ArchivedLogs:Need/Want

Need/Want
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah
In Absentia	2014-01-05 Warning, kissy.
Location <NYC> Candyland - Village Lofts - East Village
This bedroom is bright, bright, bright, a cheerful riot of colour in contrast to the more minimalist scheme outside. It, too, has a plethora of lamps to lend it even more light than what comes in from the large windows opposite the entry; many of them bear stained-glass coverings in cheerful mosaic patterns to add still more colour to the room. The walls have been painted in pale blue with darker blue trim, though one is instead a mural of surreal fantastical artwork, odd unearthly plant and animal life spread across it in vivid colours. There is scattering of furniture here -- a bed on the wall adjacent to the window (usually dressed in vividly patterned mismatched sheets), a dresser opposite the bed, standing beside the large closet, both in wood that has been painted black and then covered in a swarm of brightly coloured images, too. The wall near the door bears an enormous handmade shelving unit, similarly painted; it is filled largely with meticulously organized art supplies. By the window, a desk stands in as-yet-unpainted wood; besides laptops and drawing tablet it often bears an eclectic mix of items, too. Comic books, knitting supplies, a hiking pack of climbing gear. It is well after noon by the time a gentle knock comes at the door to Hive's current /lair/, the soft press of Micah's thoughts just outside it. Said thoughts come with the promise of second-chance baked grits (about the only way to properly reconstitute them once they've been cooked and gone cold), fried potatoes, fruit salad, freshly-made orange juice, and hot coffee. The thoughts imply such things already laden on a tray outside the door, but do not intrude further into potential sleeping. Hive is -- still in bed, sadly. But at least not entirely asleep; he's taken out his phone to check through his email and since returned to half-dozing, at least until that knock comes. He's still tucked under the vivid-bright sheets, dark hair spread against the colorful pillowcases. He's in a plain white undershirt and plain navy boxers, though at the moment as he burrows deeper into the sheets neither of these can be seen. His mind presses back to Micah's, though, in its usual uncomfortable squeeze. No words. It's like the mental equivalent of an acknowledging GRUNT. Since breakfast, Micah has found his way to a shower and some real clothes. His chocolate brown Firefly dinosaur T-shirt is layered over a caramel-coloured henley shirt, /under/ his Batsignal hoodie, with faded, patched jeans and a pair of thick socks sporting tiger stripes. Though dry, his hair is still a touch spiky from having been left to air-dry out of the shower. He does, indeed, have the promised tray of food in hand as he pushes the door open, spin-turns in through the doorway, and shoves the door back to once he's inside. “Hey, hon. Brought brunch.” He moves very close to the bed, but doesn't go about delivering the tray anywhere without invitation. Hive pushes himself upright, covers falling down around his lap as he sits up. "Pups tried to brunch me earlier," he recollects, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles and pulling his legs in to fold them up pretzel-shaped. His dark curtain of hair falls loose and messy down over his face. "Don't think it went well for them. -- Guess you've probably eaten already." “Mmn...trouble was that they tried t'bring you /breakfast/ earlier. I tried t'warn 'em, but they'd already rabbited off an' I didn't even have m'leg on at the time. /This/,” Micah assures with a smile, “this is /brunch/.” His head nods down to the tray, indicating doubled up mugs of coffee and cups of juice, though only a single plate of food. “I did eat. I brought drinks, though.” "Does brunch have defined hours?" Hive threads his bony fingers through his hair, pulling it back off his face. Without the obscuring curtain of hair he can actually peer up at Micah clearly. "I think I usually tended to -- brunch. Around two am. I don't know what meal that's called, then." He lets his hair fall back down, reaching hands up for the tray. "C'mon then. Sit." "Yes. Breakfast is the first meal that happens before noon. Brunch is breakfast food at any time /after/ breakfast or after noon. Until it's late enough to be breakfast-for-dinner," Micah declares authoritatively. "By two a.m. it's usually just diner food." He passes the tray over, settling it on Hive's lap in traditional breakfast-in-bed position, then pulls up a desk chair next to the bed. He claims his own OJ and coffee off of the tray, careful to take his sweetened-and-almond-milked mug while leaving the black cup for Hive. "I have /definitely/ seen --" Hive stops and reconsiders. "... well. /Heard/ of brunch at -- like. Eleven-thirty. But then