ArchivedLogs:Give 'Til It Hurts

Give 'Til It Hurts
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah	30 June 2014 Well, this is a cheery conversation. >_> (Part of Future Past and Prometheus TPs.)
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
Spacious and open, this coffeeshop has a somewhat industrial feel to it, grey resin floors below and exposed-beam ceilings that have been painted up in a dancing swirl of abstract whorls and starbursts, a riot of colour splashed against a white background. The walls alternate between brick and cheerfully lime-green painted wood that extends to the paneling beneath the brushed-steel countertops. There's an abundance of light, though rather than windows (which are scarce) it comes from plentiful hanging steel lamps. The walls here are home to plentiful artwork available for sale; though the roster of prints and paintings and drawings and photographs changes on a regular basis it has one thing in common -- all the artists displayed are mutants. The seating spaced around the room is spread out enough to keep the room from feeling cluttered. Black chairs, square black tables that mostly seat two or four though they're frequently pushed around and rearranged to make space for larger parties. In the back corner of the room is more comfortable seating, a few large black-corduroy sofas and armchairs with wide tables between them. There's a shelf of card and board games back here available for customers to sit and play. The chalkboard menus hanging behind the counter change frequently, always home to a wide variety of drinks (with an impressive roster of fair-trade coffees and teas largely featured) though their sandwiches and wraps and soups and snacks of the day change often. An often-changing variety of baked goods sit behind the display case at the counter halfway back in the room, and the opposite side of the counter holds a small selection of homemade ice creams. A pair of single-user bathrooms flanks the stairway in back of the cafe; at night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits up the stairs above the coffeehouse. The day is stretching on into evening, still muggy and hot outside but with a slowly lowering sun that offers some small hope of respite before long. In here it's blissfully cool, high ceilings and refreshing /AC/ and a wide offering of iced beverages that most patrons seem to be taking advantage of. Not quite as much demand for /hot/ coffee, just this time of year. Off against the side wall, near the back, Hive has finally laid claim to a table that -- doesn't /actually/ have his name on it but might as /well/, he's here pretty much like clockwork every afternoon until evening creeps in and people start getting off work. Unsurprisingly he's here at his table again today, scooter parked out of the way behind it, dressed casual in jeans and sneakers and 'ceci n'est pas une lune' t-shirt. His table is a scattered mess, as usual, drawing tools and tracing paper and notebook and his laptop amidst it all, a small spot cleared out where he can put his tall iced coffee. It looks barely touched; /he/ looks pretty slouchy, eyes drooping and his head sagging inwards towards his open laptop screen. Maybe also unsurprising, given how intensely Jax's team has been back in training. Summer means a shift in drink habits for Micah, mostly converting his cocoa-today mocha-tomorrow chai-the next day line up to all iced chai, all the time. He has one of the cool drinks cradled in his hand just now, the cup spilling fresh condensation over his fingers as he makes his way to Hive's table and plunks down unceremoniously in a chair. Other than the drink change, Micah looks pretty typical for this time of day: TARDIS blue polo shirt, khakis, messenger bag, newsboy cap peeking out of said bag. "You still awake, there?" he checks in, though he knows the answer already. << No. >> It doesn't thud into Micah's head, today; it rustles in a quiet echoing whisper, a faint shiver of mental sound that ebbs away to leave an aftertaste that feels as sleepy as Hive looks. He seems /relieved/ at Micah's presence, like this arrival has given him some unspoken permission to cease even the flimsiest pretense of /attempting/ to work; instead he shuts his laptop, slumping his head down against its shut lid. << Your husband is a sadist. >> Settling his cup onto an open bit of table where it is unlikely to damage Hive's papers, Micah leans in to take a long pull through the straw. “Mmn. I'm not sure what I'd do without iced teas in the summertime. Y'low on caffeine, hon?” His eyebrow lifts with the question, amused smirk toying at the corners of his mouth at Hive's observation. << Pretty sure y'meant t'say /masochist/. S'the other thing. >> << Are we low on caffeine? >> Hive echoes this question uncertainly, head struggling up slightly like he's /going/ to try and check his half-full coffee cup -- but then his head just thunks back down, eyes unopened. << /Sadist/. How have you not realized. All this fucking time /you've/ had it wrong. He likes. To punish. >> Micah shifts in his seat to look into Hive's cup. “You've got half. Still there.” Nudgenudge, the cup gets moved closer to his hand, making the effort of drinking from it as minimal as possible. << Y'all must enjoy a special relationship. 