ArchivedLogs:Just Talk

Just Talk
Dramatis Personae Micah, Dusk
In Absentia	14 June 2013 So, basically Dusk has been having a really horrible week. >_<' (Set directly after talks with Corey.)
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Seventh Floor - East Village
The hallways here are not as bright as they once were, cheery yellow paint faded to a dingier shade, carpeting old and worn and threadbare. They are generally clean, though, despite the fading, diligently cared for by the building's maintenance. Early evening finds Micah waiting by the elevator, having bid Corey goodnight before the other man wandered off down the stairs. Micah is opting for the less-jostling mode of transit to save the gingersnaps packed in his bag from breakage, now that they are fewer in number and no longer snug in their tin. Said bag hangs heavy from his shoulder, which is clad in a chocolate brown T-shirt on which a stegosaurus is cursing a T-rex for his ‘sudden but inevitable betrayal’. His washed-out jeans are patched in an impressive array of fabrics. Micah has his right hand pressed unthinkingly to his left forearm, over a fresh, superficial cut that is no longer bleeding actively. The elevator door opens very shortly after Micah calls for it. Already bearing one passenger. Dusk looks wide-eyed startled to see Micah outside; his hands lift in sudden SPOOK! But then recognition calms this into a slight relaxation. "-- Micah." His eyes shift to Micah's arm before lifting to the man's face. He is -- pretty much like he always is; too-skinny, too-pale. Simply dressed, jeans and a blue-and-white striped t-shirt that has been sliced and restitched to allow for the giant wings at his back. They're mantled at the moment, or at least one of them is, folded almost capelike down against his back; the other stands just a little bit prouder, wrapped around with some form of tape to hold the long fingerbones more or less together; one of them has had a splint taped /to/ it. His dark eyes look over Micah, and then past him. The elevator door starts to close. He reaches a hand to push it back. "Oh -- oh, sorry. Right. Um." He turns a little sideways as he steps out, hand held against the door to keep it open. "Are you -- hurt?" “Dusk! Oh, hi, sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.” Micah looks a little bit sheepish at the spooking. He looks down at his arm at the question of injury. “Oh, no, not really,” he assures, moving his hand to reveal the little two inch long cut. It is nothing much worse than a really long paper cut would be, and is nearly scabbing. “I just…caught it on…something. On the roof.” Smooth, Micah. Because it wouldn’t do to say he’d cut himself to see if the man who just trotted off down the stairs could /heal/ it. His built-in lie detector blush sets off faintly pink, despite the innocuous nature of the story. Micah waves for Dusk to just let the elevator close again, as he wants to talk for a moment. “You holdin’ up okay? Anythin’ I can get for you…when’s the last time you ate?” The questions sort of blend into one another, he’s so used to asking them of pretty much everyone as he makes rounds of friends’ apartments in the Lofts. Dusk's head shakes. "I'm -- probably. Easy to startle right now. You need a bandaid for that?" He glances at the cut with a note of concern. His hand drops away from the elevator door, curling instead against his chest. "What? Oh. I -- I just had dinner," he says with a shake of his head, "there were -- people brought food. Matt. And his brother. There's probably some at your place, too." “That’s understandable,” Micah replies with a warm smile. “Oh, I’m not sure it even needs coverin’. I was just gonna slap some antiseptic on it just in case. It’s a scratch, really.” He shrugs as if to say, ‘See, no problem!’ “That’s good. Seems like can’t nobody remember to feed themselves anymore,” he observes with a fond sort of chuckle. “Matt and Lucien were by? Bet I missed them already. Too bad. Haven’t visited with either of ‘em in too long.” Micah glances around, realising that he’s stopped Dusk in the hallway. “Ohgosh, am I keepin’ you from somethin’? Sorry, I don’t think before I let my mouth run away from me.” Another shake of the head. "Think they might still be /at/ your place. Desi went to see the twins so." Dusk shrugs a thin shoulder. "Oh -- no, you're not -- keeping me from -- I don't /have/ anything to --" His fingers curl tightly against his opposite bicep, hand slowly creeping up towards his shoulder. "Do you feed yourself? I guess -- living with Jax that wouldn't -- there's always food there." His eyes finally shift away from the cut, dropping to the floor instead. "It's -- OK. It's nice to. Talk. My place's been -- really quiet." “Maybe I’ll run into them yet, then,” Micah says, nodding. “Oh, I ain’t had dinner just yet, but will when I get in. Still early-ish.” His expression grows concerned as Dusk’s gaze shifts to regard the floor. “You wanna sit somewhere a spell? I got some gingersnaps left, an’ there’s still a splash of tea…” "Yeah, I was going --" Dusk's good wing flexes one tip out towards the roof door. "Just needed some --" This trails off, too. He musters up a smile, quick and admittedly somewhat wan and still turned down towards the floor. "Gingersnaps are awesome." His hand keeps creeping upwards, eventually hooking fingers against his shoulder, clinging there like he's holding it /on/. Or holding himself on to it. "Are you sure I mean. You were -- going --" His wing folds back against his back. "You were going. Down. I don't want to -- keep you." “It’s good to get a change of scenery sometimes, yeah.” Micah nods again, moving to open the door to the roof. “Nah, I’m not on any particular schedule. I was just headin’ down ‘cause the person I was sittin’ with got some texts an’ had to run. Lemme feed you cookies, it’ll do us both good.” He slides a little lopsided grin on, to help with the convincing. Dusk nods, slipping past Micah with a gentle brush of one wing against Micah's arm. He climbs the stairs out to the roof, holding the second door in turn; already kind of paler from the single-flight walk. "How -- how have /you/ been, everything's. Everything's been a mess. I think I've just been. /Assuming/. That everyone's a mess." The wing-brush coaxes another smile onto Micah’s face, though this fades again as they reach the roof and Dusk’s pallor becomes more obvious. Micah does manage to answer the other man’s question before posing his own. “I been…alright. Sad at the things that are sad…an’ there are a /lot/ of ‘em. Angry at stuff I ain’t got a lotta control over. Tryin’ to help everybody keep it together. An’…life is the rest. Still movin’. Still messy.” He moves over to the little table and chairs, pulling out one of the chairs and indicating that Dusk should sit. “Are you okay? It looks like goin’ up those stairs took a lot out of you. Got sugar an’ fluids.” He taps the bag on his shoulder. Those things…right here. “Anythin’ else help?” "There's a lot of them." Dusk issues this agreement softer, looking down at his hands. His fingers toy with a ring on his opposite hand, a flat silver band with a small black cross embedded into it. "Are you keeping it together?" It seems to take a great deal of effort for him to lift his eyes from the floor -- just far enough to the bag when Micah taps at it. One side of his mouth twitches. Faintly. "Fluids help," he agrees. He eyes the chair for a moment, and then turns it around backwards so that he can sit straddling it, wings shifting faintly -- one more than the other, tied as it is -- and re-settling. "Do you," he's asking this very /seriously/, "want a hug." “Hm…it’s what I do,” Micah answers lightly as he pulls the tin of cookies and Thermos of iced tea out of the bag, leaving them on the table. The now-empty bag gets to sit on the ground. “Um…I only had the two cups that got used but the top of the Thermos is sort of a cup, just very not-fancy.” He opens the tin and pours the last of the tea into the lid-cup. Dusk’s /very serious/ question gets a…okay, not so much a very serious answer. “Oh, that’s not even a question. Always yes to hugs.” He moves closer to Dusk to facilitate /hugs/. Though hugs with one person sitting and the other standing tend to turn into almost sitting in the other person’s lap. He does his best not to Dusk-squish. "What's what you do. Keep it together? Or keep -- other people together." Dusk has returned to regarding the -- table, now, it's in /between/ his gaze and the floor. Otherwise he'd probably be back to looking at the floor again. He barely even seems to register the tea-pouring, but he does shift towards Micah when the other man comes closer. His arm hooks up to pull Micah closer, but its with the good wing that he actually /hugs/, fuzzy-soft limb folding around Micah in a slow squeeze. That -- probably tugs him somewhat more