ArchivedLogs:Forgetting the World

Forgetting the World
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Hive, Jackson, Micah	2013-07-04 Set just after revenge.
Location <NYC> 403 {Geekhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, though some of its occupants have left college behind. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the perpetually messy living room, a mismatched assortment of couches and chairs (and milk crates) surrounding the wide table in the center. The wall holds a range of posters; some political, some sporty, some from video games, and a string of white lights strung over the kitchen doorway might be a holdover from Christmas. The kitchen adjacent is just as cluttered, its table unfit for eating due to its perpetual covering of books, papers, cereal boxes, projects; the fridge is usually sparsely populated. Ketchup. Beer. Not a lot of food. There are two bedrooms here, split between the four people; the fold-out couch in the living room (often folded out!) suggests that at least one of them does not actually claim a room as their own. It's been a night full of festivity, fireworks and barbecuing, sparklers and tiny American flags. Sprinklers. Beer. Wholesome summer /fun/. The party consumed much of the apartment building throughout the afternoon and evening, and Dusk put in a sort-of appearance at the /very/ beginning to cart all the food up to the roof but after helping with setup he vanished, conspicuously absent from partying for the rest of the night. It's late when he finally returns home. He looks tired -- paler than before, but pale is kind of his default-standard even if of late he's been eating properly enough to keep colour in his cheeks. There's a faint tremble through his wings, a faint tremble in his /hands/ -- it takes him a couple tries to get the door unlocked. The clothes he's in are not his own -- they /fit/ fine enough, the dark jeans and blue v-neck t-shirt, but the shirt has (rather than the careful modification all /his/ clothes have) been crudely gashed open in the back to allow room for his wings. In his mind there is -- a storm. Above it all there is /hunger/, sharp and fierce and clouding his thoughts with hazy-red, a gnawing ache for blood that is accentuated by the fact that he /has/ been eating regularly, has become /used/ to not-starving and this makes a day without that much less bearable than it was when he'd been used to never eating. But under the hunger -- grief. Fierce-hot rage. A clenching nauseating /sick/ feel that is guiltily twined with a deep exhilarated sense of gratification. An odd pull of lust that seems strangely inextricable from both hunger and rage. His wings continue to quiver as he closes the door behind himself. There has been /partying/ and partying means lots of cleanup! Jackson is only just now finishing sorting out /these/ people's dishes from those, leftover food that goes to /this/ apartment and leftover food that goes to that one. The meat does noooot go to his. Or Ryan's! Some of it has no doubt been shipped off with the twins, with Parley, but now he is busy restocking Hive and Flicker and Dusk's fridge /too/; he looks up from this task with a quick smile. "-- Your fridge is so much easier'n mine, y'never got anything /in/ it to have to --" He trails off, frowning towards Dusk. "You look kiiinda terrible, honey-honey. Y'missed the party. S'plenty of food left." A few beats behind Dusk, Micah comes wandering through the door /simultaneously/ with a knock. It is more of an announcement that he is entering than a check for permission, with all the people-diffusion that had occurred throughout the party. He has a tray filled entirely with meat products. "Finished cleanin' the grill off. Got the last of the dead animal things that need a not-veggie fridge," he proclaims to the room at large. He takes a side-step around Dusk and deposits the tray on the counter, since the refrigerator is currently occupied with /Jackson/. When he turns, he really looks at Dusk for the first time, the other man's appearance causing little worry creases across his brow. "Hey, hon. Missed you at the thing. You feelin' okay?" Hive is not helping at all. He's been in his bedroom, a very /large/ fan pointed at the bed which he's sort of curled up on with Flicker. Half-drowsing while the other man reads. It's the /feelings/ entering the apartment more than all the people that rouses him, slow, groggy more from a very /mild/ tipsiness than from genuine exhaustion. He meanders towards the bedroom door in his boxers, propping an elbow against the doorframe. "You eaten?" is his first question. He's rubbing a thumb against his opposite wrist, likely not referring to the food being put away. Dusk's wings pull in close and tight against his shoulders when the knock sounds at the door, making room in the entryway when Micah enters after him. "I --" He moves towards the couch, leaning for a moment against its back. His wings stretch, then pull back in; the rustling air they stir up comes with the fresh scent of Old Spice soap. Not his usual. "Yeah. I mean no. Not dinner. How was