ArchivedLogs:Life Or Death

Life Or Death
Dramatis Personae Kay, Micah
In Absentia	25 July 2014 Philosophy and pesto in the aftermath of the latest raid.
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Sunroom - Lower East Side
Bright and warm, this room is set up to enjoy a little bit of the outdoors even year-round. Tall glass panes make up most of its wall in between wood supports, providing a wide three-sided view of the garden and yard outside. As well as the inner doors leading back into the kitchens and dining room, an outer door leads out to the outdoor gardens, as well. Inside, the room is airy and green -- a plethora of potted herbs and plants hang from the ceiling, as well as ring the room in a series of narrow wooden raised-beds that provide growing space for a selection of herbs year-round. Outside of the herb beds that ring the room, this place is designed simply to come and relax; quiet and simple, with clean stone floors and neutral-toned wicker furniture adorned with comfortable cushioning. Some of the chairs ring stone-and-glass tables for eating or conversing; a few more solitary seats come in the form of rocking chairs or netted hammock-chairs hanging from the ceiling. The sunroom is always gently warm, all throughout the day; stone floors baked beneath the glass-filtered sunlight with the clean green smells offering all the comforts of being outdoors, with the enclosed sense of privacy yet of walls and windows to muffle the sound of city traffic not far off. It would take a few steps into the enclosure to mark Kay, sunning himself like a fox in the henhouse, belly-down on the ground with his shirt tossed off to one side and his arms folded under his head. Still wearing an undershirt of sorts, black tight material sleeveless and encasing only his upper torso, it leaves the sun-beaten leathery expanse of his back flesh exposed like an orange (well, coppery-tan) PELT. The red dragon tattoos seen climbing either forearm can be seen for their full work, entwining serpentine bodies around one another over his ribs, faded by long years and exposure, broken here and there by a tapestry of scar work, though nearly a life-time access to various varieties of advanced healing leaves them faded white and glossy. He has a plate of DELICIOUS FOOD pilfered from the kitchen sitting at his elbow. It's been a crash that still hasn't settled out completely. Tuesday afternoon spent on readying supplies and running madcap last-minute errands. Wednesday spent near entirely on cooking in mass quantities for an anticipated influx of people that boiled down to...one. Other than those who had /left/ on the rescue mission to begin with. Thursday finds itself a little empty, taken off work for medical needs and cooking and tending to...what didn't need tending, after all. Micah seems to have come to the same place as Kay and for the same reasons, a bowl of reheated pesto in one hand (there is a basil /apocalypse/ worth of more where that came from in the refrigerator). He's dressed for a not-work kind of day, mussed hair, bare feet, faded jeans, powder blue Totoro face T-shirt. A soft sigh escapes his lips as he settles into a chair before even noticing that Kay is there, the splayed-flat man only catching his eye in the periphery. "Oh." Excellent greeting, that. "Kay. Hi. I didn't see you at first." A soft click-jingle of Kay's wallet chain on stone, and he's stretching out his arms, making his long torso almost alien, shoulder and back muscles shifting like restless hamsters in a spandex sack, "Hhhhngh," STRETCHING SOUND, "'can I say. S'my natural camouflage." Heat hidden within /heat/. "S'all good. Felt you coming." Or at least Micah's body heat. Pushing himself up into a crouch, he props elbows on knees and laces long fingers, watching Micah's back with his pouchy-squinted eyes turned up at their corners. "-holdin' up?" "Oh." Still eloquent, apparently. Micah's cheeks colour in a hint of pink for...no real obvious reason. Perhaps being /sensed/ is enough to set it off. He deposits his bowl onto the glass table before him untouched, other than to adjust the fork in it so it doesn't fall out. "I'm holdin' up fine. I mean... I'm /upset/ 'bout what I heard happened. Wonderin' if we even know /who/ those people were, or if we ever will. But it's just that. What I /heard/ happened. I ain't had t'live through it like the folks who went. An' that's... I'm fretful. For them. But what else is new?" This last comes with a sad slice of smile that is part tired, part self-deprecating, part trying to put on something other than a worried face. "How're you?" "It's rough." It's just that - a simple allowance, a shrug that makes no caveat. Against all the expected gloom of the topic, Kay's smile is genuinely /warm/ in emergence, exposing his off-white teeth and the gold incisor, ape-walking along his knuckles past his own plate to fold arms over the back of Micah's seat. Crouched up, it nearly sets his chin atop the other man's shoulder, a subtle warmth soaking into the side of Micah's arm and neck and whatever clothes are nearest his infernal body heat, "Almost harder having to /not/ be there, other ways. Think I'm giving /you/ all my gray hairs, yo." In exchange, he'll take a finger-swipe of Micah's pesto. Payment. Mmm. Micah's answer is a simple nod, allowing much the same. "The worryin' part is harder not bein' there. But this particular time? I dunno. That don't seem like an experience y'can get outta your head on any kinda