practically-into-lap. “Yes,” Micah replies so-helpfully, probably indicating ‘both’. He giggles as he is tugged just about off his feet. “Now, I don’t /mind/ sittin’ on your lap if that’s what you’re goin’ for. I’m just tryin’ not t’squash you by accident.” Because his balance in this position? Not so great, actually. He nuzzles against the fuzzy-wing, as it is pretty damned near impossible /not/ to. "I'm not as squash-able as I look," Dusk assures Micah. The quiet exhale he makes is almost a laugh. Reaching for a laugh, falling slightly flat. His wing curls a little bit tighter, this time just nudging Micah into actually-sitting. He does not squash! Although he is kind of bony. Thin sharp bones without a lot of padding to them. His wing brushes gently back against the nuzzling. "-- You got any tips? Because I'm. Failing. Kind of. At that." "Oh, that's reassuring, because--" Flop, apparently. Micah topples, albeit gently, into Dusk with that last wing-nudge. When this doesn't seem bother the younger man any, he continues his wing-pettings. "S'really...depends a lot from person to person, what gives 'em focus. I...fuss over other people. An' makin' routines. Jax cooks an' feeds people an' cleans things. Um... What usually helps you feel calm an' safe? We're not aimin' all the way for happy. I think that's the mistake people make. Thinkin' it's either fallin' apart or dancin' an' nothin' in between. Calm an' safe's a good startin' point." "Ian," is Dusk's prompt answer to the question, and then, "... sorry." A touch of colour flushes into his pale cheeks. He tips his head back, slightly, closing his eyes. His wing stays folded around Micah, firmer and more supportive than the soft thin membrane /looks/. "Nothing -- really feels safe. Right now. Calm --" His head shakes. "Just want to be drunk all the time. That's -- probably not the sort of fluids you were recommending." "No, that's fair. It's honest. Don't apologise for it." Micah snuggles into Dusk's shoulder, being careful not to aggravate injuries. There is a bit of a soft pink blush creeping across his cheekbones, in answer to the other man's. "Does it help, t'talk about him? You don't have to /not/." He offers Dusk an odd sort of half-smile. "No, prob'ly that's not the best answer. Likely just t'make yourself sick that way." "Almost definitely. I'm kind of a lightweight." This statement comes with another twitch of almost-smile. Dusk closes his eyes, wing just rubbing absently against Micah's arm. "I don't know," he admits, after a long stretch of silent thought. "It's hard to know what -- helps, everything right now is just really -- raw and --" He shakes his head quickly. His eyes open again to watch that blush creeping up Micah's cheeks. "Sorry. This isn't -- we should have gingersnaps." "Yeah, I know that one...me, too," Micah's little grin makes it a bit further than Dusk's smile. "Try whatever seems right at the time. I don't mind. Listenin' or bein' quiet or talkin'." He brushes at his cheek as Dusk seems to be registering the blush. "Oh, /that/. Don't worry about it. I kinda blush at everythin'. I'll blush just 'cause someone /else/ is blushin', even if I got no reason to. It's...uh--" Micah /flail-flings/ an arm backward (the one that isn't completely wrapped in wing-hug), which is /somehow/ successful in retrieving the cookie tin without flinging cookies everywhere, but looks absolutely ridiculous. He holds the tin where Dusk can reach it easily. Uh...cookie? "Talking is good. I mean, listening to you. I mean --" Dusk's eyes are still fixed on Micah's cheek and he pulls them away sharply when Micah's hand lifts to it. "Sorry --" He takes a cookie from the tin, gaze fixing downward once again; his wing loosens in its snug fold around Micah. "Sorry I shouldn't --" Another small twitch of smile. "That was kind of oddly acrobatic." “Oh, not to worry then. I can talk for about ever. Usually harder t’shut me up.” Micah bunny-crinkles his nose at that. His arm curls the cookie tin up against his chest to secure it better. “I’m kind of aces at flailin’. Could /prob’ly/ start a new performance art form. Only acrobatic show that needs /multiple/ nets. For when you fling yourself out of the first one by accident. Show’s over when you get tangled up enough they have to cut you free.” "/I/ don't," Dusk informs Micah quiet and earnest, "need any nets." For a moment his wing tightens again in a soft indicative squeeze, but then loosens once