ArchivedLogs:Life
| Life | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 13 February 2014 Happy Birth-Funeral to Jiiiim! (Takes place several hours after picking up pictures from Sean.) |
| 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. A widescreen television stands against the wall opposite the couch, shelving beside it holding a host of video games from different consoles. More shelving beside the windows on the far wall carries stacks of board games, as well as sourcebooks from various RPGs. 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 and one bathroom situated between them, split between the three people who live here. Geekhaus is pretty somber, today. Its usual Christmas lights have been removed, replaced with a dark-veiled drapery between living room and kitchen, as well as over the the windows. The large gaming table in the center of the room has been cleared; it now holds a coffin, though admittedly in place of body the coffin holds a selection of dark-chocolate cupcakes (appropriately decorated like tombstones.) There's small white flowers wreathing the coffin, little votive candles flickering on the counter between living room and kitchen where the (non-alcoholic) drinks have all been stacked. There's a healthy selection of Thai food out on the counter as well, filling the apartment with warm spiced smells over the chocolate scent of cupcakes. Hive is, at the moment, tucked into the corner of the couch with a cupcake in hand, finger tracing through its icing as he looks down at the tombstone, His shoulders are hunched up into his Grumpy Bear sweatshirt, his legs tucked up beneath himself. There's music playing, soft and soothing; it's not a traditional Western funeral dirge, perhaps. Perhaps something more at home in a Buddhist temple. Melinda is led into the apartment on the arm of Flicker, wearing the best mourning garb she could assemble. It mainly consists of a long black stretchy skirt with black stockings underneath, a button down maternity shirt ruched around the belly to show whatever shape she has, and delightfully perched upon her head is a fascinator with a black veil cascading over her face down to her chin. The effect is less impressive with her big blue coat and snow boots, but those are both removed at the door. She has a bouquet of orange chrysanthemums and white lilies clutched in one hand, her purse dangling from the other shoulder. She nods to Flicker then heads deeper into the apartment, going to greet Hive. "Hey you. Smells wonderful in here. Thought... these might be fitting for the occasion." She lifts the flowers to indicate what she is referring to. Dusk has dressed up for the occasion. He's even put on a shirt, black button-down with black slacks, one wing drooping limply behind himself -- though it looks like it's starting to heal up better even since this morning, thin membrane knitting itself back together although it's still clear enough to see where the wingsail had been torn right open before. He has a large tumbler in that he's just removing from the microwave, thick and red and full of what in other places would probably be a bloody mary but for him is definitely just blood. "Hive, bro, you didn't get dressed." It's not chastising so much as quietly concerned. "I'll get you some food, yeah?" He turns to beam bright at Melinda, but then immediately rearranges his face into a somber expression and trade her a white flower for her bouquet. "I mean, I'm terribly sorry for your loss." Micah's expression is appropriately somber for the setting, though whether this is to do with the /theme/ or something else entirely is anyone's guess. Except, perhaps, Hive's. To the telepath, it is readily apparent what is on Micah's mind. A drawn picture of injured Anole with his continued focus on a window with red brick columns behind it, trying to place them. A fuzzier image of Horus in a cage, not enough resolution to make out much other than the man's clear distress. General fret over Hive's own health status. For all the somber expression, he's dressed exactly as he has been all day: royal blue sweater over robin's egg henley, heavy fleece-lined bluejeans, and thick multicolour polkadot socks. He moves immediately over to Hive's couch-corner, standing beside the couch arm to scritch his fingers into the telepath's thick hair without a verbal greeting. "Hi, Mel, Flicker, Dusk," he does eventually say as the others enter, even mustering up a smile and some cheerfulness of tone for the greeting. Jax's black has a good deal of rainbow swirled into it. Black hair with rainbow tips, oilslick makeup, oilslick nails. Sheeny black pants, sheeny black button-down. He nabs one of his cupcakes as he settles down onto the floor at the base of the couch, resting his head against Hive's knees. Then bouncing right back up again to offer Mel a hug. "Hihi!" For all his outward bright-exuberance there's a