ArchivedLogs:Hold It Together

Hold It Together
Dramatis Personae Shane, Micah
In Absentia	21 April 2014 More talks, less yells...much more snuggles. (Part of the Perfectus TP.)
Location <XS> Boathouse
Perpetually filled with the quiet background noise of the lapping tide, the boathouse is a cozy escape from the mansion proper. The few boats docked here are small, but suffice for sails around the lake (or, in the case of the one swift powerboat, a speedy motor around it) -- posted signs by them remind users of the regulations required for their use. Tucked away in the back half of the boathouse are living quarters, small and spartan and snug, with a kitchen, bathroom, small sitting area, and a bedroom fit for two. from: Shane Holland <sholland@xaviers.edu> to: Micah Holland-Zedner <zedbot@gmail.com>, Jackson Holland-Zedner <littlemisssunshine@xaviers.edu> date: Mon, Apr 21, 2014 at 18:53 subject: Time I went to talk to Hive today. He pisses me off too. Also I think he might be dead soon, he didn't look great. Anyway I don't exactly want to apologize because I had all night and and all day and a long conversation with Dai and B and another long conversation with Flicker and Hive to think about all this and everything I said is still true. I just don't want to leave it like I did. I'm not sure I can have a conversation with you about it though without just getting angry and upset and yelling more and that's not really helpful. So maybe if I just put things down here where I can breathe and not yell that's better. But yes. To answer your question from yesterday, I don't think you're here for me. Or us. Or even each other. I think you're here for everyone else on the planet and not actually this family. And when I say this family I mean me and B and Spence and you two and not the huger nebulous "everyone else on earth who we love" because that gets messier and you're definitely there for THEM plenty. But there's only so many hours in every day and I guess we just aren't important enough to warrant that many of yours when there's so many other people who always need help more. And it's really frustrating and upsetting, Ba, to try and explain WHY all this is frustrating and upsetting and just get a point-by-point logical refutation of why I have no right to be frustrated and upset because in every individual situation you're all totally justified in prioritizing everyone else over us. Because, yes, I get it. Obviously nobody plans for anti-mutant murder squads to invade the sewers or open fire on churches or evil cults or sudden babies but time after time after time is a pattern. And also, more importantly, I just feel like you're far more invested in explaining how my feelings are illogical and invalid than bothering to listen to them. I don't actually want you guys to stop doing what you do. Helping people is part of who you are. Even the dangerous stuff, Pa. Which is terrifying and always will be but stopping all that -- stopping any of it for either of you, that wasn't what I was asking for. It's just hard to verbalize anything clearly when angry and upset already. But I'd never want either of you to stop being YOU. I just need you. We all do. B is even worse than I am at asking for anything but probably needs you even more. Really, what I need is for the world to stop for a while. And I know you can't stop the world, that's pretty ridiculous. But I need to feel like WE'RE important enough that YOU guys can stop, sometimes. Even if it's not convenient. Even if we're not convenient. Because our house just exploded with someone trying to kill Ryan and Spencer died and Liam died and Pa almost died and I almost died and Hive is dying and Dusk is dying and tried to rape Pa and some crazy motherfucker tortured Rasa and put hir leg on Ba and he ran away from all of us and the school got attacked on Passover and I have no goddamn idea how to explain anything to Spence and you guys keep not being here every night because Dusk is more important and Mel is more important and the whole world is just really shitty and I just actually can't handle it, okay? And I don't know how to keep pretending I'm handling it anymore. Because I'm not. And B's not. And we've been trying but we can't. And I want all of that to be important enough that sometimes other people's problems can go fuck themselves. And you can deal with ours. Or even your OWN. Just so long as you two take the time to keep US together because I am falling apart and I don't know how to. OK. That was a lot of words. Only two of them were 'fuck' (whoops three now) you should be proud. I think that was all I had to say, for now anyway. Shane It's long past dinnertime, dark outside though not quite to curfew hour just yet. It's cooled off a good bit outside though the weather has, at least, remained pleasantly springlike. Out here down by the lake it's a hike from the mansion, far enough that its lights and noises are a distant distraction at best. The boathouse is a quietly secluded spot, a frequent refuge for Shane when avoiding the mansion's bustle -- from the huge house across the grounds