more. "You could join the circus. I hear there's one in town. Kind of in town. The twins said by school, anyway." "Mmhmm. Go ahead an' brag, Mr. Doesn't Fall Down 'Cause He Has Wings," Micah teases playfully. Also, probably the worst fake name /ever/. "I find circuses kind of creepy. Think it might just be the critters... They always seem kinda sad. Just straight up performance stuff's neat, though. Not usually the type to be in travelling circuses an' carnivals." He giggles outright. "They'd laugh me right out of the...tent, or whatever. Might get hired on as a /clown/. Then I can be creepy, too." Again with the nose crinkling! "That's sort of a mouthful. I usually just go by Dusk." Dusk's eyes squeeze shut, his head shaking emphatically. "Oh, god. No. Don't be a /clown/ that's nightmare-fuel." He finally lifts his hand to nibble at the cookie. Very gingerly. "I'd join the freakshow. Do circuses still have those?" Micah snickers softly at the name correction. “Yessir, I’ll try t’keep it straight in the future.” He bounces his eyebrows at the clown-creepiness. “See, I told you! Creepy.” He has to think a moment on that last question. “I dunno. Never seen one. Don’t mean they don’t have ‘em. S’a freakshow s’posed to be adorable?” See, these wing-pettings? Pretty much not stopping without direct orders. "Supposed to be -- freaky, I think. /Most/ people think bloodsuckers with gargoyle wings are kind of /almost/ as creepy as clowns. I think your adorable-sensors may be. Off." But Dusk's wing is curling in again, wrapping snug around Micah's shoulder. Lifting slightly to brush one upper tip (with its odd thumb-claw) against his cheek. "Prob'ly s'posed to be. With the name an' all." Micah quirks his lips over to one side. "I don't think my sensors are /off/. Perhaps...more finely calibrated. Precision adorable sensors. Capture all faint signs of adorableness." The tight wing-wrap only encourages more snuggling. "So's I just catch what other people are missin' out on, maybe." "Sensors must go off like crazy living with Jax and Spence and the twins." Dusk takes another small nibble of cookie, and then sets it on the table next to the untouched tea. His head tips forward, resting for a moment against Micah's; it's half affectionate and half just tired. Slump. "You know," he says this quieter, with a small frown, "We should have Game Night this Tuesday." “Pretty much /non-stop/,” Micah agrees with an emphatic nod. “I’m sure we could do that. Y’wanna have it at your place, or we could do at one of the other apartments?” Dusk’s headslump opens him up for hair mussings. Again, this is simply a requirement. Dusk's hair is very mussable. Thick and too shaggy, in messy waves that hardly look tamed even when he /does/ brush them. "My place is hell," he says, and contradictingly in the next breath, "Let's do it there." His head lifts, turns upwards. For a moment his lips brush against Micah's skin, at his wrist just at the base of his palm. But then his head tilts back further, looking up at the dimming evening sky. "Spence steals our ferret a lot," he says to the sky, and then corrects with a wince: "-- my ferret. Just teleports in, nabs her, goes home. I can't be mad. Because adorable." “It’ll be good…gettin’ back into the old routine. We can help. With cleanin’ an’ food an’ all.” It might not be /entirely/ clear who else Micah is volunteering here. Maybe it is the Royal We. He stills his arm for the other man’s ministrations, pausing in his hair fluffing and finger combing. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that a few times. Sudden apartment ferret. S’about impossible t’really be mad at Spence. Just /help/ us all if he ever /really/ figures that out.” "I've seen Hive mad at him --" Dusk stops, but then corrects himself: "OK, no, he got mad at Jax /because/ of him." This time his smile makes it a little bit wider! Tiny bit. Even a small flash of fangy teeth. "Cleaning, oh god, we'll have to /excavate/. Place is buried under about ten feet of junk. I have no frakking clue how Jax keeps it so neat down there with three /kids/." He is back to slumping, again. Head bopping down against Micah's, a tired wilt to his posture. The grip of his wing is weakening again. "Tell the truth. S'some kind of black magic going on down there. Clean house and constant stream of baked goods. It's gotta be witchcraft." "See? Impossible to really be mad at Spence. An' Hive's got supernatural grumpy