the --" His eyes dart from person to person. Jax. Micah. Linger on Hive's wrist before he yanks them back down to the table. The red haze clouding his mind now strengthens -- this time deliberate, a slow /focus/ on the stronger more primal feelings in deliberate (and rather practiced, from years of living with telepaths) attempt to /not/ focus on what is beneath. "How was the party? Did America successfully get older?" "Got older in style. You catch any'a the fireworks?" Jackson moves over to the counter, one arm hooking out to give Micah a quick squeeze around the waist before he takes the tray to deliver /it/ to the fridge, too. Sliding it on top of a couple of the containers already there. "We got a whole fridge full'a food an' four people here been doing nothin' but gorging ourselves all night long so --" He shrugs a shoulder. "Think y'got options no matter what y'want to be eating." It is probably unsurprising that a good portion of Jax's thoughts have shifted to FRET. He tamps it back down, though, leaning against the fridge once the food is away. Jax gets a little return-half-hug before he can move away. "Time did pass successfully," Micah adds, eyes following Dusk as he settles in. "An' ohgosh, so much food. Let me know if I can get somethin' together for you. Just...never /ever/ admit to skippin' a meal around that one," he tilts his head toward Jax to clarify his meaning, though it probably wasn't necessary, "when there's heaps of food about. It's like he's tryin' t'fill a piñata, but with /everythin'/ instead of just candy." Micah slides a hip against the counter, loitering there for awhile in case someone does voice a fetch request. "Yeah. Woo. America. Fuck yeah." Hive has a sudden /deep/ frown at that deliberate withdrawing, but he makes no attempt to chase it. He pushes away from the doorway, moving past Dusk with a slight trail of fingertips against wing before he disappears into the bathroom. He returns with a first-aid kit! "C'mon, dude, you look like shit. And I /know/ they look tasty." See how generously he is just VOLUNTEERING Jax and Micah for this? His chin jerks over towards them in the kitchen. "Had fun, though. You missed out. Tell me you were doing someone more exciting than us." Dusk's wings shiver again at the brief touch. He stands up straighter, irritably tugging his borrowed shirt (-- admittedly unlikely to be returned now that it has been sliced to pieces) up over his head. Extricating his wings from it is a more tedious process. "Heh --" Just one brief short laugh at Hive's generous offer; he glances over at Jax and Micah as he squeezes one wing smaller, uncomfortably tugging it through the torn hole in the shirt. His tongue flicks out, wets his lips, and a spot of colour flushes his cheeks. "-- Always look tasty," he mutters, and the hunger that accompanies this thought isn't /entirely/ for blood. "Are there hot dogs?" he asks Micah. "I'd kind of kill for a --" This trails off with a frown. A brief quiet /blankness/ mentally that settles over his mind before other emotions come pouring back in. "-- I could really go for some. Hot dog." His hand rubs at the back of his neck, and the blush in his cheeks deepens in time with a strong surge of guilt. "-- I was with a very -- exciting woman, yes." There's a very faint twitch at the corner of his mouth and a rather less faint mental note of /untruth/ to this statement. Not entirely a lie -- Hive would prooobably be hard-pressed to remember the last time Dusk lied to any of his roommates. But. Not entirely the truth, either. "We were brimful of patriotism," Jax adds with quick amusement at Hive's -- brimful of patriotism! "Ryan had American flag shorts. Do you, um --" Rather than finish asking, he just crosses back to the living room to take the shirt himself and help Dusk extricate his second wing from it. "Musta been some kinda fun," is sort of amused, too, "Y'lose your own shirt entire?" "We got all kindsa hot dogs. You have no idea. How many y'want?" Micah pushes away from the counter to open the refrigerator door, retrieving the tray that had /just/ been placed inside. "They're still kinda...luke-warm right now. Can reheat or not as y'want. Whatcha take on 'em?" He fetches a plate and a package of buns from the counter before looking back over at Dusk for /guidance/. A pale pink blush colours his cheeks at the discussion of...flavour. "S'either a really good or really bad time when clothing gets sacrificed, usually," he observes, a smirk curling his lips. "Micah'll be happy to put some meat in you," Hive says dryly, leaning against the back of the couch beside where Dusk stands. The first aid kits slides down to the cushions. "You don't look fucking excited, dude." This is blander. Blunter. Dusk is happy enough for the shirt assistance, that much less contortionism that he needs to put himself through to extricate wing from fabric. He settles back against the back of the couch with a relieved sigh; the wide flex of his wings (one at full extension; the other hits a wall before it manages) stretches canopy-like over Hive and Jax before they pull in again. "Two. Lukewarm's