'Cause I'm /fair/ sure I'd've noticed. Prob'ly pretty quickly. >> His mental tone is undoubtedly amused. There's a small fluttering press of Hive's eyes, a shift of motion as though attempting to open them and failing miserably. There's another fluttering press up against Micah's /mind/, faint wisps of memory ghosting across the surface of the other man's thoughts. The minds of Jax's team enveloped in his own, a heavy hard /crush/ of mental power snuffing out the minds of those who had come to save him, the feel of Jax's fiercely painful-bright mind hammered down beneath his own. The sluggish-slow awareness once Scramble had broken his concentration of Jax's decision to bring him out of the lab with them despite the havoc he'd wreaked on the team and the dead he was leaving behind. His lips give a very small downward twitch. << Special -- >> He proffers this agreement soft and pensive, turning the word over amid a glittering stardust-sparkle of shimmering light. << Mmmnh. We've always. Had that. >> Finally one eye cracks open to squint off towards Micah. << Masochist too, maybe. Pushes himself just as hard. Harder. There's a word. Word for -- someone -- into both -- >> He is trailing off here with a familiar cloudy sense of struggling that typifies his intermittent shaky grasp on Language lately. There is a groaning protest of chair legs against floor as Micah slides his seat closer to Hive's, one hand moving to sritch nails against his back and the other taking control of the coffee cup to bring it's straw in line with Hive's mouth. The movements are familiar and casual, no big to-do. "You do," he confirms in soft tones. << Dunno 'bout that, even. Beats 'imself up even /harder/ over pushin' other people, too. All comes out the same in the end, really. >> Hive's back shifts /just/ slightly up into the scritching, head tipping forward with his eyes drooping sleepily closed again. He lips at the straw, bringing it into his mouth to suck a long deep pull through it. << ... Think we're -- >> He has to stop, recalibrate his thoughts to struggle up an individual /name/ out of his collective, << Flicker's. Still puking. Should bring him -- ginger? And. Sleep. Training gets -- >> Something. It trails off again as he takes a longer swallow of coffee, finally releasing the straw to thud his head down against Micah's arm. << Got somewheres to /put/ people this time, at least. If, uh. If everyone at the Commons is okay with -- the Guest rooms being -- well. Even if they're /not/ okay with strays in the Common House everyone's. /Homes/. Have enough space scattered around to -- >> Leaning in, Micah kisses the back of Hive's head, soft against his fuzzy hair. << Can bring 'im some of our candied ginger stock. An' make 'im a ginger-mint tea. Both good for upset stomachs. Y'all are goin' /soon/ an' had t'take that long break where folks' powers were a mess. Not surprisin' it's hittin' y'all hard gettin' ready this time. >> He nods along with Hive's silent observations. << Plenty of places. 'Tween the Commons an' the safe houses. An' they'd likely take folks at the church again. People can have their pick. Don't think folks'll get too fussy on the strays considerin' where so many of us came from. >> << Think he'd like that. Even Joshua called out sick from work tonight. Didn't -- know he actually. Ever /took/ sickdays. >> This time the twitch of Hive's lips is upwards, slight and brief at the light kiss. << Plenty of places. Yeah. That's. One less stress. >> His head presses down a little heavier against Micah's arm before slowly lifting again. Seeking his straw back out for another mouthful of coffee. << ... People been dreaming again. Maybe they always were. Wasn't around to hear though, for a while. Now we're all back in together and -- people. Dreaming. >> << Sometimes y'need some time even if you aren't /sick/. Just for your body and your /brain/. I'm gonna take off Wednesday, while y'all are...out. Signed out the kitchens in the common house for the whole day. It'll be easier, havin' two t'run between. Keepin' the vegan an' not vegan stuff separate an' all. >> Micah nuzzles his cheek into Hive's hair at that heavier press, pulling out of the way when Hive's head lifts again. << Yeah, been... Had a dream I should ask Lucien about. Pretty much a moot point anymore, they're all...it always /is/ one of those when I think it is. 'Parently he's gonna get 'imself mixed up with Osborn an' a bunch of killer robots. >> His /words/ go quiet for a moment, though there is a sickening swirl of thoughts involving Spence, Sera, Tola...all of the /kids/ with early manifestations of mutation. << The kids are gettin' sick, Hive. Sera...I think she was dead. An' it sounds like Spence is just...awful. Horrible sick by then. We need t'find somethin' t'help 'em. D'you think... The chemicals that messed up everybody's powers last raid. If we got 'em t'the right people. Doctors, scientists, folks at the Clinic. Maybe they could figure out how t'suppress powers for the long haul 'til the kids' bodies can handle 'em without...without... >> << We're -- I. Am. Staying -- >> Hive's brows crease deep, a momentary pause stuttering his words as he reaches for the /right/ ones. << -- here. New York. Well, /going/ with them but -- /this/-me -- >> He gestures shaky fingers towards his /physical/ body. << -- not that I'll be much help with your cooking or anything. Maybe just loiter in a corner and mooch bits of food before they're done. >> He's been sucking at his coffee throughout this and one more long gulp finds his straw slurping noisily at the last