ArchivedLogs:Messy

Messy
Feeling, Saying
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah	28 March 2013 Warning: NSFW. Probably. >_> (Set after Afterparty).
Location <NYC> 303 {Holland} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late bright coloured sealife has made its way into being painted on the wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. It's been a /night/. It's probably late by the time Jax and Micah get back home, although perhaps not as late as it could have been if the Gala had not been cut short early. Still. Late. And as Jax opens the door back to his apartment there is still a dusty-gritty coating of debris marring his once-sharp tuxedo. His hair is bright, though, pink and purple and evidently untouched! Evidently. He slips off his dress shoes inside the apartment, stopping to frown, slightly -- there is a very large K'nex sculpture in the living room where there wasn't before, having previously resided in Spencer's bedroom. It is mostly-blue though other pieces have crept in where they're needed to properly shape the thing, and it is helpfully labelled TARDIS. It might even almost look like a TARDIS. If you squint. Jax runs his fingers through his hair as he looks at it, his nose wrinkling. It /has/ been a night. Micah looks a bit like he’s been playing in plaster again. He is also dusty-tuxedo’d, but has long since quit the jacket, which is slung over his forearm haphazardly. After kicking off his shoes, he looks up and notes…TARDIS? He arches a brow in Jax’s general direction. “D’you have a Legoman Doctor showin’ up from time to time for hijinks?” "I got a seven-year-old," Jackson says with a slight wince, "who don't understand about havin' a /new/ foster home now." He closes the door, locks it securely. He slips across the living room in socked feet to carefully nudge-push the K'nex structure back towards Spencer's room. "Though the way he jumps around I wouldn't be half surprised if he -- oh, /gosh/, no, I ain't even gonna say it, the last thing I need is him bending time /too/." “Oh…Spencer.” Micah’s brows furrow. “Ohgosh, I /hope/ he doesn’t break Time. It’s cute in fiction, but I don’t wanna think about what would /actually/… Wait, s’he still here?” He conducts a quick visual search for additional Signs of Child. "He gets in enough trouble jus' bending /space/ oh gosh. I don't want t'think about that, my head would explode every day." There are additional signs -- a small sweatshirt discarded on the couch, a plate with brownie-crumbs on the kitchen counter -- but no /Spencer/. Just Signs Of Spencer. At least until pushing the TARDIS'nex back into the bedroom, where there /is/ a Spencer, curled up in bed asleep with his robot-spider tucked into the crook of an arm. Jackson pauses in the doorway, then finishes pushing the TARDIS inside. He looks at the bed a long moment, then switches the light off. His voice is softer when he turns away from the bedroom. "M'pretty sure I can get in trouble for, like, kidnapping him or somethin', but." His teeth sink down against his lip. Micah trails along after Jax and spies the sleeping boy over his shoulder. A sad sort of smile pulls at his lips and he retreats back into the living room. “I know… It’s so hard to disturb ‘em when they’re full-out sleepin’ like that. His foster might be freakin’ out right now, though.” He scruffs at his hair with one hand. “I take it he’s done this before? What d’you do?” Jackson pulls the door quietly shut, heading back into the living room, too. "Take him back, usually. An' yeah, he -- /keeps/ doing this," he admits, with another nose-wrinkle. It comes with a mingled swirl of feelings -- frustration at the situation, a quiet sort of happy-pride that /this/ feels like home to Spencer, a pang of sadness at having to send him /away/. "He keeps jumpin' home -- after school, mostly. Sometimes at bedtime. But he's /sleepin'/." His head shakes, and he pulls his phone from his pocket. "Call 'em, I guess. Send him on back tomorrow." With his thumb he is dialing. His other hand is pressing to his temple. "-- they had food at that thing," he is saying, with an almost puzzled frown towards the kitchen. "... I don't know what t'do with myself if I don't gotta feed you." “Poor kid.” Micah shakes his head slowly. This is all so /unfair/. Kids shouldn’t get used this way… “Well, if they’re fine with him stayin’ the night, that’ll be good. Let the little man sleep in his own bed for the night.” He watches the phone come out. “I think y’got plenty enough to deal with right now without feelin’ like you gotta tend me any.” Micah gestures at the phone, then quiets to avoid becoming background noise during the call. "Hi, this is Jackson, m'sorry to bother you so late but I -- yes. Yes, he is. I know. I know -- I just got home and he was sleepin' here. No, I know, but -- yes'm. No, I will. First thing in the morning. Yes'm. OK. Bye." It's a quick call; Jackson leans against the kitchen counter through it, finger swirling idly in the crumbs of brownie left on Spencer's plate. He hangs up the phone, sets it down on the counter. "S'when I got plenty to deal with I like tending people most," he admits sheepishly, flicking