alright. Uh. S'there any relish? Onions -- I don't actually," he admits, "really care. Any hot-dog things that are around. Just not ketchup." This last is very emphatic. His eyes track Micah in the kitchen; between Hive's dry teasing and Jax's proximity the colour in his cheeks is deepening. For a moment his breath catches, and he drops his chin to rest on his forearms. "Yeah, I lost a lot of shit. One of," he grimaces, "those nights." Jackson blushes, too, at Hive's ribbing. He folds the shirt up, holes and all, resting it on the back of the couch. "Got relish. Dunno about onions." He bites down against his lower lip, and then snakes an arm around Dusk's waist. "Long night, maybe, but. S'over now." Micah's cheeks and ears take on a deeper shade, easily into red territory now, courtesy of Hive-jokes. Oh, look, now pretty much everybody in the room /matches/! "Ha. We got relish an' mustard. Could do that instead of onions. We'll keep it a ketchup-free zone, not to worry." He prepares the requested foodstuffs on a plate, quickly returns leftovers to the refrigerator, and delivers the plate to Dusk. He actually claims a spot to /sit/ on a couch cushion! Though he turns himself around backward, cross-legged, so that he is able to observe everyone still standing behind it. Hive slides just slightly to the side, a little closer to Dusk before he drops down to prop his chin on the back of the couch, too, in almost-mirror of the other man. "Lost what?" is softer, almost distracted. His eyes close, and there is a brief heavy brush of mental /presence/ up against Dusk's mind. Not probing. Not doing anything except /being/, his own breath contrastingly slowing as Dusk's feelings wash through him. "Thank you." Dusk leans into the arm Jax curls around him, and for a moment his eyes squeeze tightly closed. His guilt is flaring stronger than before but his hunger is as well. Which, admittedly, doesn't make him feel any /less/ guilty. His wing curls back around Jax in a return of the hug, soft and firm squeezing before he disengages to head around the couch and sit in a backwards crouch beside Micah. He starts to eat with mechanical slowness, his wings fluttering restless and uncomfortable behind him. "Thank you," he says again, to Micah, this time, his voice more quiet than before. "I --" He stops for more bites of hot dog, making his way through the first. << Lost everything, >> rises in unwanted answer, tinted not red but dark with curling wisps of shadow. His wings droop behind him, trailing down against the floor. "You guys got work tomorrow?" he asks then instead. "Not at school. With Io, though. An' one appointment in the mornin'. Kids're havin' another one'a their -- fight. Things." Jax has a faint tension in his voice at this, uncomfortable-uncertain. He takes up Dusk's vacated spot behind the couch. "You in again?" "More'n welcome, hon," Micah replies to the quiet-thanks with a warm smile. He scoots a little closer to Dusk, letting a hand stroke absently along the closer of his wings in a soothing-petting motion. "Just got a couple of deliveries for the regular gig, but everybody'n his brother's on vacation. So it ain't much. Goin' into Jake's again for a bit in the mornin' t'help fill in there. Likely be free in the afternoon, though." The tension in Jax's voice is echoed in Micah's expression at the fight talk. "Not everything," Hive says this a little /sharper/, opening his eyes to narrow them on Dusk. "You're not /going/ to lose fucking everything." His lips press together thin. "Fuck work. Let's get out of the city tomorrow. Go fucking hike. /Fly/. I don't fucking care, dude, everything's --" His head shakes. "We'll take the afternoon. Fuck the rest of the world for a while." Dusk closes his eyes, halfway through his second hot dog already. He lowers his hands, wing stretching to press gently back against Micah's hand. It unfurls further, sliding one soft fuzzy edge up along Micah's arm to curl slowly around his shoulders. His fingers curl in harder, squishing the remaining half of his hot dog half out of its bun. "I'm in," he says, very low, his jaw tense; you don't need to be a telepath, this time, to feel the quiet anger hardening his words. It doesn't spread through to his touch, wings squeezing soft around Micah. He looks down at the hot dog in his hands, an internal struggle to keep his attention focused on this and not the man next to him. "Yeah," he agrees, after a pause. "Fuck the world. I think I --" He dips his head slowly to lick leaking relish off of the side of his hand. "I think I should. Maybe sleep." "I can't make afternoon 'less Io gets a sudden hankerin' for nature," Jackson says with a slightly wry twist of his lips, "but I'll pack y'all some lunch." He worries at his lip ring with his teeth, watching the shift of Dusk's wing before looking back to his face instead. "Sweetie, you --" << (are messed up) >> finishes more in worried feel than in words. His teeth wiggle at his lip ring again. "Rest's always good. You gonna be alright?" Micah's hand pets more firmly at the wing until it shifts and he withdraws his arm to