ArchivedLogs:Home Again, Home Again

Home Again, Home Again
Jiggity-Jig
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Hive, Isra	2015-01-16 Dusk comes in out of the cold.
Location <NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
There's an open airy feel to the floorplan of this unit. The door opens up into a wide expanse of common space that is not so much divided up into rooms as it is simply multipurposed. Ash-grey resin flooring underfoot runs up against the paler grey of the exposed stone in the walls; between the stone support there are wide floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the river on one side of the home and the Commons' central yard on the other. Half of the space has a ceiling at one-floor height, though half of the space is left open with a balcony up on the second floor overlooking the living space below. A slatted stairway heads up to the second floor balcony; on the other side of the room, a fireman's pole running straight down the the basement provides a quicker way /down/. The wide open space here is combination living and dining room; near the windows there are a pair of couches and large armchair around a wide coffeetable; further off a steel-and-glass dining table is surrounded by eight tall black chairs. A full bathroom behind the stairway is done up in dark granite; the glass-doored bathtub/shower is rather expansively large. The kitchen is tucked off in back, beneath the half-height ceiling; in here the appliances and cabinets and shelving recessed into the wall are in brushed steel, wide grey sweeps of tempered glass countertops running around the edge of the room and a large central island holding stoves and oven and deep double sink. Adjacent to the kitchen, beneath the ceiling as well, is a sitting area structured largely around the enormous television against one wall, a wealth of video games for a number of consoles held on the shelves around the television. Crates and beanbags and one low futon folded against the floor are arranged in good viewing distance; opposite the television, a sturdy large pen built out of wood shrines a couch amid a sea of brightly colorful playpen balls. A door in one wall opens up to the apartment next door; a door opposite leads down to the basement. The dining room has gotten kind of a makeover this afternoon. Hive's laptop is sitting on the table, but the holo-projector attached to it has filled the room with glowing white-blue, a scaled-down model of an apartment building layered over the /actual/ furniture here. Hive has started to fill out. A little more flesh on his bones, over the past few weeks, his face less sallow and gaunt. Hair grown out to a short dark scruff, a brighter life to his dark eyes. At the moment he is crouched by the windows, scrawling measurements with a stylus straight into the air alongside the projection of a pool-and-sauna room. He's in jeans, black socks, a plain black tee with long-sleeved denim button-down worn open over top. Isra stalks out of the kitchen and into the living room with two mugs of inky black coffee, steaming hot. She wears only a black sports bra and black bike shorts, concealing little of her color scheme this week--her skin blue-black, decorated with a million glittering stars and drifts of pink-purple nebulae. One mug she sets down on a milk crate within Hive's reach, careful not to trespass on his phantom building. Settling down onto a beanbag, she takes up a tablet earlier set aside and curls around her own coffee, too hot as yet to drink. Somewhere upstairs there's a quiet thump, a soft click of opening door. Dusk's mind can probably be felt even before he lands, though, fierce and joyful at being /out/, flying, room to stretch his /wings/. Beneath that though there's a hunger, gnawing, tearing, just as fierce, colouring his exhiliration bloody-red and turning fierce to ferocious. He's shivering as he heads down the stairs, wings wrapped tight around himself; dressed in faded black corduroys, boots, he's already torn off whatever shirt he had been wearing on his way home from jail. "Jeeeesus nobody told me you're like -- fuck. Dude. Got some actual meat on you." His eyes have widened as he looks at Hive, a sharp /spike/ of happy in his mind. His wings are stretching out, touching (icily) to Isra's, draping (just as frozen) over Hive's back. Hive glances up sharply, before that thump sounds upstairs. "Shit. You didn't tell me --" But then Dusk's already on the stairs, already heading down, and /he/ gets to his feet (quickly, /steadily/), to lean into the embrace, wrap his arms back around Dusk and squeeze. Tight. He presses his face up against Dusk's shoulders, fingers kneading into his roommate's back. "Fuck. You too. They let you go?" His fist thumps against Dusk's back as he pulls away. "Been so nice and quiet around here, though." Isra's ears swivel as soon as Dusk touches down, and she rolls to her feet--coffee deftly kept upright throughout--as he makes his way downstairs. The quiet, disciplined calm in her thoughts shatters into a chaos of joy, concern, and lust. None of this shows in her expression, placid as ever save for the sudden dilating of her pupils. She manages to avoid knocking Hive over as she wraps Dusk in her massive wings, dark and starry and warm. Her tail lashes wildly as the silver talons of one hand digs into the space between his wings. "Welcome back," she says, both voices engaging. "Coffee?" "Please god yes." Dusk tips his head down, lips pressing to the top of Hive's head before the other man pulls away. His arm slips around Isra's waist, weight leaning up into her. "Hard as it is to