good deal of somber floating around his thoughts, too, much in the same vein as Micah's. "There's tombstonecakes. An' dinner. A /lotta/ dinner." And then, comes the... man of the hour. Even if you wouldn't know it by looking at him, Jim arrives without a lot of fanfare, shoving open the door not far behind Melinda and dressed in jeans and a green and dark-blue flannel, a gray t-shirt underneath - small wonder, he's at least stopped somewhere for a shower to not sink up the place with sewersmell. He stops in the doorway entrance, tweed jacket half draped over a forearm and... /scowls/ around. His camera hangs off the front of his neck, swinging with each slow subsequent step he resumes in his exit. Like he's expecting a PIT TRAP next. In a single sweep of eyes taking in all the little /details/ like they're a food he's BITING into. << --even the candles. ah fuck the cupcakes, just shoot me already. someone missed their fucking calling. >> Which is louder and more abrasive than << -the music...>> "So. /Batman/. Flick. Mel. Mel-/cargo/. /You/ two." That is directed at BOTH Micah and Jax, because he can't decide which of them is responsible for those cupcakes. YET. And he heads right in for the couch. To drop down beside Hive like he didn't SEE him there. "Who died." Like he doesn't know. Nope, not beside Hive any more, because he is thunking his cupcake into Micah's hand and getting up with a hand pressed to Jax's black-and-rainbow head to lever himself back to his feet. "Fffuck. Right." He flicks Jim off in greeting, shuffling off into his bedroom, thumping a shoulder against Flicker's in passing. He returns in short order, jeans and Grumpy Bear sweatshirt traded for simple white tunic and black slacks, both hanging poorly on his bony frame. "Eat food," he tells Jim. "Get fat. S'the one vice left when you're --" He shakes his head, leaning up against the back of the couch with elbows propped over the seat where he'd just recently /been/ sitting. Mel's hugs are a little three quarters at this point, the belly standing in the way of the full front to front hugs. She does hug however, giving Jackson a good squeeze after receiving her replacement flower -- with a thought of << but I'm supposed to smack him with those! >> She reaches over and ruffles Micah's hair affectionately before turning to Jim. "Hmmm. are we supposed to refer to you as the undead or a ghost at this thing? I am not sure that was fully described in the invite." She smiles and turns toward him, planting a kiss on his cheek. << Deal with it. >> "I've taken to calling the kid 'entling' for now." She then starts to wander toward the food with Dusk, looking over the offerings. "I'm supposed to avoid seafood and fish. Any recommendations?" "Can we split the difference, call him a ghoul?" Dusk suggests. "Those are like undead and ghosts both. Kind of. Or horrible flesh-eating monsters, guess it depends on your -- mythos." His wing squeezes at Melinda before he pulls back, glass of blood still held in a hand as he takes the flowers off to find a glass to put them in. They definitely don't have vases. "There's a spicy laab tofu -- like minced salad. And a pretty excellent chicken curry. And crispy eggplant. And mango coconut rice. And tamarind vegetables. And fried duck. And shu mai. Uhh -- basically all that," he points to a couple dishes on the side, "is seafood so don't touch it." Oh no, Hiveabandonment. TRAGEDY. Jim makes a face like Mel is flicking WATER in his eyes when she kisses him - even if he turns his head into it to grouchily allow it. Maybe he kind of GRINDS his DEFENSIVE STUBBLE into her face a little, agh take that, exfoliating maneuvers and half/wails/, "For crying out loud, Mel, don't call it '/entling/'." Hive's return increases a deeper uneasiness winding in his gut, no more mollified for how poorly his clothes fit his clothes-wire frame. "Can always be brain-dead," he mutters, "I'm a fucking champ at going vegetable. What d'you got to drink." He's asking Dusk this last part. Poor bastard spoke up about food, so apparently he's now the know-all be-all of party foods. Amongst an easy enough company, Jim is letting the greenery hang out. His flaky-dry skin is curling in places more towards genuine bark. Spring-green dogwood leaves have begun to bud up from his clavicle and behind a left ear. He scratches at it with a dirty fingernail. “Hey, Jim. Happy...thing.” Micah gestures at the room vaguely, not wanting to break rules with an /actual/ 'happy birthday', but not really in the right place mentally to joke about death. “We don't get names anymore, Jax. Y'think that's the fastest time two people've formed into the indistinguishable Married Couple Unit?” There is, at least, a hint of an amused smile at this. Speaking of getting fat, Micah hands the cupcake right /back/ to Hive as soon as he returns from his costume change. “This is yours, eat it,” he instructs before he