the strains of his violin can't really be heard but nearing the lake it's easier to hear the music, lively-vibrant Paganini drifting out from the closed doors of the boathouse. Inside, Shane is in the sitting room, his violin tucked beneath his chin. He's dressed vibrant, too, a white button-down striped white-on-white, bold red vest with a faintly swirled pattern to it, bowtie, neat-tailored slacks, polished wingtips discarded near the couch. Micah has been home long enough to shower and change, to have dinner with Spence, and now to wander off in search of Shane. His hair is evening-mussed, not much attention paid to it after his after-work shower and air dry. He is dressed simply in a navy henley and bluejeans, worn sneakers on his feet. The sound of violin music draws him nearer in his search, actually /into/ the boathouse where he might not have thought to go seeking on his own. He enters quietly, padding across the floor more softly than he ever really managed with the prosthetic leg. Without entering the sitting room, he knocks lightly on the doorframe. The music continues as Micah enters the room. Shane's eyes are closed, bow moving swiftly across the strings. His eyes don't open at the knock, though his nostrils flare quickly, gills fluttering afterwards. "I don't really want to hear all the ways I'm wrong again. You could put it in an email instead." Still lingering in the doorway, Micah frowns with a heavy exhalation. "S'pose I deserved that. Didn't come t'tell you you're wrong. Came for hugs, an' t'talk. Or maybe...the other way 'round if I still have t'earn the hugs yet." He leans against the doorframe, not violating the private space that Shane has built for himself. Shane drops his hand, bow held loosely in the hand still slightly scarred around the edges of its webbing. He opens his eyes, looking over Micah with a small frown. "... did you need hugs or did you want to give them?" His brows furrow, violin still held beneath his chin. "Are you coming in?" He waves his bow at the empty couch across the room. "Can't it be both?" When Shane waves him in, Micah finally makes his way into the room, he settles onto the couch the teen indicated. "I didn't want t'assume y'wanted t'talk t'me just 'cause /I/ wanted t'talk." Shane exhales sharply. He turns aside, moving to the table in front of the couch to crouch and set his violin carefully back inside its case, tucking the bow into it. "Could assume I wanted to talk because I sent you a longass fucking email." "I was pretty sure y'sent the e-mail 'cause y'/didn't/... Oh/gosh/, that is so beside the point." Micah pats a hand against the couch cushion beside him. "Look...I wanted t'say {I'm sorry}. This is...I think it's mostly my fault. An' I wasn't...tryin' t'/debate/ you yesterday. Y'just caught me off guard an'...got the kinda things I say t'/myself/ in my head as a result." The apology is in Micah's poorly-accented version of Vietnamese. "I sent the email because I wanted to talk and I can't --" Shane shakes his head, frowning as he snaps his violin case closed. "Talk. About this crap. Without just getting upset and then I get angry and then it doesn't help anything because I'm just yelling and that's not -- useful." He eyes Micah's patting hand, hesitating before crossing around the table to slump down onto the couch beside his father. "... still think you should learn Vietnamese." "Okay. Y'got every reason t'be upset. But yeah, yellin' don't help much." Micah's gloved hand moves to pat at Shane's knee instead. "You're welcome t'try t'teach me, still. I'm kinda hopeless with languages, though." The little smile that had been developing at those words gets bitten back, Micah's teeth pressing into his bottom lip. "Look, the simple fact of it is that I haven't been doin' m'job lately. I'm s'posed t'be the...practical one. I'm s'posed t'be the one drivin' people t'school an' helpin' with homework an' havin' long talks 'bout problems an' doin' science projects in the kitchen an'...makin' sure Spence is fed an' washed an' has 'is bedtime story an' is tucked into bed an' there's food ready in the fridge for when Jax gets home after midnight an' he's all shaky an' exhausted... I'm s'posed t'be the one holdin' it t'gether so he /can/ go out superheroin' an' work twenty jobs an' get lost in 'is paintin' for hours. An' I just...haven't. Lately. An' there's all kindsa reasons. Not the least of which was that I was /so terrified/ of losin' all of you. An' horrified at...m'self, but. Reasons ain't excuses an' I shouldn't've...ended up in that position. I should've been here. 'Cause /that/ is /my/ job. An' I'll be better at it again, I promise. That's what...I was tryin' t'say. When I said I wouldn't be goin' into no danger anymore." His teeth worry at his lip again, tugging at the thin skin there. "So just...thank you. For remindin' me. {I'm sorry} that y'had to." "There's -- always been a lot of reasons. For both you and Pa. And a lot of crisis and a lot of really good reasons you've both had a million other --" Shane's gills flutter, his eyes fixing across the room to fix on the opposite wall. "But I just don't /care/ anymore. And like -- I know that's really selfish? Because there's always a million other reasons. And places you could be helping. I just don't know how to keep everything together without you. It's all -- kind of. Been falling apart. A /lot/." "I know, honey. I know. I'm sayin' y'don't /have/ to, okay? 