it's -- if you're into art, it -- oh." He frowns, and glances one way and then the other up and down the houses in this neighborhood. "Recognizable." His shoulders sink, just slightly, head tipping in a nod. "We've missed him at game night. -- three weeks? Is he --" His teeth sink down against his lip, and he rocks forward a step towards Lucien before /catching/ himself to /ask/ instead, meekly: "-- 'kai give you a hug?" Worry lines show across Micah’s brow as Lucien mentions the unexpected extension of hospital time. “Have the docs been able to get a better idea of what to expect?” he asks, tentative again. Not to pry at Lucien, but…Matt’s a friend. He just watches Jax and Lucien after Jax’s question. "Before this," Lucien says, almost lightly; he's still looking at the mural, "they expected he would be dead by now, or close to it. Now --" He stops. Focuses on one of the bright firework-flowers. "The cancer has stopped growing. But it is not being fought as they hoped. He will likely be starting another round of chemo soon." Lucien sounds carefully neutral with all of this. "He misses game night." The question draws his attention away from the wall. He does not answer this question. His eyebrows hike upwards, lips pressing together, and his eyes narrow faintly on Jax. He is silent a long moment. Just /eying/ the photokinetic. He steps back towards the door. "I have food inside, if you get hungry. If you are diligent you can finish before dinner, I am sure." Jackson's head ducks, slightly, at the /look/ Lucien gives him. Nose wrinkling, he edges back towards the wall. On the /other/ side of Micah. Like maybe Micah is a /buffer/ between him and Lucien's eying. "That's -- but if it's stopped and -- that's hopeful, right?" he asks, cautiously. He sets his bucket down by the wall. "I'm the /most/ diligent, you have no idea." His eye lights, suddenly. "-- We should bring game night to him. He can have visitors, right?" Micah blushes, a trace of pink, at being used as Lucien-look-buffer. “That sounds like a positive, if exhaustin’, development.” He nods at Jax’s suggestion. “Should at least stop by some time. Most hospitals will limit numbers of people and time and such.” There is another nod at Lucien’s food offer. “Thanks,” he adds, simply. There's a trace of surprise that flickers across Lucien's face, at Jackson's suggestion. His eyes widen, for a moment, and then it is gone, dropping back into even neutrality. "He -- would like that, I think." That's all. He's heading back in. He pulls the door closed behind him, though he doesn't lock it. Jackson watches Lucien go with a frown, at that surprised look. He eyes the closed door, and eyes the mural. "He shoulda had that hug," he says, quiet. "You know, I don't --" He sounds almost sad, now. "-- I don't think that many people are /nice/ to him. I mean, I'm sure a /lot/ of people are -- nice but not --" He bites at his lip again. And stoops to pick up a scrubbing brush. "Guess we should get to this," he says. "Thanks. For comin' with -- for helping." Micah also watches after Lucien for a moment before turning back to Jax. “He shoulda had /so many/ hugs. Doubt you’ll get him to admit that, much less accept ‘em, though.” He toes at the jug sitting at his feet. “This stuff, apparently, is supposed to work wonders if you scrub it on and wait three minutes, then scrub it back off. Lather-rinse-repeat as needed.” He pauses to look over the mural again with a sigh. “Feels kinda like a crime, washin’ this away on purpose.” Another pause, and Micah pulls Jax closer, by the hand, for a quick hug. /Somebody/ is going to get hugs now, at least! “’Welcome. Even if it is for helpin’ with crimes.” This is said with the return of a small smile. "He gives /such/ witherin' looks though oh my /gosh/ you woulda thought I'd asked him if I could kick his puppy." Jackson returns the hug, tight and squeezey, his face briefly pressing to Micah's neck. "-- mabye he should have a puppy, too." He pulls away, stooping to open the bottle. "Puttin' it on was a crime, too. We can make more crimes. /Better/ crimes. I'm totally," he says Very Seriously, "huntin' down some cop cars tonight." Micah pulls the gloves and brush out of his bucket, offering it as an easier receptacle for cleanser-holding and brush-dipping purposes. “Ohgosh, I can’t imagine a poor puppy in that nice house. It would just be in trouble /all/ the time.” He sighs, sparing a moment for one last knitting of eyebrows. “Poor /everybody/ lately…” Then Jax is suggesting New and Better Crimes, and Micah’s eyes go wide. “Oh, don’t! /Don’t!