ArchivedLogs:Lotus

Lotus
Dramatis Personae Jim, Micah, Jax	20 August 2014 '
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Garden Plot - Lower East Side
The smell instantly changes here to something greener, herbally sharp and mulchy; paved walkway drifts at angles through raised multi-tiered garden beds, reaching varying elevations of a mere foot above the ground to three feet, each held up by retaining walls of leftover stone from the houses, riddled here and there with spiraling mosaic dragons. While companion flowers of red geranium, fuchsia bee balm, violet petunias, pastel-and-white sweet pea, are sprinkled throughout and alongside each box, it's primarily vegetables; between tall eerie trellis spires of fixed animal bones, clung over with curlicues of lush vine sheets and okra, delicate netting protects lower levels of melon and tomato, kale and tomatoes and a number of other edible foods, with a separate box of sand-loving root vegetables sending up frondy foliage for carrot and onion and garlic. To one side, a compost heap lets of faint shimmers of heat and steam, to the other, a strongly scented bed of myriad herbs, both medicinal and otherwise, flanked on one side by a large healthy swell of coneflower. With a shed nearby housing gardening tools, the whole of it is watered by a network of hidden hosing that gives off faint tickles of mist when in use, ribboned with rainbows, and there are structures in place to suggest the garden can be enclosed in winter months. Jim's been back in town for a few days, though evidence of this has been more secondary than conclusive - those faint signs of heat damage and patches of natural wilting any garden suffers in the course of its lifetime have vanished over the night, a new almost violent emerald returned to bright leaves. Fruit has formed for the residents amongst the branches and the grass - well, that's less of a miraculous recovery, but it's /mowed/, raking has been done. But the man himself has had a few other slightly more pressing matters to see to the past few days; lurking hospitals for one. Haunting in and out of whatever patches of familiar faces have been present, silent and mostly unspeaking with a hard thousand yard stare and leafy disinterest in keeping his wholly fleshy body free of whatever flora has been working in and out of his system in the mean time. He sits now, though, on one of the raised beds in the garden, wearing a tatty plaid button-down, thinning undershirt, a dark utility kilt, flesh of his legs gray and brown and curling away in peels and whirls to mingle with the soil of the box. Hunkered silently over a large full-color book that, judging by the sticker on the spine, he'd checked out at the library. A few others sit nearby - the top one reads 'Wild Thailand', with a depiction of lush jungle path leading into dense undergrowth. The irregular way he turns pages doesn't suggest he's really studying any one page in particular. Maybe he's just determined to frown at every picture individually. Late as it is, Micah is /still/ in work clothes, TARDIS-blue polo and khakis disheveled to match his mussed-messy hair and heavy-lidded eyes. He smells even more of hospital than is typical for him getting home, what with Hive visits taking up what hours were available before and after job, a brief stop by during lunch. The van was convenient enough for ferrying himself, Jax, and Spencer home after their shift was turned over to Flicker and one of Hive's old college friends who volunteered for later hours. One Spencer has been deposited back at Lighthaus for /some/ playtime before bedtime rituals. Micah looks a little aimless in his wandering out onto the grounds, as if he might have had a reason to be out when he stepped through the door, then promptly forgot it. Jax doesn't have particularly much /more/ aim; at Micah's side he is restless, bouncy in a way that suggests a somewhat /frenetic/ overload of energy rather than any actual cheer. His /clothes/ are cheerful at least, bright yellow Little Miss Sunshine tee and sky-blue capris; he's barefoot, sunglasses still on his eyes despite the late hour. His hand when it slips into Micah's is fiercely hot and the jittery energy about him means that when he moves -- drifting out of habit towards the garden -- he's unthinkingly kind of tugging at his husband, pulling some direction into his aimless path. In the garden he steps up onto a rocky retaining wall, poking a toe absently into the dirt. His head tips down, maybe snooping on the books Jim is perusing; there's really no greeting or introduction when he starts speaking but then with how much time they've been stuck in a hospital together lately, there probably doesn't need to be. "-- I can never get over," is the very important statement he chooses to say aloud, "Hive bein' in a /frat/. D'you think he wore a sideways baseball cap an' did keg stands?" "Shoulda seen the sticks he grew up in," Jim gruffs as though they'd been already having a conversation for hours. Jax