clear a path for its movement. He leans into the wing-hug, head bonking softly against Dusk's shoulder in a mess of auburn hair. "Could do an afternoon thing if y'wanted, more'n likely," he half-murmurs into the other man's arm. The degree of concern in his features is blocked conveniently by nuzzling. At least for those who would have to look to see it. "You need anythin' else before sleepin'?" "You," Hive answers /for/ Dusk, and even if this /could/ easily be just a continuation of earlier teasing this time his tone is too grim to make it a joke. "Sleep'd be good. You haven't really been much lately." << You, >> Dusk's silent answer comes almost at the same time Hive actually voices it; colour flushes up into his cheeks. His eyes close, head turning to rest his cheek against Micah's hair. He nuzzles against it slowly, wing gently curling a little more snug to pull the older man closer. His other wing lifts, falls in a small shrug. "Yeah," he admits, almost -- a little sheepish-apologetic. "It's been hard. I --" << (see him)(in every shadow)/(every time i close my eyes) >> "-- been kind of restless, I guess." Jackson leans down over the couch, tipping forward to press a kiss to Dusk's forehead. His hand stretches out, fingers curling briefly around the back of Dusk's neck and squeezing once. "Yeah. But. If you do need anything --" His teeth wiggle at his lip ring again. "-- I'll make you something really nice for tomorrow," he says with a slight crinkle of his nose. Micah is easily pulled into the closer embrace, snuggling up comfortably. Hive's reply earns a nod and another faint blush in response. He is treated to a mental trip down physiology textbook lane, digging through statistics. << (56 day mandatory waiting period on whole blood donations)(average of 36 days for complete replacement of red blood cells in a healthy adult male from 1 pint of blood loss) >> "How often are y'able to take from the same person?" is what Micah finally ends up asking, casually. "Been…20 days since the last time. Don't really know what kind of volumes we're workin' in here, so figure you'd be the best judge from experience?" "Nerd," Hive grouses at Micah, knuckles rubbing against his temple. "Just carry a fucking textbook around in your /head/." He slumps further against the couch, his eyes closing. "Tomorrow," he finally says, "are you going to actually tell us what the fuck is /up/." "Usually try not to do more than once a month," Dusk admits with a heavy tinge of regret; with his recent spate of Actually Not Starving he's already taken from every person currently /in/ the apartment more recently than that. "More like once a week with the twins. That cop of Shane's," he says with a slight twist of smile (and a sharp pang of something -- fierce, angry, /happy/, distinctly uncomfortable with /being/ so) "probably like once a freaking hour he is ridiculous." His head turns down further, the smile curling a little wider at Jax's kisses. At the touch. His neck presses up into it, and the faint shiver that runs through him is easily felt where his wing curls around Micah. For a long quiet moment he does not move, face buried against Micah's hair, weight shifting just slightly to rest against Jax's hand. "I don't know," he eventually answers, though with the topic brought up directly his /mind/ is supplying answers for him unbidden -- broken flickers of imagery, a policewoman barking out an order to stay, a sharp bright crackle of taser, the heady (hungry) tang of blood. A shudder runs through him. He closes his eyes, nuzzling and then pressing a kiss to the top of Micah's head. There is a heavy sick weight settling into his stomach that he cannot shake. "I don't know," he says again, more tired, "I shouldn't. I just want to not think about the world for a while." Jax's hand stays, when Dusk presses into it, fingers kneading gently at the back of his neck. << shouldn't >> is the word he lingers on, the sharp twinge (curious/concerned) that rises with it not carrying through to his expression. "Can understand that," he allows. "Y'don't gotta talk 'less you want to, honey-honey." "Took a lot of time'n effort to cram all that stuff in there. Sometimes it's actually sort of useful!" Micah returns glibly at Hive's grousing, grinning back at him. "Hm," comes after Dusk's explanation. "Been close to it. An' I typically have a pretty high hematocrit. If it's necessary…could try as an experiment t'see how it goes, if you can take it easy. Worst as would come of it is a few days of mild anaemia. Weekend comin' up at least. An' would definitely have to wait the full time after that." He shrugs, leaving it up to Dusk to decide what constitutes necessity. "Best practice an' functional practice ain't always the same things." His head lifts to the nuzzling, a hand reaching back to pet at the wing wrapped around him. "Take your time. Just…make sure y'let somebody know when you /do/ wanna talk about whatever?" Hive grunts, quiet and wordless. He pushes himself upright, clapping a hand against Jax's back. "Not sure talking's what he wants," he says, watching Jax's fingers, watching