short term schedule." Right, that bowl. Kay's swiping seems only to remind him that it /exists/. He picks up the fork again to prod at the noodles. "Think the people who were workin' the tech part got the worst of it this time. Wonderin' if there wasn't somethin' /else/ we could've done t'stop that..." Kay exhales, kind of a laugh but rustier, his expression not visible from his position. "Y'gonna kill yourself trying to work out who's got it 'worse', bro." His warm fingers encircle Micah's dispassionate fork-nudging, folding them around the utensil if it doesn't seem to immediately trouble the other man to endure the contact, to try and puppet him into /stabbing/ a noodle. POSSIBLY more than once. "S'only really two ways. You're dead," stab? "or you're not." "Yeah, prob'ly," is spoken flatly down at the fork as Micah just...observes what is going on there without resisting. Is this /enforced/ playing with your food? An attempt at making him eat? A breathy echo of a chuckle finds itself coupled with his curious expression. "S'pose that's true. S'just. An' awful lot of the former this time 'round." "Yeah," again, Kay simply agrees, uncensored and uncensor/ing/. The arm not puppeting Micah's hand drops around the young man from behind for a brief /compression/ that has a bit of a /clap!/ sound here his palm lands down. "All the more reason we /gotta/ live." Aww it's kind of like a... headlock? Backwards hug? Huglock? "What's your first death." His voice is difficult to place; light, in its tone, unfettered by tip-toeing. But not flippant - steady. Almost impersonal. While... CHURNING Micah's meal. He finally stabs a pasta piece and lifts it from the dish kind of crookedly with Micah's own hand. Micah leans a bit into that huglike pressure, kind of his default answer to physical contact. "True enough. I'm hopin' Jax... He always blames 'imself personally for everythin' that happens on these raids." He continues to eyeball that puppet foodplay with an interest and an uncertainty. "One that I saw or one that I knew of? I ain't...never really been a stranger t'the idea. M'parents lost m'twin durin' the pregnancy an' that was always...my brother Tobias who died. Sure as he'd drawn breath." His non-puppet hand plucks at the denim covering his leg. "S'why I was born without the fully formed leg. Excess clottin' factors with the twin resorption." The question of /Kay's/ similar experience is phrased only with a look (spared from observing this food business), no words demanding he answer. Again, "Yeah. He does." Oh shit. That wobbly fork is so precarious the way Kay is lifting it at the worst possible angle. "Serious? /That/ kind of shit'll change you, right outta the gate." The fork ascends, higher, hiiigher -- and then begins to drop. He rushes to get his head forward and underneath it, mouth open. MAMPHs his mouth closed on it sideways like a snapping turtle. When teeth clamp down, he just kinda takes the fork WITH HIS MOUTH. "Mph- mrgh?" Hang on, he's not recoiling form Micah's inquiring look, but he has some chewing to do first. Another nod of silent agreement finds its way into the conversation. Micah shrugs a little at Kay's observation. "It's...I don't guess I rightly know any dif'rent. Had an invisible friend I named Toby from 'bout as early as I can remember. Think /that/ wigged m'folks out a bit." His look moves easily from inquiring to /skeptical/ at Kay's method of obtaining food. "Y'know we got enough of this stuff t'choke a horse in the kitchen, right?" There's /gotta/ be easier ways to do this. Not that he's trying to get out of the other man's hold even still. "We /do/," Kay sounds dee-LIGHTED by this plentiful concept, scratchy-tenor voice spoken around the fork still gripped in his teeth. Until he retrieves it with a pluck of fingers and stabs up another pastabit. This one is held in offering to Micah - only after he's turned it over and inspected it, answering with a laugh, "An' I dunno. Seems like people been dying around me a long time." His smile is hard, but still warm. Warmer, perhaps, in its bright show of teeth, in the tightening of arm around Micah's shoulders, "S'what makes me worry about you kids." Okay, Micah's not too much younger than Kay, but he adds, "-'bout Jax." Chew your food, Micah. Micah accepts the pastafork, finally eating a bite of his own meal. "I know the feelin'. Parents make friends in the NICU with /other/ parents in the NICU. End up with a lotta friends that don't make it. An' just...lotsa hospitals. Ever since then." Micah's lips twitch over to one side, opposite a slightly lofted eyebrow. "You afraid more folks're gonna die 'cause they're around you? Or just...that lotsa folks seem to either way?" His shoulders squirm a bit--not a squrim-get-away but rather just feeling their way against the other man's presence. Kay's wrestly tactile habit is equally absentminded in its accommodation; Micah's shifting is given ample personal space, the pyrokinetic's arm loosening, more forming a basket than a vice... while he goes for another bite for HIMSELF. Talking kind of /around/ the fork, "Nah. Just that I been there. -- Well." Mnomph, he jerks his chin Micah-ward, "Not where you been, man. That's a whole different kinda hell. All that those people /trying/..." Somehow /this/ earns a sucking in of air, through his teeth. "I dunno. That's hard. It's all hard." He swallows and forks another bite, for Micah again. Though it comes with a very slight twitch up of brows and shift of