Micah a sidelong glance. Kind of shyly, but even so it's assessing, thoughts swirling over the chaos of the night and idly fretting over how Micah is doing with all this madness. << Chaos I dragged him into, >> he is chiding himself. He straightens to shrug out of his dusty tuxedo jacket. "Y'sure I can't get you nothin'?" << oh gosh grit /everywhere/ I need a /shower/. >> "I mean, s'been kinda a -- /night/." Micah stands silently through the call, just rocking on his feet and holding onto his jacket. It’s too dusty to put down anywhere and /he’s/ too dusty to sit anywhere. So there is rocking. “I get that. S’nice to be distracted sometimes…from the things that are harder to handle.” He looks down at the jacket in his arms at the inquiry into his needs. “Ha. If y’could refer me to a good dry cleaner, that’ll care for the most of what I’m needin’ right now,” he jokes with a little grin. "Oh, oh, oh gosh. Yeah. This is terrible what we're gonna tell the rental -- /hey/, you think maybe Oscorp will pay for the tuxes?" Jackson heads closer to Micah, his jacket draped over his arm. "I think m'still kinda trying to process, yeah. Food's quick. Easy. Don't take much brain. Um, d'you need a shower, maybe? I think half the clubhouse rode home in our clothes." “Don’t know ‘bout that. I’m still kinda holdin’ out hope that it’ll just…come out? Maybe?” Micah rakes at his hair again, out of habit. He may be leaking a little bit of dust whenever he does this. “Um…yeah. It would be nice not t’have to /gym/ like…this.” He stares at the floor for a moment, his expression sheepish and complemented by a faint blush. The images that swirl in Jackson's head /probably/ do not help that blush. "I mean, you can take one if you want. Shower. Here. With -- I mean that's --" His brow creases abruptly. "Y'know, you don't never got to go to there? I got a -- you're welcome to here. To mh -- my shower." No, /none/ of that is helping the blush at /all/. Unless by 'help' one means 'contributes to the depth and breadth of'. "That's...prob'ly a good idea. I think I'm messin' up your floors by existin' right now." Jackson is flushing himself, deep and furious. "Rightshower." He hurries across the living room to open the door to a small closet, and gets out a fresh towel. "Here come here I gotta thing. For you. For showering. Also the floors're due a cleaning /anyway/." Though really, they look pretty much clean already. The direct order finally unsticks Micah from the spot on the floor where he seemed to have glued himself. He obediently closes the distance between himself and Jax. "Oh. Right. Need those..." He takes the towel in his free hand, dusty jacket still draped over the other arm. "Right." Jackson doesn't move, even once Micah has taken the towel. His blush is deepened by the images in his head, and he pulls his gaze away from Micah to drop it down to the floor. "Right, you should --" << let me join you. >> whispers inadvertently between them. The air around Jax is turning red now. "-- should shower. Because dust." His hand is scuffing through his hair. Which, despite /looking/ just as bright-clean as it had all night, is shedding dust as well. “Ohgosh, badguest! Rude!” Micah’s face burns a little brighter as he reprimands himself. “You’re also kind of a mess so you should--“ Flailing the towel around a bit is apparently supposed to serve as adequate conclusion to that statement. "What, ohgosh, no, oh, honey-honey, I didn't mean that you was /rude/ or nothing I just -- no it's not -- I just didn't know if you'd be comfortable with -- I mean it'd probably feel /nicer/ to shower right? Cuz -- dust. Itchy. Sort of gross. Also this debris /fraternized/ with Norman Osborn." Jackson's nose crinkles up, here. "Oh, gosh, /we/ fraternized with Norman Osborn. I saved his /life/ why did I ohgosh I mean I couldn't not but -- right, um." Jax's hasty wordflood is almost but not /quite/ pushing thoughts of showering -- thoughts of Micah showering -- out of his mind. He swallows, head bowing, and then quickly looks up again to lean in and peck Micah on the cheek. "Thank you. For putting up with all that. Coming with me. It was chaos I didn't mean to bring you no chaos." “Oh, no, you didn’t…but I was, so I shouldn’t. Do that. So much.” Why are words so extremely /fail/? Micah’s eyes go wide at the Osborn-mentions. “Oh, ick. Don’t remind me it’s extracreepydust.” He sticks his tongue out a little at that. “No need for thanks. It was actually…not horrible for a richpeople party. Until the attack of the living Internet comments section happened. And then /I/ really wasn’t… I didn’t get hurt or anythin’.” And kisses! There are more reasons to blush again... "Was alright. Kinda stodgy. They had lots of -- fruit." Which Jackson was eating all night because vegan fancy hors d'oeuvres? Not so prominent at fancy /conservative/ rich-people parties. And then he giggles, nose wrinkling up. "Oh, gosh, but did you /see/ how some'a those people was lookin' at us, I don't think they were expecting quite so /much/ -- fruit." Micah giggles in a half-embarrassed, half-gleeful way. He brings a hand…well, a towel…up to cover his mouth for a moment. “Ohgosh, I couldn’t even tell /what/ we was bein’ scowled at /for/ after awhile. If it was the make-up or the gay or the mutant or… There were a couple people, I was worried that their brains were gonna short-circuit.” "There was folks flat out fleeing if they thought I was comin' their way. Like maybe I'd explode 'em? Or -- we'd infect 'em with /queer/." Jackson leans in again, and this time his light peck is on the lips, and accompanied by a hand curling around Micah's waist. It's half an embrace and half a lean, posture sagging slightly. "Next time we go to a party," he promises with a quiet laugh, "s'gonna be the kind with, uh, people who actually maybe like us? -- Oh, right, /friends/." Micah is still giggling at the scene Jax is painting until he’s silenced by another kiss. He finally gives up on holding onto his jacket, letting it slump to the floor with a sad little hiccup of ex-wall grit. He pulls the other man closer using the towel caught up rather snugly in both hands. “Y’know, there’s /gotta/ be enough breathin’ room for just hangin’ out with friends and none of this…craziness…eventually.” "Breathing room." Jackson echoes this quietly. His head tips down, face nuzzling for a moment against Micah's neck and his hold on the other man tightening. He draws in a slow breath, lets it out again as a laugh. "Yeah. Eventually. S'gotta settle down. Be less of a crazy. But if -- if it -- if it don't --" His fingers are curling against Micah's shirt, balling dress-shirt fabric into his fist. He lets go a moment later, and lifts his head; his kiss this time is not a peck but full, softer and firmer, albeit brief. "You should shower." Micah draws Jax even more tightly with the nuzzling, a barely audible, low sound catching in his throat. “If it don’t…turns out I don’t really need that much room,” he mutters, with no need for much volume, either, when so near the listener. “You should, too.” Something catches in Jackson's throat, too, at these words, not so much a sound as a brief hitch of breath. It comes with an involuntary echo of thoughts from earlier in the night: << friend-boyfriend-lover-partner - <3 >> He squeezes Micah, closer, tighter, and leans in to nuzzle at the other man's neck again. His lips brush against Micah's neck for a slow moment, and his words when he speaks are murmured from here, warm against Micah's skin. "We both should." "I sorta don't mind...what y'wanna label..." Ohgosh, sort of serious conversations are extremely difficult when there are lips on necks. "Definitely should. Terribly dusty. Positively appalling." Micah is pulling at Jax's shirt now, as if to imply that the wearing of gritty-clothes isn't allowed. "M'sorry, should I not be --" There is another kiss, pressed soft to Micah's neck. Jackson has a teasing grin when he looks up. His hands are sliding around to the other man's chest. Despite the grin it is at least more serious when he says, "I don't need a label for it, I just -- m'just glad that you're -- in my life. I just want to make sure ain't nobody --" For a moment, there's a brief memory of Doug sitting across from him with a tight-stiff smile. "-- ain't nobody gonna end up hurt or disappointed." Probably serious conversations also shouldn't be happening while Jax is starting to unbutton Micah's dress shirt, and /yet/. Dress clothes have /too many/ tiny buttons. And all of them are in need of unfastening on Jax's shirt, too. It keeps Micah's hands terribly busy...and he seems to have lost the towel in this process, as well. "No, you absolutely /shouldn't/ be," Micah's voice is softly-rumbly against the other man's lips once more at his throat. "I haven't wanted to push anythin'. I tend to feel things too fast and say things too soon. And you've got enough people to worry about without me bein' another worry. I'm happy to be mostly a distraction if that's all... That might be a little...even a /lot/ disappointin', but I ain't gettin' hurt here." Are there added score points for Difficulty when engaging in the serious conversations while /everything/ is distracting? "Oh, gosh, honey-honey, you ain't a worry. I mean I worry /about/ you but you ain't a worry, you've been like this -- amazin' bright warm /happy/, sometimes my cheeks hurt just from smilin' so much when you're around." Jackson looks up his smile faded into more serious expression but a decidedly strong flush of /happy/ in his mind, at least. His fingers still work at the buttons of Micah's shirt, tugging it out from where it is tucked to open it up more fully. "You ain't just a /distraction/. I mean," he says with a blush, "you're sure /distracting/, but you ain't a -- that's not why I --" << <3 >> "-- I don't want you to think I just want you around cuz things've been -- I /want/ you. I mean /you/. I mean if life was smooth an' shiny-happy I'd want you just as much because s'/you/ I want, not -- not an escape from -- everything else. Just you." His blush has deepened. His hands slip beneath the fabric of the opened shirt, sliding against Micah's chest. "'sides," he murmurs, a little more shyly, "I /like/ being pushed." There's a fair amount of worrying going on, at fabric at least, lots of puppyish tugging and plucking to get annoying