/ If you did that an’ got arrested ‘cause of some silly comment I’d made, I’d feel like the worst person /ever/.” "You could come with me," Jackson lilts cheerfully, tipping out some of the solution into the bucket. He dips his brush in, starting -- after one last regret-tinged look -- to scrub at the wall. Lathering cleaning solution onto his bright dragonfly. "I ain't gettin' arrested for it, nobody notices me. You ever tried being invisible? S'great for -- " He waves the brush at the wall, spattering liquid across the paint. And then more scrubbing. "-- You know, I didn't know prostitution was so lucrative. Kinda tempting. Uh. Speakin' of better crimes, I mean. Ain't nobody givin' me a plush house for tagging walls." “Oh goodness, what would I do? I’m certainly no artist, and I’d prob’ly just stick out like a sore thumb and get y’noticed that much faster.” Micah dips his brush and sets to the task of scrubbing, as well. The cleanser and paint mix in suds that grow more colourful as the brush continues in steady circles “No good at crimes. I always look like a kid tryin’ to sneak cookies.” The mention of prostitution stops the brush from its work for a moment. “Really? That’s what…?” He nods his head toward the door rather than completing the question. Jackson stops, freezing with his brush against the wall. His cheeks flush deep and he cringes, his brow creasing in deep regret. "Oh -- oh, gosh, I -- oh, /gosh/, I didn't -- didn't know you didn't know, I --" He winces, head ducking and his eye slanting towards the door. "Yeah -- I mean, he -- ain't seemed real /secret/ about it but I still don't know if he wants -- ohgosh." He is scrubbing again, but blind, now, in small circles, because his eye is scrunched shut. "Mngh. He must be a real /good/ one though." More scrubbing, though he's tentatively cracking his eye open again. "Y'wouldn't stand out. Like I said, /invisible/. Other night I gone out with Tag and --" More blushing. "But I -- we don't need to /crime/. We could jus' have a picnic. Make fireworks. D'you like fireworks?" “Oh, no…it’s…don’t worry. I mean, I can see how someone wouldn’t /lead/ with that in daily conversation, given how some folks react to the idea of sex workers and how it’s still mostly illegal. It’s…I won’t say anythin’ about it.” Micah has returned to his scrubbing. “Prob’ly nice, in a way, just makin’ people feel better. Maybe even happier. Be hard to do, though, I guess,” he is sort of musing out loud. “Y’always hear about that kinda thing on the news…usually when politicians are gettin’ in trouble or somethin’. I can kinda… Y’know, I’d bet people would be willin’ to put forth a fair amount just to have someone dressed up pretty, bein’ clever an’ knowin’ the right things to say? Forget whether the ‘dressed up’ part gets undone or not. Kinda makes me think about the Companions from /Firefly/, romanticized as that was.” Micah offers yet /another/ shrug, not pausing in his ministrations to the wall. Probably best to go ahead and switch topics rather than speculate as to just what other people are doing with their time. “Y’mean fireworks like you makin’ pretty lights, not like…rememberin’ which chemicals make which colours and then lightin’ fuses, right?” He grins at this. “Mean to say, yes, I do.” "I think he /is/ kinda like that," Jackson speculates. "I mean, I think it's sex /too/ but. Like the dressin' up pretty and knowin' the right things to say. Like at Osborn's fancy party. He was /working/ there." This time it's Jackson's turn to shrug. He dips his brush again, adding to his own colourful suds sprouting on the wall. "-- place like this his clients must be loaded, I can't imagine he /don't/ have a politician or two --" His nose wrinkles and he blushes, shaking his head abruptly. Right. Other topic. His smile returns as he glances over to Micah. "I don't know nothin' bout chemicals and fuses. You want to try it the old-fashioned way?" The smile stretches into a grin. "My way's safer but less an adventure. Still. S'nice. Like up on a rooftop at night, get some food and hot cocoa and light the whole /world/ up." “Oh, I’m sure… Otherwise you can get away with just sayin’, ‘escort’. Much more generally socially acceptable.” Micah rolls his eyes a bit, declaring his general opinion of social acceptability. “Ohgosh, no, I like your way better. Less chances of accidental explosions.” His movements are a steady rhythm of brush dipping and scrubbing. He does flash a smile at Jax and the picture he’s painting of the theoretical picnic. “Hmm…that /does/ sound nice.” "Feel like /most/ of the crop'a friends I've ended up with ain't real hung-up on socially acceptable," Jackson says with a laugh. He tilts his head back towards the sky, for a moment just basking in the sunny-warm afternoon. "-- honey-honey," he says, and though he's still smiling there's a more serious note to his tone, "'round me there's always a decent chance of accidental explosions. 