fingers that'd make it easy to /take/ the fork if he'd rather not play Here Comes The Airplane (Or more... EAT IT KITTY). "Wanna say I always been living like this," he jerks his head out at the Commons beyond the window, perhaps indicating those residing on these fertile lands, "Not so /nice/. But I /had/ a crew. And we fought. Was a good run." Eventually Micah just settles against Kay's arm somewhat slumpily. "Think we all manage t'find /somethin'/ difficult t'get through. S'just di'frent somethin's." He accepts another bite of food before reclaiming the fork to twirl through the vibrant green pasta once more. "Had." This word forms half a statement and half a question as it falls heavily from his lips. "And fought.../this/ fight?" There are plenty of fights to be had, after all. "/Sometimes/ this fight," Kay laughs, "We weren't quite the do-gooders you mother fuckers are. Weren't exactly rescuing people, just trying to keep /alive/." When the laugh fades, the sides of his mouth relax to neutral. Though his angular features and the deep natural lines under his eyes should make it a harrowed face, his eyes retain a hard cheer. "We had turf wars - we had /gang/ wars. An all-mutant bike club doesn't exactly get a lotta support form the law /or/ the other bike chapters. The system brought the fight to /us/ and we just fought-the-fuck back." ...And since it was already coming, there's no drama to, "They're all dead now. Briar was the last one - came all the way out here from Nevada just to die in fucking /Harlem/." His own sigh drops his chin to Micah's shoulder, "...an here. I'm watching you guys. Watching /Jax/ n' Ryan n' all you fucking guys..." His warm glow faintly radiating stronger, to ripple hair and clothes in subtle thermals. "And damn. I'm fucking proud." "Just...bein' alive an' bein' /you/ can be a good fight for y'all." Again, Micah's tone is mixed, half support and almost approval for Kay's past fight, regardless of how the other man labels it, and half /resigned/ at his own words. His free hand curls into a loose fist to circle over his heart in sympathy only to move and cover a certain /spot/ on his flank at the mention of Harlem. "Harlem was a /special/ brand of messed up." A tip of that tousled auburn head brings it to thud softly against Kay's shoulder. "Ain't /watchin'/ nothin'. You been /helpin'/ for a /good/ while." The fork is fat with noodles before Micah remembers he's supposed to be eating the pasta, too. He shoves the whole mass in his mouth, a fair amount of time needed to chew. Kay's hand pats itself over Micah's, when it moves to his flank, "Just bein' alive is a good fight for a /lotta/ people." Kay has a pretty randy 'heh-heh-heh' laugh when Micah headbonks him, dropping his chin down to kind of /weird-GRIND/ itself on the corner of Micah's shoulder in return, "Oh, I ain't /humble/. I kick ass." He lightly spanks a hand against the leg of Micah's chair and chomp-chomps his teeth like a good mooch at Micah's empty fork. "...wonder sometimes, though. What'd have happened if we coulda met y'all's crew. Back when I was younger. Jax'n I'd have fought like cats and /dogs/. Scorched-fucking-earth." "Also true enough," Micah concedes, though this is lost in a soft giggle at Kay's chin attack. The empty fork doesn't stay that way for long, twisting through noodles again to deliver to Kay's chompy-mouth. Though it isn't quite as ridiculously overloaded as it was on the last run; gagging friends without permission is kinda rude. A long breath nearly whistles through Micah's pursed lips. "I'd /hate/ t'see the two of you really go at it, full force. /Wouldn't/ be nothin' left. What makes y'think y'would've, though?" OUM NOUM, Kay's teeth click amongst fork tines, "Just a /rain/ of ashes." He sounds /pleased/. "Haah. You didn't know me ten years ago. I'd fight anything that held still long enough. Just waded-the-fuck in. Shit like pacifism..." His head shakes, cheek pouched out on one side. "S'a thing. Didn't meet a lotta people like him. Like any y'all." Kay's pleased tone for those words sparks a /shudder/ in Micah, right from one end of his spine to the other. "Shoot. Jax don't hold still very long /and/ he's awful...fighty t'be accused of pacifism." The slight twitch of his lips at that pulls into an honest smile. "We are pretty odd hereabouts, or so I hear." "Not saying it would've been /right/," Kay laughs, Micah's shiver earning a brief squeeze of the arm Kay's left draped around him. It's firm, brief, encouraging. "But in the trenches, /not/ wanting to kill your enemy is pacifist /enough/." Smiling out the window once more, at the expanse of Commons, the houses beyond, he finally moves off again, retrieving his own plate and carries it over to sit at the table /with/ Micah. The faint increase of heat through his hands suggests he's /reheating his food/ the cheater's way. "He's made his line in the sand. So now." He spears up another bite, and leans back in his seat, lacing fingers behind his head. "We just gotta make sure he doesn't turn out like me." "Yeah, I've...been on both sides'a that argument," Micah replies with a small wince before returning to torturing his noodles with poky fork tines. The distant tension in his expression melts into a softer, lighter amusement when he realises that Kay is using himself as a hotplate. It might be for this that he chooses to deliberately misinterpret Kay's last comment. "I dunno. Y'don't seem too bad for all that." Kay grins. And forks up a noodle.