abilities, besides," Micah asserts with a grin. "Isn't witchcraft so much as a whole lotta not sleepin' plus fussy-cleanin' an' fussy-bakin' whenever he's in fret-mode. An' y'know how often he's in fret-mode. Pretty much a recipe for pastries an' clean rooms." Micah's hand sneaks along the back of Dusk's neck to tangle his fingers in his hair again, at that forward slump. "Just let me know when's a good time t'be fussin' around over there, an' we can take care of it, okay?" Dusk nods in answer to this, quiet at the moment. His breathing is a little less steady as Micah's fingers sneak behind his neck, and for a while he doesn't speak, or look up. "You volunteering Jax for this too, or has Hive fallen off the wagon again?" He says this sort of -- down to Micah's chest, since he's still not looking up. His other wing shivers, twitching briefly against its binding. “Maybe Jax. Might be just me. Figure ‘we’ leaves more room for whatever happens. Still ain’t entirely inaccurate if I don’t come with nobody,” Micah explains. “Nah, pretty sure Hive hasn’t started collectin’ people again. ‘Least I haven’t gotten added to a collection recently. He does get a shade…uh…brain-pushy when he’s particularly stressed out… But I think he’s kept a handle on it.” His fingers keep tracing through Dusk’s hair like they have a mind of their own, no connection to the ongoing conversation. "He's stressed out," Dusk says, very quietly, "he /had/ Ian when -- they -- when he --" He swallows. "Yeah. Stress. Makes it harder. Not to. Take brains." Very abruptly, his wing uncurls, tucking again behind his back. He has a hand at least in place behind Micah's shoulderblades to prevent any abrupt /falling/. "I'm sorry. I need to. I'm kind of." Despite this abrupt shift he makes no actual move to get /up/. His head nuzzles back against Micah's hand. "Stress eating." He sounds a little wry. Micah nods sadly. "Yeah. Tough not havin' another telepath t'help work his brain right, without spillin' over. Maybe Lucien could help again? He seemed t'help before. I'm not sure...exactly what he /did/, t'tell the truth." That hand was an extremely...handy placement, as Micah /does/ fall back against it with the sudden withdrawal of support. "Oh...oh...y'mean, you...uh...have to..." He looks back at /his/ hand. "Guess you haven't been able to get out as much lately. I don't... I mean, it's okay if... I don't mind." That hint of blush has crept back in. "Yeah. Ian was usually his. Brain -- watcher." Dusk's fingers spread out against Micah's shoulderblade. His dark eyes widen, cheeks abruptly flushing faintly pink in paler mirror to Micah's. "Oh -- oh. I didn't. Mean. I just. Was going to go back down and -- sleep. Until the dizzy -- passes." His fingers press harder against Micah's back. "Sorry. You don't have to. You should go back down, maybe. Maybe catch Matt before he --" His jaw tightens. "Leaves." “Does it actually, though? Pass? Or just get worse?” Micah’s brows knit together. “If sleep actually makes it better, that’s one thing. But…you’re still healin’.” He hasn’t made any movement to get up yet, either. “I mean, would it help? Because I don’t mind…helpin’. Really.” "Does sleeping stop you needing food?" Dusk's lips twitch, his head tipping forward again to rest against Micah's shoulder. "Makes it easier to forget a while, though. Makes it easier to forget a lot of things." His wings twitch again -- one straining against the tape, the other stretching out to its full span, longer across than he is tall. Then curling back in to fold up against his back. "-- It actually feels much better today," he says with a little bit of puzzlement and a faint twitch of his other wing. "Couldn't even sleep last night for how much it hurt. Today I don't even feel it." "No. I just...I'm not completely sure how all these things work all the time. You'll have t'forgive the flailin'." Micah's blush deepens around a sheepish little smile. "I just...want to help. So it's okay. To let me know what you need. Or don't need. Because I don't really know without..." True to his previous statement, his hand flails a bit in a gesture of befuddlement. "Might be it's on the mend. Time does fix /some/ things." It's a half-truth, but necessary. Not mentioning the 'healing event'. It doesn't keep his skin from growing a shade redder in the meantime. He's kind of hopeless. Dusk's eyes fix back on that blushing. "-- Is time embarrassing, too?" He gives another twitch of