'least fireworks come with some sorta safety vetting." “Best kinda friends, usually,” Micah asserts, laughter crinkling his nose. “I know. Controlled, on-purpose explosions help decrease the risk of the accidental ones, though.” He gives Jax a somewhat oblique look, preparing finally to broach a topic that has proven itself spiky in the past. “Was on the list of care instructions the twins left with me for you. Along with how often y’need to go walkies and have belly rubs.” His tone is light, trying to avoid troubling Jax unnecessarily. “It was when they were by…to pick up things.” "Yeah, it helps if --" But rather than finish this, for a moment Jackson freezes again. Then scrubs, a little harder than before. "-- care instructions." His brow furrows. "The boys -- they -- came by, they left you -- " Scrubscrubscrub/scrub/. "-- M'proper housebroke, I walk myself aright." Micah winces a little, despite having anticipated less than chipper reactions from Jax. "That's...that's not really the point. They're just worried about you. I tried... I tried to convince them y'all should talk, but I get the feelin' they're avoidin' it 'cause it might break their resolve to be doin' what they're doin'." He stares at his hand working the scrub brush. "I can stop talkin' about this if it's what you'd prefer. I just...kinda landed in the middle." "Their resolve to -- but if they're worried why --" Jackson quiets. Scrubs. Eventually he turns to flash Micah a smile, small and apologetic. "M'sorry, Micah. You don't -- you shouldn't hafta -- m'real sorry you landed in the middle'a all this mess. You shouldn't -- we should just --" He blushes, though his smile doesn't fade. "Just clean this." Micah quirks his lips over to one side rather than returning Jax’s smile. “Y’don’t have to apologise to me. Or worry about me. /I’m/ fine. Pretty much everyone else isn’t. And while I’m gonna respect your right /not/ to talk about it… All this /not/ talkin’ prob’ly ain’t doin’ nobody any good.” Apparently the scrub brush needed most of this lecture, because it takes the majority of Micah’s visible attention, Jax getting a checking-in sort of glance from time to time. Jackson doesn't answer this. At least not for a long time. He scrubs and scrubs harder, dips his brush again, scrubs more. It takes a few minutes before he stops, head bowing slightly. Traces of illusion are slipping away from his face; colour fading to leave his cheeks too-pale, darker shadows beneath his eyes. The silver eyeliner stays. That, at least, is real. "I worry a lot," he says, quiet. "I worry cuz I /love/ you and I worry because I -- get /scared/. I mean, that's a selfish worry. Like -- like /everything/ has been so screwed /up/ since you met me and I'm basically always a mess an' I get kinda terrified that you'll just get fed up with the constant chaos an' take off for somewhere life makes more sense. And I worry cuz you do so much for me and I -- don't got -- any idea what I do for /you/." He's not really scrubbing anymore so much as shifting the brush against the brick in a halfhearted manner. He's watching Micah carefully, eye turned sideways towards the other man. "I mean, you take care of people. Like professionally. I don't -- want to just be one more thing you gotta take /care/ of." “Things have been kinda screwed up, but, as y’say, it’s been that way /pretty much/ the entire time I’ve known you. Don’t y’think if that was gonna scare me off it would’ve happened /before/ I pushed myself into an apartment full of refugees to be with you? Or /before/ I sat with you through that awful Child Welfare inspection? Or /before/ I gave somebody permission to live full-time in my head? Or /before/ the threats of serious bitin’ should I cause you any harm? Before I felt or said that I loved you?” This wall. Is going to be. /So/ clean. Where Jax’s scrubbing has gone half-hearted, Micah’s is almost fierce. “What you do for me is I /love/ you. If I’m takin’ care of you at all it’s because that’s what I do when I love someone.” Micah’s teeth seek purchase on his lower lip, biting down. “It’s not that I’m obligated. I don’t…I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. And…I don’t even… The court of public opinion is hashin’ this out faster than we are. ‘Bastian and Shane and Lucien and even /Eric/ been callin’ me your boyfriend. I ain’t corrected nobody ‘cause it feels right to /me/. But I don’t even know if I’m doin’ that right?” "Ohgosh did the boys /threaten/ --" Wait, not the point. Jackson's attention shifts back to the wall as he starts scrubbing again. "No -- I mean yes -- I mean I /know/. I'm sorry. I just -- I ain't never been real good at being took care of, I hate feelin' like a /burden/. I just want --" He stops, swallowing, and lowers his brush to turn to Micah. One hand reaches for the other man's, stilling it, too. "Micah, I --" There are shadows growing around him, faint but there, hazy grey tendrils that twine their way up his arms. "M'sorry. I don't mean to freak out. I just -- I love you. You're the one thing that /has/ felt right this whole screwed up month." His nose crinkles slightly. "Even if I don't hardly know what doin' it right /means/." Micah lets his brush drop to the ground when Jax stills his hand. He turns to face Jax, his hand holding onto the one that had reached for him. Micah leans a bit into Jax’s arm, as if he needs it for support. “Y’just have had so much goin’ on I haven’t wanted to add to the things y’needed to think about or worry about or take care of. It’s just…it seems like every time I try to get closer to you, you sorta pull away. So it’s been hard to tell where I’m standin’.” He brushes at the shadow-tendrils, as if he could pluck them away like stray vines. “Now I’ve upset you.” Jackson's fingers curl around Micah's; his posture is solid-strong when Micah leans, offering support if it is needed. "It's -- it's kinda habit," he says, with a small frown, "I get so used to --" He gestures vaguely towards his face with his brush; for a moment it shifts, again, dark shadows disappearing, healthier colour returning to his cheeks, glimmering touches of makeup adding more sparkle. And then gone again. "It's hard to remember sometimes /not/ to just -- hide. But I don't -- want to. With you. I'm trying -- I'll try. Harder. Because I want you -- close. But, Micah, I --" His teeth drag against his lip, clicking against its silver rings. "If /you're/ worryin' about adding to my -- I mean you don't gotta. I mean there /is/ a lot of stuff that's been worryful but -- but you're /important/. To me. And if there's things on your mind I -- want to know. It ain't no added /burden/ s'just -- just caring about you. Maybe we, um," there's a flush of colour that darkens his cheeks genuinely now, a crooked smile on his lips, "maybe we gotta do a whole lot better about actually -- talkin' to each other. Instead'a worrying about what /we/ think, uh, each /other/ should be worrying about." Micah squints his eyes closed when Jax flashes his illusions again. “Don’t…please don’t. That. It’s worse than seein’ you actually upset or tired, you tryin’ so hard /not/ to look upset or tired.” Jax’s smile is returned, when a genuine one presents itself. “That is prob’ly a good plan. To…try not to anticipate the other person’s plan without askin’, I guess.” He tugs at Jax’s hand, almost playfully. Jackson steps closer at the tugging, his other hand curling around Micah. Which -- probably gets drippy colourful suds on Micah's back, oops. Jax tips his head up to brush his lips light and chaste to the other man's. "Right. Talkin'. Uh, I, um, I gotta admit though, I ain't had much of plan. I -- should we make a plan?" He lifts Micah's hand, pressing a kiss to the other man's knuckles. "I mean cuz -- this all sorta just /happened/ and it's great and I get so ridiculous smiley just bein' around you but I -- maybe would be good to have some idea what 'this' is. I feel like part of what's got me so nervous about everything is I don't -- know. What the plan is. So I been scared I'll accidentally screw it /up/." Micah presses his hip gently against Jax’s when he pulls closer. Paint and cleanser are the least of his worries, between /wanting/ Jax closer and being used to getting covered in everything from engine grease to fibreglass dyes to plaster on a daily basis… “Yeah we hadn’t much talked about that. ‘Cause I kept insistin’ I wasn’t gonna push while you had so much else to think about.” He smirks at this. “The thing…with the people callin’ me your boyfriend. Should I let them do that, or…?” "Yeah." It's soft, and a little shy, but Jax's smile is warm. "I like how that feels." There's colour burning in his cheeks, but the smoky tendrils are fading from around his arms, growing paler, some disappearing altogether. "What does that -- mean to you? I mean, relationships mean a lot of things to different people and I don't want to assume nothin' --" His blush is deepening. He leans slightly back against Micah, though, holding the other man close. A little slice of redness slides across Micah's cheeks with that answer. He squirmy-snuggles against Jax as the other man leans into him. "It's a name, mostly. For discussion. To indicate importance. For us, for other people. For...like, if we had to explain to Spencer why I'm in his /house/ so much. I'm not just ‘Pa's friend’, y'know?" His colour deepens a few shades. "It don't... I don't demand that means nothin' exclusive. 'Cause I don't really /get/ jealousy. I mean, I get it on an intellectual level, but not a /gut/ level, y'know? I may do feelin' neglected or lonely, but you'll know about that because I'll be whiney about it." He says this with a self-deprecating grin. "It's just that...when someone I love is happy with someone else, that makes me /happy/, not upset. Like...I think it's a good thing, how you get that smile when you talk about Tag. Uh...but. Oh. It's not completely true I don't ever ask for t'be exclusive. I will if my partner wants /me/ to be. 