is distracted by Mel's hair ruffling and leans into it. “How're y'doin', Mel? I /definitely/ like 'entling' better'n 'Mel-cargo'. That one sounds like...some kind of snail. Although, oh! Racing snail! Cute.” The associated image in his head, again only really shared with Hive, is of a toddler riding the racing snail from the film adaptation of /Neverending Story/. Dusk's food descriptions widen his eyes a bit. “Oh, eggplant! And mango. And tamarind. And spicy tofu. I need all of those things.” He doesn't move into the kitchen just yet, though. Priority on birthday person, pregnant lady, and underfed Hive to get food before he worries about his own, after all. "Blood," Jackson chirrups cheerfully enough, "an' tea an' coffee an' five flavours of soda an' a few different kindsa juice. An' I can make cocoa or mull some cider, what'cha like?" He is quickly making his cupcake disappear as he trots over to the drinks, nabbing a glass and -- not going for the /blood/. "Ohgosh. Did we /meld/? That's kinda horrifyin'. Okayokay who needs -- things." Because he's by the drinks now, bouncing on his toes. "Jim is not a /ghoul/ if he's any kinda spirit he's a tree-spirit. Only those're dryads an' that jus' brings /strange/ mental images'a wispy li'l willow-frond skirts." "Entling." Hive's teeth grind absently at this, his head sinking down against his arms. "/You/ still never even actually /told/ me it was yours, motherfucker. Until this exact -- well. Not that you still." His eyes close. "Happy -- fff. Birth -- funeral." His teeth grind again, fingers digging in at his elbows. "Fits, he lives with a fucking rockbiter. The laab tofu's pretty much the best I've found anywhere, Mel," he advises her. "And that includes fucking Thailand." "I'm calling the kid what I want to call the kid until the kid comes out. Calling the kid... the kid gets pretty repetitive." Mel counters, grabbing a plate and taking some rice and then tiny spoonfuls of everything Dusk has deemed pregnancy safe. And then another spoonful of the laab tofu. She eyes Jim as she heads away from the food and back to the couch. "I got you flowers." Isn't she sweet? << Is someone a motherfucker because they've fucked someone's mother or because they fucked someone and created a mother? Interesting. >> She is now imagining Jim in a hula/grass skirt rather than his summer kilt and amusing herself with the thought of his knees poking through the grassy hems. << Apologies about not telling. I ... just kind of assumed he did. >> The thought is spared for Hive in a quiet moment. "You could put him in a wispy willow skirt," Dusk suggests to Jax with a fierce teeth-bared grin. "Maybe some banana leaves for --" He holds one hand up like a lopsided but very large breast. His other hand is very busy with his glass of blood as he jiggles this imaginary teat towards Jim. "Apparently we did. Oh, Jax, if you're doin' drinks, could y'grab me a juice? Not fussy which. Can I put a plate t'gother for you?" Micah nudges against Hive's arm with the question. "Hee, Rockbiter." He just shakes his head at Dusk's antics. "If he's dressin' in /plants/ he could just make those 'imself. Don't need t'/put/ nothin'." Wandering into the kitchen, he fetches two plates, keeping an ear out for requests from Hive, since the telepath clearly needs more food in his face. "Juice, check." Jax pours a glass of cranberry-peach for Micah. "An' yeah my plants'd only be illusion Jim can grow his own better ones anyway." He nudges the glass towards Micah as the other man wanders into the kitchen. "Other-drinks, hmm? Jim? Mel? Hive-honey?" His brows crease in fleeting worry as he watches Hive's posture, an uncomfortable squeeze of tension curling across the too-bright mindscape of his thoughts. << Really unfortunate timing for this theme. >> Jim hunkers forward, landing his elbows on his knees and through the turmoil and sick sunken feelings he's trying NOT to think of himself in a willow frond skirt OR of Jax and Micah melted together Masque-style. Or of the squirming guilt for Hive's question. << -fuck you I meant to. then i'd come in and- >> His mind is flooded with thoughts of Hive's dead eyes in Jax's apartment, of the words 'eight million people' and the muffled gritty-sound of Hive's teeth clenching. << -not exactly been time-ohgod WHY >>. "WHY are you hefting a /batbreast/ at me." God DAMMIT, Dusk. And WHY is Jim staring at Dusk's cupping hand /transfixedly/? Does he want to TOUCH it? Forget this, he's going into his hands. To rubs his eyesockets. "/Scotch/. What kind of flowers." Can he eat them. << Fuck /you/ and your bullshit excuses you fucking asshole. >> snaps back to Jim, snarling hurt angry with echoed-memory undertones (<< back you up stand by you watch your back >> << don't even know where you are anymore. >> << "be in it with you." >>) << Because that shit only goes one way, right. Fucking prick. >> Outwardly, he just