the tightening of Dusk's wing against Micah. The dry tone here makes it hard to tell if this is serious or more teasing; it probably doesn't /help/ that it is followed by: "You doing this out here, or you need to move?" His head tips towards the empty bedroom. He rolls his head back in a lazy stretch. "Need a fucking smoke," he grumbles half to himself, "guess I'll see you motherfuckers tomorrow." Jackson flushes deep crimson at Hive's words. "-- Go smoke," he grumbles right /back/, although in him this comes out more sheepish-awkward than actually /grumbly/. The kneading of his fingers continues, slow and almost absent now, a steady gentle touch. "-- What's a hematocrit?" He is easily distracted by NewThings. "Oh --" For a moment Dusk freezes, one wing stilling and the other drooping to brush against the floor again. << (want) >> is a surge fierce and strong. His wing shifts to press back gently against the petting. "It's --" He focuses on the question, for a moment, tipping his head up briefly to look at Jax. "-- It's what percentage of your blood is red blood cells." He lifts his head a little more, pressing into Jax's fingers with the shift. He nudges his half-forgotten half-hot dog more properly back into its bun, and devours the rest of it in two quick bites. "Sometimes," he agrees with Hive more quietly, "talking just doesn't -- really seem as -- vital." It's less the actual words from Hive and more the direction of his gesturing that brings new life to the blush that had /nearly/ faded from Micah's cheeks. Though it might be more noticeable from the tips of his ears or the back of his neck, given his position, still curled up against Dusk. Perhaps even curled up tighter at this point. "Tomorrow, yes, bye, Hive," he says with a little wave. His lips part to answer Jax's question, but Dusk gets to it first. "Mmn, what he said," he agrees simply instead. Hive's lips just twitch upwards into a small quick smile. He disappears into /his/ bedroom. He doesn't reappear; there is the quiet sound of voices from inside and then abruptly no voices anymore. Flicker has a faster way to the roof. Dusk is quiet. Relaxing just a little more against Micah, once Hive is out of the room. A soft contented noise sounds in his throat, head tipping back against Jax's hand. The shift of his wing against Micah's arm is slow, a soft fuzzy stroking as he turns slightly to set his plate aside. His head turns back, lips pressing briefly to Micah's temple. "Is it bad," he finally wonders after a brief spell of silence, "if I want to kiss you /both/?" Jackson blushes, fierce deep crimson. His hand stills against Dusk's neck, his eye darting to look at Micah. "Wanting ain't bad," he answers, "an' asking first /definitely/ ain't never bad." Micah shivers faintly at the velvet-soft touch to his arm. Then there's /that/ question. Apparently it is going to be another unintentional blushing competition, as Micah's had already started and seems to find good reason to deepen now! Maybe his skin is just trying to match his hair. "Definitely not bad," he agrees quietly, also sneaking a look across to Jax. Dusk's hand lifts, fingers curling against Micah's neck; it's probably deliberate that his thumb trails lightly against the artery there before nudging gently upwards at his chin. For a moment his dark eyes fix downwards on Micah, questioning; the tilt of his head is slow to touch his lips lightly to the other man's. Jackson's fingers press a little bit more firmly against Dusk's neck with this shift. His blush has not faded, joined now by a faint pinkish glow around him. For a moment the tip of his tongue flicks at one of his lip rings; he watches all this with a faint catch of breath. "-- Y'still ain't eaten," he says, and this might be practicality but it might not just be, judging from the slightly breathier quality of his tone. "Maybe we /should/ --" His hand slides away from Dusk to gesture towards the bedroom door. Arm-touches nothing, that tracing along his neck earns a proper trembling, a sudden intake of breath. Micah's eyes lift to meet the other man's gaze, then his lips to the kiss, answering readily. His hands each grasp gently at Dusk's arms. Jax's comment prompts no /verbal/ response (perhaps a difficult proposition given the timing), but rather a visible nodding of his head. Dusk just nods, too, at first, fingers curling gently but firmly against the side of Micah's neck. His wing lifts, curling forward to brush against Jax's arm, curl against his shoulder as he finally breaks off, a little more flushed and a little more breathless than before. "Yeah," it's soft, a just-audible whisper as he drops his hand to brush against Micah's shoulder. He dips his head, kissing Micah again -- this time at the side of the neck -- before standing. He slips around the couch -- Jax does not get a kiss so much as a /nip/, a quick harder press of mouth to neck that ends in a brief sharp twinge that does not /quite/ draw blood but will probably bruise. He leans over the couch to pick up the first aid kit, glancing over the others once more before leading the way into the bedroom.