clothes-things out of the way. Micah gives Jax's shirt a stern look when it fails, at first, to cooperate in having its tails untucked. Bad shirt. Off now. It's hard to say if the look helped, but there is more success after it. "I...just have kind of been bitin' back on sayin' things because I didn't want to complicate. I feel like I've known you for way more'n a month-or-so, y'know?" << And /controllin'/ my mouth is just such hard work. >> And then there is /other/ biting. Teeth finding that spot where neck and shoulder blend into one another. Nibbling and pressing. See? Such hard work to control. "Does feel like s'been longer," Jackson admits, blushing deeper. "But you jus' make it so easy to want to --" Want to shiver, want to draw breath in in a sharp gasp? Because that is what Jax is doing as Micah nibbles at him, neck arching to one side and his fingers pressing harder to the other man's skin. His mind supplies other endings to this sentence, though, even after his words cut off -- want to hold, want to be close to. Want to /love/, this sentiment fierce if somewhat nebulously encompassing a whole range of friendship-feelings, affection-feelings, desire-feelings. "Don't bite back. -- I mean, with words. Sayin' things. /Biting/-biting you can -- please biting." His hands skim up, tugging Micah's shirt to pull it off. There is /no end/ of blushing. Absolutely none. The offending shirt gets drawn off of Jax's torso and pulled down to the cuffs on his wrists before a pause, and it is pulled again. Not off, just...twisted, trapping Jax's arms behind his back. The other man's little 'please'...earns another soft, wordless almost-growling sound from Micah. What was nearly questioning-nibbling gives way to a hungrier sinking of teeth--not enough to break skin, but likely to leave some telltale marks come morning. Then the bitten skin is released with a light flick of tonguetip. It's an entirely unfair time to say it, but he's been asked to speak his mind. And with minds /connected/ and defenses down, the thoughts would have seeped through anyhow. "It's more'n' once I've had to stop from sayin' I love you." Perhaps the grip on Jax helps settle the feeling of vulnerability in the statement, but Micah is still /searching/ his face for its reaction. An echo of the /too soons/ Micah had mentioned before niggles at his mind. Feeling, saying. Jackson's breath catches again, when his arms are pulled behind his back. The soft sound in his throat as Micah's teeth close against his skin is /definitely/ a moan, soft and shivery as a faint glow spreads beneath his skin. His eye has slipped closed, through this, but it opens again at Micah's words, locking on to the other man's face. The feelings this spurs in him are a jumbled chaos, leaking across the mental link well before he manages to formulate /spoken/ words. A definite hesitation, worry -- worry about juggling a /relationship/ with his /kids/ and school and work, worry about how getting into one would affect the kids, worry about bringing Micah further /into/ the chaos that his life has been, worry about the /unfairness/ of expecting Micah to be there through all this insanity, worry that this /is/ all fast, worry about What Does Relationship Mean Anyway, fretting that he should probably talk to Tag and figure out -- whatever /that/ is. Lots of worry, and all of it /swamped/ under the fierce strong rush of warmhappy/love/ that means none of these worries are for lack of /want/. The glow inside him deepens quickly, his skin warmer to the touch as it lights from within. "Then don't stop from sayin' it, honey-honey," he finally manages to say, softly. "This is -- my life's kinda a mess and the /world's/ kinda a mess an' I ain't saying it's not gonna be complicated but I --" His cheeks flush, and his arms pull gently against the cuffs that hold them -- not pulling away or struggling but more /reminding/ himself of the restraint. "But I love you." All of those /worries/...those were the worries that had kept Micah from saying things before. They echo back from him strangely. Especially the kidsworries. The desire not to complicate their terribly complicated young lives any further. But right now...now is a moment for /not/ worrying. He aims to ensure this by tugging at the shirt-restraint again, in a little 'arms where I tell them to be' message, his free hand (ha, he still has one!) clutching at the back of Jax's neck to pull him closer, demanding kisses. And only after that, a shade breathless, does he speak again. "I don't mind messy. Though, right now... Should clean you up a bit." This comes with a wicked flash of a grin and a gently guiding pull-push to propel Jax toward that nearly forgotten shower. Where Micah is demanding Jackson is compliant, arms shifting with the tug; he offers kisses deep and fierce-warm as the glow inside him. "Mmm. Yeah. But maybe get a little dirtier, first." Now is a time for not-worrying, and the fretting melts away into just quiet happiness as he moves along with the guidance towards the shower. He pushes the door closed behind them with a toe, shutting out his warm spill of glowy light from the rest of the apartment. /Just/ in case Spencer gets up.