straightens, pulling himself out of his slouch for the first time in a while as one corner of his mouth hooks lopsidedly upward. "Ohshit. Right uh. Some duck and tofu and a fucking -- blackberry -- hippie soda." And aside to Mel, << He didn't. I knew because you knew but nobody ever told me so I just -- stayed quiet. >> He circles around the couch, dropping over to claim Dusk's usual armchair, hooking one leg over an arm as he flops into it. "I think he's hefting a /dryadtit/ at you. To go with your wispy -- treespirit skirt." He's nabbed himself another tombstone-cupcake on the way, peeling it -- very slowly. But mostly just tracing a finger through its chocolatey icing. Melinda eyes Dusk's breast(s) with a skeptical expression. << I know my breasts have gotten larger due to baby... but not that big. >> "I'd love some water, Jax. I know it's boring, but sugar'll make the kid kick all night and I'm saving myself for the chocolate." She settles down on the couch with a sigh, the pressure at her back lessening. She lets out a sigh and begins picking at her food, pulling out a choice bit of tofu to enjoy. << Okay, but don't be too hard on him. You should have seen Dusk today when he was just -worried- the kid was his. >> She pauses then thinks, << but don't be too easy on him either. >> She grins to herself as she chews. "Oh. Um, Dusk was putting them in water for you." She looks for the flowers once more. "Because you would be the most well-endowed of all the dryadesses, Jim," Dusk informs Jim, very seriously. He goes and plucks one of Melinda's flowers out of the drinking-glass-vase they have ended up in, heading back over to tuck it into Jim's already leafy hair like a present. "The chocolate's fucking delicious, by the way. Jax baked. Jim, you're growing old in good taste. Or -- poor fucking taste, holy shit, I can't really speak for our decorations." "Mmn, thanks, hon," Micah replies to Jax as he loads /heaping/ spoonfuls of the duck and tofu onto Hive's plate. His own plate gathers a greater variety, smaller spoons of tofu and eggplant and mango rice and tamarind veggies. Leaving his plate on a clear spot of countertop, he fetches the requested blackberry soda and delivers this along with food to Hive. Returning to collect his juice from Jax, he leans in to sneak a kiss to the other man's cheek. "Can I get a plate for you, too, since you're busy mannin' the drink station?" He cups a hand over his mouth to hide a snicker at Dusk's ever more ridiculous Jimdryad image. "Don't have Scotch." Jax sounds unapologetic about this. He brings two blackberry sodas to the table for Hive and Jim, returns with a water for Melinda. "Oh gosh a little'a veggie-everything for me," he tells Micah cheerfully, bopping back to plunk himself down on the floor in front of Hive's chair once he's delivered all the drinks. "I can't take no credit for the decoratin'. Only the cake. The food came from the internet. S'like the world's best magic trick." << So what was I supposed to do. >> Jim is hunkered up HARD against the snap of Hive's mind, not lifting his head from face-scrubbing when Dusk endows him with Melinda's blossom - though the flower absently flourishes open before their eyes, bright and healthy and /massive/, like it's saying hello to Mel sitting next to him! << Tell you to quit dying long enough for me to unburden my fucking /bachelor/ woes? Eat me, douche bag, there's a /slight fucking difference/. What kind of a sack of shit do you think I am. >> Not that there isn't a churn of guilt; a churn of /anger/ for all the time's he'd meant to and then been distracted by bigger, more pressing matters. At himself (the /world/) for how easily small (big) things can be forgotten. A churn of something else harder to form; of a barstool and the clack of pool balls. Of an open cell phone with an empty text window open, snapping shut. << the fuck d'you want me to do here. >>. He pulls the flower from behind his ear and sits back, sticking it down the front of his shirt as though there were cleavage, and gathers up the open ends of his flannel front to tie it off just beneath his (man)breast line. NOW he's styling. For a moment, he glowers at the side of the couch Hive /had/ been leaning on, and then over to the chair the telepath now occupies. Then looks back to Jax, dropping an unenthused hand on the soda offered him, "So who /did/ the decorating, then? Tell me you didn't make a second cake outside the cupcakes." << I think you're a giant /selfish/ motherfucking sack of shit who likes to pretend you don't goddamn need anyfuckingbody else ever. But then expects /me/ to goddamn need /you/, you bastard. >> Hive leans over to swipe the soda that Jackson brings with a slow tensing of his shoulders, eyes closing. "Flicker and Dusk and I decorated. And the coffin /is/ a motherfucking cake." Micah loads up another plate with healthy spoonfuls of all of the vegan items in the