believe, the coffee in jail is basically shit." His eyes are still sweeping over Hive. Taking in his less-bony form, brighter eyes, steadier posture, and that bright happy flutters higher again. "They're really doing it. Feel like we owe Kate and all the biggest fucking thank-you --" Hive's lips press together thinly. His head tips down, hand rubbing over his hair. "Yeah." This is softer. He pulls a step back, then another, then turns rather abruptly to crouch down again amid his work. "Yeah, they -- yeah." His eyes fix on the room he's working on. "We have /good/ stuff here, don't worry." "You can have mine while I make more." Isra passes him her NASA mug. "Possibly still scalding." Not eager to pull away from him, she drops her head to his shoulder, one bright green eye tracking Hive's abrupt withdrawal. A new strain of concern drifts into the hurricane of her emotions, followed fast by the awareness that she should probably try to put a lid on said tempest. Just like that, they dampen down--not calmed so much as efficiently quashed. She nips Dusk on the neck and uncoils herself from him to gather her coffee-making implements. Her thoughts focus hard on the task, taking down a ceramic jar labeled 'Kona #1' in Isra's flowing hand. "Any new conditions on your liberty?" Dusk's fingers knead against Isra's side, his cheek dropping to rest against one of her horns. He takes the mug, drawing in a long sniff of its steam first. His eyes follow after Hive, brows pulling together in time with a faint wash of concern that mirror's Isra's. "You okay, man?" His head tilts to the side, a shiver running up his back at the nip before he drops his arm from around Isra. "Still waiting on hearing that. They're working out /new/ conditions of my probation. Can't wait to hear what it'll be this time." Hive tips his head down, rubbing his shoulder against his cheek. "Yeah." But after another second: "No. Not really." He rocks backwards to sit down on the floor. "Missed you." His hand bats at his designs, crumpling the room he's been working on down to a tiny size and blowing up its neighbor. Fitness space. "Can't be worse than the last." The coffee grinder whirs under Isra's long-fingered hand. Her eyes flick between the two men, but only muted notes of concern dart through the quiet hunger in her mind like silver fish flashing in the deep. The ground coffee goes into the basket of the gleaming steel percolator. "I hope so, but I fear you may underestimate the ingenuity of our glorious judicial system when it comes to harebrained parole conditions." "Ohh, don't fucking tempt fate or they'll order my wings lopped off and my eyes as well." Dusk shivers, moving closer to Hive to crouch down on the floor and drape a (slightly thawing) wing around Hive's back. "Bad enough to get you all mopey? C'mon this place is lousy with huge-ass wings to snuggle into." He jostles at Hive's shoulders, but the teasing doesn't hide the flare of worry in his mind. "But you look like -- good." The noise Hive makes is quiet and a little disgusted, at the mention of cutting out eyes. He leans into Dusk's wing, turning his face this time to brush against Dusk's wing. "Haven't really -- it's been. Quiet around here since you. I --" He closes his eyes. "Fuck. No. Look, you /just/ got back this is -- have some coffee. I'll make dinner?" A sharp stab of rage runs through Isra, and her wings pull in tight against her back involuntarily. "No," this firmly, but so quietly that human hearing might not pick it up from the next room. She leaves the percolator to work and stalks back into the living room, looming over Dusk and Hive like a living patch of night sky. "I highly recommend supper, and not for wholly altruistic reasons. Fight Club later." "You're gonna cook? This must be a special occasion." Dusk doesn't release Hive just yet, wing rubbing slowly against the telepath's back. His eyes slide back over to Isra, a brief shiver rippling through his wing and his mind as well. "Dude, /I'm/ fine. All I've done for weeks is read a ton and work out. And have late-night conjugal visits." The tip of his head back towards Isra this time comes with a sharp crooked slice of grin. "Definitely not going to say no to your cooking, though. Oh /man/ especially before Fight Club I am /so/ fucking ready to throw down." "I haven't done -- much. The past couple weeks. Had a lot of time for cooking, though." With a small sigh Hive leans back, eyes closing as he nestles into the wing. "Think we have some snapper. I'll fry it up." Though he's slow to actually move, tucking in against Dusk's side for a long moment before finally rising, one hand rested on Isra's wing as though for support -- though he hasn't actually needed it, physically, for a couple weeks now. "... jesus, even in jail you're a fucking ho." "The primary motivation of the visits lay in keeping you fed, not...conjugation." The cacophony in Isra's mind gains a notable streak of warmth. "Although after Fight Club tonight..." Her wing braces back against Hive's hand, though neither her body language nor her thoughts register any real worry for his physical condition. Her tail, however, swishes a little faster. "If you want a sous chef, I have found I can /usually/ cut food without ruining the end product." "And I was so well-fed." Dusk's wings fold in at his back as Hive stands. He presses them down against the floor, levering himself back up to his feet. "If you want a sous chef --" His wing hitches upward. "Use Isra I'll fuck everything up." Hive smirks, crooked, lifting a hand to pat at Dusk's shoulder. "C'mon. Let's make him a /delicious/ fucking -- homecoming."