needn't snoop for long, because once he's in proximity, Jim will lift up the page of the book he's looking at and almost /accusingly/ hold it out for Micah and him to consider - it's a photograph of a red Abyssinian banana plant, all massive green fronds and rhubarb red stalks. It seems so long ago, already, that he's been without voice -- yet the garden is a zone that reverts back to it, furrowing his brows like there's some question he's asking, by the image shown. The familiarity of it, in these lost and drifting times, fallen on hard and stuck as habit. Micah is easily towed along, seeing as he didn't have any /goal/ to proceed toward on his own. He does make a point of staying on terra firma when Jax goes mountain goating up a wall. “I'm given t'understand y'can be in a frat without bein' an insufferable dude-bro.” There is a lateral twitch at the corner of his lips as if they might be considering a smile. “'Sides, he does have that knit cap from his frat. Don't 'member ever seein' a baseball cap. Think it was prob'ly some kinda architecty frat, anyhow.” When there is a book thrust in their general direction, Micah moves closer to view it better. “Oh. Um. Tropicals. Ain't really m'strong suit. I never really did a whole lotta landscapin'. More...food plants. M'momma kept some flower gardens an' has this collection of violets an' orchids indoors. Trouble with the big tropicals an' plantin' 'em outdoors hereabouts is if they're hardy enough t'survive winters not bein' hauled inside at least a /regular/ house if not a greenhouse.” What, Jim didn't actually verbalize a question then? "Oh, gosh, I'd /love/ t'see where Hive done growed up he gets kinda. Squishy when he talks 'bout home -- Hive /can/ be jus' a little," Jax adds to Micah, "Dude. Bro. -Y. Like when he's wrasslin' Dusk an' Flicker most of all." He rises up onto his toes, scooting a short ways down along the wall to examine the picture more closely. His teeth worry at the inside of his cheek, head shaking uncertainly. "Y'lookin' t'grow fruits or t'decorate -- I think Hive had some plans towards winterizing the garden but I ain't sure as that'll be /early/ enough for heat-lovin' things to even make it through our fall here. Ain't no harm in looking into it but I'd hafta put some research in else you'll be draining yourself kinda senselessly keeping things alive weren't meant for it." Not like poor Hive has had a lot of opportunity to wrastle this past half year. Hard to tell if this is what Jim is thinking. His irreverent grizzle could just as easily be thinking about puppies or credit cards or the causes of modern social malaise. "Got pictures," is what he says, /ominously/. They'll probably be inflicted to these soon. Once he -- "Gonna put 'em in a book." With all of the sense-talking Jax makes with, he lowers the book back to his lap and turns to another page at /nearly/ random, showing it without much hope to the two men. "...some of these were growing around there. Was thinking..." Sss. He pats a breast pocket where his cigarettes are, and then just abandons them, looking off towards the Geekhaus's direction. "Maybe could put some in a fucking. Pot." “Yeah, it does seem nice, the way he...thinks about it.” Not /talks/, so much, though that isn't as big of a barrier with the telepath. Micah claims himself a nice square of ground and half-sprawls across it. “Really? I ain't never seen Hive... He's been havin' a tough time. Kinda. Since I met y'all.” His brow furrows slightly with this observation. There's a slow nodding at the mention of indoor plants. “Could do indoors. Some at his place if they'll want 'em. But the sunroom's prob'ly the best spot for 'em. Lotsa sun an' lotsa warm in there. Already got pots of Thai basil growin'; they'll feel right at home.” "He's been havin' a rough time for a while, yeah. Time was he’d go traipsin’ off with alla us into the mountains for a week an’ think nothin’ of it.” Now there’s a wistful note in /Jax’s/ tone, the rock walls around the gardens quietly stretching up to form very solid-/looking/ cliff face; somewhere high up above them there is a lean tan lithe-muscled form pulling his way up the rock. Jax curls an arm around his chest, brows pulling together. “The sunroom’ll be good all year ‘cept only for the smaller -- like herb-y things, if you’re gonna want nothin’ /big/ we’ll -- I mean, we could jus’ winterize the garden in fall instead, dependin’. On what we --” His chin tips towards the picture Jim is showing. “Choose. Did you get a /lotta/ pictures?” This is a little hopeful. "Just about filled a fucking suitcase," Jim turns to another page yet, where a clear pool stretches out of focus from the camera, littered with constellations of bright water lilies. "All tagged and labeled like god damn evidence footage. - 's family took me 'n Flicker out to his /old/ stompin' grounds. He tagged along." Like a beloved mindworm stowaway. There's symmetry to the way Jax tips his head down to look at the book while Jim tips his head back to watch