kitchen, balancing both plates on one arm and taking up his cup of juice in the other. "/Everythin'/ is made of cake," he informs Jim with a grin, rather oblivious to all of the telepathic...discussion going on around him. He lowers himself to sit next to Jax, setting his juice beside him to free up a hand to pass the illusionist's plate over. His own plate settles into his lap, food starting to disappear quickly into his mouth moments later. "/Jim/ ain't made of cake." Jax says this with a shake of his head. "Not so far's I know, nohow. But the coffin's all edible, yeah. An' the tombstones inside. An' -- some of the flowers 'round the coffin. But not others. Kinda ran outta time. S'like a /surprise/. Bite into 'em an' find out. If they taste bitter an' leafy they're prob'ly not made'a sugar." He takes the plate with a bright smile of thanks, nestling his shoulder up against Micah's and resting his head back against Hive's legs as he starts to eat. "You fucking serious - everything?" Jim leans forwards to really check /out/ the coffin cake, furrowing his brows at the flowers, "They just look like normal fucking..." And then he CHEATS, extending a hand towards them. Any real flowers will shortly reverberate and begin, just slightly, to blossom open. Those that do /not/ are stared at with an almost /affronted/ surprise, and he takes one. To CHEW on. "You /made/ these?" He's unthinkingly going for his camera, lifting it up to adjust the focus. Shifts off the couch to kneel down. Maybe he'll try and get Jax and Micah in the shot, unless they seem disinclined to have their pictures taken. It's the /cake/ that he wants. << I don't /expect/ anything. >> He growls. Hard and clenching up in root knots that flex like muscle in his mind - throbbing with hard callous anger. << But before I worry about needing anything else, you sack of shit. >> Click. Goes the camera. << I need you to be /alive/. >> And another echo fires back, << ...not just protecting /you/... >> Some of the white flowers by the coffin bloom brighter, unfurling petals to open towards Jim's hand. Others sit, white-petaled and -- sugary. To get CHOMPED on, saccharine-sweet. "S'a fucking wizard." Hive says /this/ like it affronts him, too. But he's taking his food, his drink, to start tucking into it. Slowly, admittedly, carefully, picking at it with a shaky hand. He nudges at Jax with a knee, poking him a little more into the shot. Withdrawing his own leg a little bit more /out/ of it. "Not every day you get all over the hill after all." << I'm alive, >> he answers back snippily. Snippily, but with an almost desperate push underlying the words. << I'm here, asshole. Just. Let me fucking be here sometimes, okay? >> “I'm havin' Deanna Troi cellular peptide cake flashbacks now,” Micah jokes between bites at the mention of Jim not being cake. “But seriously, pretty much everythin' /else/ is. Or at least sugar.” His shoulder nuzzles against Jax's when the other man moves closer. “We done been sayin' he's pretty much a kitchen god, though. An' an artist, besides. Makes for extremely awesome cakes.” Jackson blushes, head tipping in to rest against Micah's shoulder; he nibbles at his food, making no move to avoid the picture-taking though he does lower his chopsticks for it. "I jus' like makin' things pretty. Happy birthday, Jim. Thought it might be nice t'-- actually /celebrate/ someone nice'n -- proper for once." It's not all sudden relief and understanding. Jim /writhes/ unhappily under forty years of stubborn resistance to this thing Hive asks of him. The snark is there just as ready as the /fight/ - << Sound like my fucking ex-wives what are we married >> But it clenches with a muting guilt as well. It takes a few moments of chewing; of a hammock, swelling ripe fruit, soft earth and blue clear sky. Of a clenched and bony body in his arms and a stupid mop of hair. Of a silent damp spot forming in the material of his shoulder, always reminding him of a bit of poetry. << So let us melt, and make no noise / No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move... Fuck. God dammit. >> "Hate to tell you this, Jackie, but you'd have to /find/ someone proper first." Click. Goes his camera, centering Jackson, his art, the ridiculous decorations behind him; bright color meets the macabre and it makes the side of his mouth pull... kind of back. Up. Slanting sideways. << Fine. >> He shoots at Hive, the shutter still clicking away. << --so, Hivey. Guess I'm gonna be a fucking dad. >> Click. << And I'm freaking the fuck out. >> And it's /true/ - but there's something else. And it /sits/ in him. A small seed planted, as he sets his camera aside to devour another sugary flower. The rest are wilting and shriveling because he's technically eating THEM, too. It's a memory, Melinda's voice, exhausted, steady, saying such simple words. << 'There's been too much death. -- Why can't we have some life?' >> | |