drops in the bottom of the cup. He lets the straw go again, dropping his head heavily back to his laptop. << They've been worried about Spence since he turned up. And kids in the labs -- usually died quick. Figured it was just because the labs were /brutal/ and kids are -- small. But. Statistically -- >> He frowns, shoulders tightening. << Sera's /been/ sick. Already. Yeah? That's not a dream. Sometimes she comes to play -- I can /feel/ -->> A faint tremor passes through him. << Think it'd be worth a shot. Can't /hurt/ to look into the option anyway. >> << I know, sugar, just your...attention's gonna be goin' with 'em. So, in essence... >> Micah nods agreement with the loitering comment. << I know everyone's been worried, but these dreams're.../real/. It's dif'rent when you're sittin' 'round talkin' 'bout Sera bein' gone an' Spence takin' a turn for the worse. We need t'start lookin' for somethin' with more urgency, 'cause we obviously /didn't/ do it fast enough in Dreamworld. I'll...see if we can get folks in on it, with the drug. Hank an' Io. Io will know who on his team t'tap, too. I can't just...sit. Knowin' what's comin'. >> His free hand continues lazy circuits over Hive's back. << Too much death comin' an' too little knowin' what t'do about it. >> << Liam would've been so good to help study -- >> Hive exhales sharply, curling his fingers against his hair. << Yeah. Yeah, the clinic will. Will know who -- Christ. Sera's so /small/. >> That breath is pulled back in just as sharp, fingers tracing a habitual path along the side of his head. << Too much -- too much. And this raid means the next one is where we... >> Once more he trails off though this time not with the /confusion/ of struggling for words. Just with a tightening of muscles and a slowly tighter squeezing shut of his eyes. << Shh, shh. I know. It's...hard. Gosh, it's been so hard on Spence, especially. >> Micah's teeth dig into his lower lip, pink flesh blanching dull white under the pressure. << They are so very small. >> He tries to clamp down on the image of Spence, tiny and lifeless before the freezing and reviving and... His arm wraps around Hive's shoulder, cheek nestling into the other man's hair once more. << After this one. We need t'get everyone t'gether. Everyone who's been workin' with the chips an' everyone on the team an' everyone who knows /anythin'/ about it who's on our side. We have t'be able t'come up with /somethin'/. All the geniuses we got. >> Hive struggles up a little further, pressing his face in against Micah's shoulder. His own shoulders tremble beneath Micah's arm, his breathing slow and a little unsteady at the image in Micah's head. << They have good doctors. At the Clinic. >> His voice has dropped, again, to just a shiver of mental whisper. << After this one -- >> Now he lifts a hand, fingers curling tight into Micah's shirt. << ... don't know. If we can. /Do/ another. After this one. We -- I. I keep -- keep thinking -- >> He trails off here, fingers gripping at Micah's side with a tighter clench of fabric. << I know, >> Micah replies with less than impressive enthusiasm. << Honey. Honey, y'been puttin' off gettin' help for so /long/. >> His other hand moves away from Hive's drink, both arms wrapping around the other man's too-thin frame and holding him tight. << Sometimes y'need a break. For your body an' your /brain/. >> << It's not that. Well not -- yes. No. It's -- >> Hive curls in closer to Micah, pressing his face in against the other man's shirt. << Keep thinking about these dreams just saying we're gonna fucking die and -- can't bring myself to -- >> He swallows. << ... except then sometimes it almost feels like a relief? And I /want/ to go just to get it fucking over with. And /that/ feeling's even more dangerous. Can feel it here and there from Flicker too. And -- just. Don't know if we can -- >> << No. No, we're /not/ sendin' y'all in there without a /plan/. But after. Wednesday is too soon, we need t'just. Finish Wednesday. >> Micah squeezes Hive closer, one hand moving to snake fingers through his hair. << Like I was sayin'. Get everybody t'gether who knows /anythin'/ 'bout the chips. We need a way t'get past 'em. We're not just /sendin'/ you an' Flicker in t'die an' get /everyone/ killed in the meantime. No. >> Hive just breathes out sharply, at this, clenching his fingers tighter into Micah's shirt. Eventually he pulls back, shaky hands starting to fumble his work back into some semblance of order. << You wanna take me home? Should get. Flicker. That ginger. And just -- just want -- >> Here again his words don't finish, just ending in a hungry sense of /longing/ for -- closeness. His family. Something. At first Micah just clings more fiercely when Hive starts to pull away. Then he lets him go and helps to gather the papers. << Of course, sugar. Headin' that way. An' we'll get Flicker all taken care of. >> He rubs a hand against Hive's back as he passes papers to him. << I love you, hon. An' we're here. We're /here/. No givin' up 'till we got nothin' else t'give /first/. >> Hive nods, shuffling his things off into his backpack once Micah has helped him collect them. He /glares/ over at his scooter once he's packed, starting to push himself up and then sinking back down with a tired huff. << Already giving fucking everything. Everyone is. >> The heel of his hand digs in against his eye, fingers tightening around the strap of his backpack. << OK. Right. Home. >>