'Cause I tried the not askin' someone to be when they wanted /me/ to be and that ended poorly. /Went/ poorly. Was entirely a bad...young and stupid idea." Micah shakes his head, cutting himself off from continuing down that particular road. Jackson kisses Micah's knuckles again, but then releases Micah's hand to instead lift his hand to the other man's cheek, cupping his face gently and brushing a thumb against the faintly reddened skin. His own cheeks are burning furiously. "Please be whiney," he says, with a crooked smile. "I get /so/ caught up in /everything/ sometimes I -- can use a reminder if I ain't payin' enough attention where I /should/." His nose crinkles up at Micah's words, not so much for the lack of exclusivity but for: "-- You bein' exclusive but not them, that sounds --" More nosewrinkling. "I ain't so good at jealousy, either. I mean I want you to be /all/ the happy. /Every/ happy you can get. An' when I think someone is awesome I pretty much just get happy that other people think they're awesome, too." His blush has been joined by a wider smile, warm and nearing grin levels of happy. Although it dims -- slightly, still decidedly there, though -- at the mention of, "-- the kids. They'll -- I ain't -- I mean I guess they're gone." Frown. But then a tentative smile again. "-- for now but they'll - maybe they'll --" This is uncertain, and he hesitates, drawing in a slow breath. "I ain't really figured out the whole -- dating -- with them -- thing yet," he admits, quieter. "I was with someone -- else. When they first come into my life. And I ain't dated none since he and I split. It was -- messy, I didn't want to make things rough for them but -- oh gosh I'm /babbling/ again." His head ducks, sheepish. "I just -- maybe -- kinda bear with me on -- fumbling my way through how to keep things stable for them. Nrgh. As stable as it /can/ be with -- everything." "Oh, you're gonna regret sayin' that later. I'm like a puppy. Will bring the leash an the tennis ball an' drop them in your lap an' puppy eyes at you when y'got better things to be doin'. Sooner or later." Micah giggles at himself, slipping a hand behind Jax's neck. "Please...I'd rather y'think out loud about it than to just tell me 'it's okay' or that y'don't want to talk about it all the time. Because it helps me to know. An' these things, with the kids, have to be your decisions in the end. S'why I kept bein' evasive when Shane wanted to know what we were doin'. Weren't my place to be tellin' him anythin' y'hadn't already told me." Micah rakes his free hand through his hair, mussing it. "It's just... Okay, I know there ain't no way to say this ain't gonna sound creepy. But you /havin'/ kids doesn't bother me any or really scare me any, okay? And I say this just to explain why it don't bother me, not that I got any plots or ideas or anythin' like that. I kinda...always thought about, once everythin' else was stable... I wanted to foster or adopt hard-to-place kids. 'Cause kids with special needs are real hard to home. I mean...I was thinkin' like, CP and spina bifida and Down Syndrome when I thought it, but...s'different kinds of needs out there that need help, too." He scrunches one eye closed. "S'at make sense?" In answer to this Micah gets a kiss. It's long, and fierce, and Jax's hand tightens around his back through it. "-- accidentally teleportin' to the next state when you're startled is kinda a special need," he agrees, wryly. "And I kinda look forward to the puppy eyes. I like having folks to look after, makes the rest of the crazy seem kinda less overwhelming." He shrugs a shoulder, his forehead tipping to rest against Micah's. "We should finish this wall," he says, though without actually letting Micah go. "Mebbe later I'll ask him if he'd mind me paintin' another, on its /inside/ this time." Micah presses into the kiss, both arms wrapped around Jax longingly tight. “Mmhmm. Get some water added to all this for rinsin’. I’m thinkin’ maybe start a water fight somewhere in the middle ‘cause this has been an awful lot o’ serious talk...” He chuckles at Jax, bumping him with a shoulder. “Y’may need to buy some more sedate colours if y’wanna find somethin’ he won’t make y’scrub down again.” He uses a toe to snag the handle of his discarded brush, bringing it up to his hand. “So. Time to clean things up!” "Maybe," Jackson says, his grin stretching wider, "I'll go ask Matt t'vet the colours for me. He gives /such/ good puppy eyes I bet Luci would let him choose a mural." He steals another kiss, and then moves away to get the second bucket. "You're on, by the way." This he gives before he claims the second bucket, pushing the garden door open to go fill it with water. Much of which will /probably/ end up on them as well as the wall.