'Cause I'll /be/ holdin' it t'gether like I'm s'posed to from now on. I messed up. I'm not perfect, but I'll try t'be better, honey." Micah reaches up to stroke down Shane's gills when they start fluttering. "It's not /selfish/ t'want your parents. It's natural. It's what y'deserve t'have. I'm not sayin' won't /never/ be a time when I gotta do somethin' else that might conflict a bit with...things goin' on at home. It ain't realistic t'say otherwise. But it'll be the exception. An' /only/ when there's no way around it. I /love/ you all an' I can't... I just. Love you. It's what kept me away, in the end. I was just so...terrified an' I love you all too much to... But I shouldn't never've been in that position, okay? I'll be more careful, 'cause you all /need/ me /here/." Shane's gills still flutter, his eyes fixed outwards still. He leans in against Micah slowly, his eyes closing. He pulls his legs up onto the couch, tucking his knees upward. His gills flutter faster, head turning in against Micah's shoulder. Nestling in closer against Micah's side, he buries his face further into his father's shirt, his own shoulders trembling very faintly and his breathing a little bit more hitched. Micah continues petting down Shane's gills, making soft, barely-audible shushing noises. Then he wraps the teen in a fierce-tight hug, only loosening slightly to tug off one of his gloves behind the boy's back. "An'. Y'don't have t'say anythin'. Y'were sayin'...that y'were havin' trouble tellin' us what y'needed t'say. If y'just want me...t'know. 'Cause you're afraid I won't understand. I can." Shane burrows further into the hug, and as his gills slowly quiet to pushes down flatter against his neck his quiet sobs grow more audible, breath drawn in in softly ragged gasps as his tears soak into Micah's shirt. For a long while he just presses close, curling an arm tight around Micah and squeezing in snug. He nods eventually, at Micah's words, head tipping in quiet acceptance when Micah removes his glove, though he still doesn't say anything. Just holds tight. Micah's arms wrap around Shane first, hauling the teen up into his lap like a much smaller child and squeezing him close. At the little nod, he reaches his bared hand up to match the movements of the other, fingertips returning to stroking down at Shane's gills. Shane buries his face against Micah's chest, curling up small once he's settled into Micah's lap. His shoulders still shake, fingers pressing in against Micah's side. His thoughts run in chaotic mess through Micah's mind, snippets of the fire and the charred ruins of people afterwards, Rasa scared and hurt in the medbay, Hive's shaking-boney form, scraping and clanking of chains and angry-snarling-growling, hugging Spencer tightly and lighting Passover candles with him and B and Ghost and Dai. Curling over this, a deep hungry sense of /need/, aching-longing. Of feeling warm and secure here in Micah's arms; wanting to /keep/ that feeling because of how much it's been missing lately. Wanting to slow everything down. Stop the world for long enough for his family to /breathe/. Wanting to make sure his dads take care of their /own/ stresses, too. Not even knowing where to start taking care of his /own/. Wanting -- never to move. His arms curl tighter around Micah and mostly what floods his mind is a pervasive hungry -- << please-please-please, >> screaming up in time with the sobbing that, at its core, wants nothing more complicated than to gather his fathers to him and not let /go/. There is only a pause in stroking Shane's gills down for Micah to tug the other glove off and toss it away. The contact is maintained, meanwhile, by light-little kisses to the teen's forehead and spiky hair. "Oh, honey... Honey, {I'm sorry}. We can stay here. We can stay. Ain't got no place t'be 'til it's time t'get Spence ready for bed, okay? I love you, honey. We can stay right here." Predictably, whether due to the telepathic-empathic connection or not, small shiny streams of tears slide down his own cheeks. Shane nods, his shaky-hitchy sobs slowly tapering off though his tears still soak quietly into Micah's shirt. He tips his face up, nuzzling in against Micah's neck with a warm flood of relief, a simple pleased joy at not worrying about the contact. There's a quiet tactile comfort in it, for him, that in his mind does not find much separation from desire though there's not much sexual about it, exactly; just a purely sensate enjoyment of the touch both separate from and accentuated /by/ the affection for the person it is with. He's careful about his nuzzling, rough skin against Micah's smoother. "Okay." His arm squeezes tighter, then relaxes as he just snuggles in comfortably. "Okay. We can just -- stay. For a while."