lips, at this. And then /his/ cheeks flush darker: "... mmm. I mean. Uh. Even if you were OK with -- I need to -- um. I kind of feel like I'm picking up a new sex partner every time I --" His lips pull back, for a moment, baring his fangs. "But worse. Because I can't put a /condom/ on blood. It always feels, uh, a little rude. To be like, hey, you just volunteered to let me /feed/ off you, can I have your medical history first?" His head bonks back against Micah's shoulder. "... Being a vampire is way sexier on TV," he complains. Argh, don't point out the blushing, it makes the blushing /worse/! "No...I mean...it doesn't even mean...just..." Micah tugs at his hair. "Redhead curse. It's just, 'I am experiencin' an emotion of any kind'." The complaint has Micah /giggling/. "Oh, what /isn't/ better on TV? Y'get to stage everythin' as much as you want with no real consequences. It's kinda...reassurin' that you ask, honestly. Guess it is pretty much like takin' blood donations. Which I'm not allowed t'do...donate, that is. Because they're still pretty sure boysex spontaneously generates diseases, the people who write the regulations." Well, that was a fun tangent... "Um, but, uh. If it's ever necessary. I'm kind of dealin' with doctors even more than typical? 'Cause of the leg thing. So...pretty much all the testin' all the time. No known blood-borne diseases as of last I was in." File this under awkward conversations never anticipated to be had. "But...yeah. Just...information, it's... I don't like the idea of anybody starvin' all the time." Shrug. "Don't gotta do nothin' with it." "Oh my god, wait, you have boysex?" Dusk's eyes widen. SHOCKED. "Sorry, no, totally ineligible to donate now." Except his fingers are already sliding up Micah's arm, tracing against his wrist. "-- I get tested a lot. But mostly just. Because I bite people. You know how few people ever ask /me/, though? Kind of scary. I blame TV, too. I don't think TV vampires /carry/ pathogens either. Unless -- vampirism is a virus itself." His thumb has settled against the pulse in Micah's wrist, although his head still hasn't lifted. "Should go back down anyway," he says. "Gauze there. Bandages." He might have a whole Responsible Biting /kit/. There is a snort of laughter at the fake-shock. "That's it. Can't donate anywhere. Blood's /officially/ no good." Micah Eeyore-mopes. "Do most people get t'the point where askin's relevant? Seems like not many would. 'Cause...uh...s'kinda serious. Really ain't somethin' I'd have even thought t'bring up if I hadn't known you for months already." He nods, finally finding some semblance of order to his limbs to stand back up, to start gathering materials back into his bag. "Okay, but y'should stand slow an' y'should let me help you on the stairs. If you're dizzy. 'Cause passin' out's no good." "Micah," Dusk is saying this very seriously, /too/, "between Anne Rice and Buffy and that Twilight business, you have no idea how many people ask me to bite them before they know my /name/. Wouldn't exactly want to show me to any of their friends, but want --" His lips twitch, and in his tone there's something amused and something not all at once, wry and heavy. "-- I mean, there's a lot of people out there with mutant fetishes, but I'm like a special brand of guilty pleasure." He does stand slow, pushing himself up with one hand on the table. What little colour there was in his face is draining back out. "Do you ever stop being helpful?" Micah scrunches one eye closed, the opposite eyebrow zipping upward. “That…uh…is actually kind of creepy. Them, not you,” he clarifies. “I mean, I like bitin’ as much as the next person, but. S’kinda. A lot. Different.” Once the food items are all scooped back into the bag, he darts over to support Dusk’s arm. That colour change was not reassuring. He flashes a smirk at the other man’s question, regardless. “Contrary to popular opinion, I do sleep sometimes.” "Uh huh. Jax tells me the same thing." Dusk leans against Micah; bones built for flight means there's not much weight to him, less than even his beanpole-build would suggest. "Yeah. It's totally creepy." And then a very small curl of smile: "-- You like biting?" His hand curls around Micah's arm as they head back in. He pauses at the door back into the building to offer Micah an almost shy; "-- thanks." He pulls the door open for Micah to head in. His cheeks colour very faintly. "It's been -- it's nice to. Just. Talk."