that lean figure - perhaps appropriately climbing up. Away, into the sky--, "We ended up fightin across the god damn floor once," his wistfulness has an /edge/ to it - not a smile in body but something like it in spirit, angry and /sharp/ like he might just climb that wall /after/ the ascending figure and drag him right down for another round. Pause… "And in a -- bar. Christ." He smashes both hands against his eyebrows and churns them. “I've heard y'all talk,” Micah acknowledges somewhat distantly, sadder where the others' voices have turned wistful. Oops, just missed that whole time where people got to do what they /did/. He has little to add to the others' stories. “Well, herbs'n flowers might be good in there. Just none of the big ol' trees an' whatnots.” Admittedly, a lot of those photos are of rather big whatnots. The tropics don't often do things in /small/ measure. “Pictures might help if you're lookin' for things that were /there/, specific.” “Might get back there. Now Dr. Toure’s done his -- maybe one day we’ll --” Jax’s fingers are clenching harder against his bicep, teeth dragging slow over his lower lip before his mouth turns up into a smile. “Hafta get you a climbin’ foot though. -- Oh, /oh/.” His expression lights at the water flowers. “If we put in lotuses he’d be so pleased.” "Don't think I'm gonna manage the trees one way or another." There's no real mark for the movement, through Jim's humped shoulders, his flat-planted feet with their gnarly root branches - his /expression/, which is about as lively as a shovel; it makes the hand he hooks around Jax's seem disembodied and secreted. Less prying than coaxing at the younger man's digging nails, into his own coarse and dry-flaky exterior. He suddenly furrows his brows and flips a few further pages /back/ to the lotuses he'd been looking at earlier, all jagged outward spearing petals in pinks and whites, "--Yeah?" “Maybe. Joshua said he's been able t'help. With the recovery a bit, when he's there. Since the chip got taken out.” Micah tries to keep his tone from growing /too/ hopeful. “An', yeah. Pups were sayin' I need t'do that. They were teasin' 'bout gettin' me one for /your/ last birthday. I'm not versed enough...well, at /all/...in climbin' t'be settin' one up m'self. S'better t'go with one that's on the market.” There's a sudden smile tracing across his lips at the mention of lotuses that only tugs wider at Jim's question. “You've /seen/ his tattoo, right?” is all he offers on that topic. Jax's hand is still burning hot under Jim's rougher one; his fingers do loosen at the touch, breath shivering out slowly as his hand turns over to squeeze at Jim's. Behind him the figure is climbing up higher, disappearing towards the clouds; against the rock face in his wake huge lotus blossoms spread, sprouting straight out of the cliffside. "They're kinda special t'him, yeah, it's. Well actually it might hafta do with Magic cards?" His cheeks flush dark at this. "... or maybe Buddhism." Through remaining human enough to fold fingers around Jax's hand, the feeling is hard and strange - or probably not, by now, few are probably /more/ familiar with the organic texture of Jim's body than Jax, shifting tangibly to an oaken hardness far more resistant to heat than human nerves. "Nhaah. For the number of times I've peeled that bony bastard out of his clothes, should hope I have." A pinch, a constricted exhale - looking up the cliff face at the impossible blossoms, the glow of clouds enveloping that lone wayward climber, he swallows, "Hff. Not sure even I could grow /that/ sorta crazy shit.--" His free hand raises up off the book and holds open his palm. Looking down at it he grits his teeth, "My fucking hippy parents -- what is it. The lotus is - enlightenment. Purity 'n ascension, yeah?" As though from the veins of his wrist, wide flat leaves first spiral out like tiny green drills, then open like fans and flop off the side of his palm, until their center begins to thick and bulge with a closed bud that opens, layer upon layer, into a single lotus flower. Which he /frowns/ at quietly. "The flower that reaches up from all the /muck/ of this fucking--." And he lets out a sudden sharp /exhale/ and closes his eyes. "...Christ." “Said it b'fore an' I'll say it again: ain't no reason ink can't serve two masters.” Micah's head tips back to watch the shifting illusion. “Illusions're usually easier'n the real thing by far.” Which only goes to show for Jim's work in creating that single lotus. “Yeah, it's kinda...appropriate.” His teeth dig into his lower lip. “They're s'posed t'call. Whoever's with 'im's s'posed t'start a chain callin' the rest of us when he wakes up.” "Purity'a spirit, enlightenment'a the mind --" Jax curls fingers out to brush lightly against the petals of that single lotus. The cliffs he's created, the flowers, the disappearing figure, all start to dissolve into a shimmering swirl of dust-mote glow. "They'll call. An' maybe we can make him a little bit'a home t'come back to."