again it was Jax and Ryan so maybe it's some kind of -- rebel anarchist brunch. They don't let The Man tell them how to brunch." He takes the tray with a nod of thanks, but his amused smile drops into a small frown when Micah pulls the chair over. He picks up the coffee, ignoring the food as he curls fingers around it. "Though with as much as we eat leftovers for breakfast I don't know if I even really know what the fuck breakfast food /is/ anymore. Cold pizza? Lo mein?" Micah cradles his coffee mug in his hands, sapping its heat and taking in its scent. “Eleven-thirty's close enough. Or maybe they'd had /breakfast/ already, earlier. Totally makes it brunch.” He cuts off his prattle at the frown, his eyebrows drawing together slightly. “Would y'rather I just left y'to it? I don't...have t'sit an' stare at y'while y'eat. I just...guess it's a habit.” "I think they were just bucking your proscriptive brunch rules. Freeing brunch from your shackles." Hive cradles his mug close, too, lifting it close to his face to breathe in its steam. His eyebrows raise as Micah's draw together. "What's a habit, endless chatter?" His mouth twitches upward, and he takes a sip of coffee. "I like it. I'd be hearing it anyway, it's nicer when --" He shrugs, and takes a longer swallow of the hot coffee. "You just usually -- tend to sit closer." The mug comes up to Micah's lips, delivering a first almost-too-hot sip of coffee before he places it on the desk next to the juice. “Chatter, yeah. Just...bein' on top of people all the time. S'kinda what I do.” A faint blush spreads over his cheekbones. “Can't get any closer without bein' in the bed,” he adds quietly. Hive snorts at Micah's phrasing, eyes lifting towards the ceiling. "Yeeeah, I know. You're good at that." But once again the amusement that creeps into his expression fades back away again just as quick. "Right. Yeah. I know. That's just never been a --" He shakes his head, looking back over to Micah. "{Fuck, look, I'm sorry,}" starts first in kind of irritable French. "I shouldn't have -- ngh. I just. Can this not be a /thing/ you've been in my bed plenty before. Plus this is your fucking bed anyway." The blush deepens at Hive's teasing. "It's not that you're in it. It's that...it's /not/ mine. It's Jax's. An' I shouldn't be in it unless he says I should be." Micah looks away, down at the coffee and juice on the desk. "An'...yeah, I also didn't wanna crowd you. But you've got nothin' t'apologise for. I just...shouldn't've pushed you. It wasn't...fair of me t'do. /I/ should be the one apologisin'." "Unless /he/ says -- isn't that backwards?" Hive looks, for a moment, genuinely confused. But then mostly just apologetic. He gives his head a quick shake, and sets the coffee back down on the tray. He slides out of bed to sit on the floor against the wall instead, patting at the ground beside himself now. "I was there," he says dryly. "It didn't really take much /pushing/, I /wanted/ --" He shakes his head again, cutting this sentence off with a small sip of coffee. “It's not...like that. It's how we left things. An' then the cops took 'im away an' I haven't even been able t'/talk/ t'him again.” Micah climbs down from the chair, bringing his own mug as he sits up against Hive's side. His head falls onto the telepath's shoulder, finally just sharing the tiniest snippet of memory rather than forcing himself to recount it verbally. The bathroom. Jax's rising anger and hurt and disappointment. But mostly that declaration that he couldn't even be around Micah anymore. Micah is silent for a moment before he manages to address the rest of what Hive said. “Okay. I know. It wasn't like...I was forcin' you. But...if you can't. If y'can't /ever/. Any of that? Was extremely unkind of me t'do anyhow.” "It's not -- that I can't ever. I mean I used to, you know -- well, no, you don't know, you've only been here a year and it's /been/ that long since I --" Hive grimaces, setting the tray down in front of himself and curling his hand around the side of Micah's head, fingers brushing through the other man's hair. "Anyway. I used to date. And kiss. And fuck. And actually interact with people like a gorram human being. It's not that I can't /ever/ it's just. Been a fucking mess all year." He falls quiet, turning to press his lips to the top of Micah's head, closing his eyes and just resting there for a spell. "I -- still. Could help. You could talk to him. /Neither/ of you have to be alone through this." "Oh. Oh, I thought...because of your ability that maybe it was just always. Too much..." Simultaneously, Micah's cheeks take on a bright apple-red and he nuzzles in against Hive's side, head tipping into the petting at his hair, a soft smile answering the little kiss. "No, honey. I don't want y'doin' anythin' that's gonna get y'hurt. Or /killed/. An' we'd have t'put someone /in there/ with 'im first, an' I don't want /them/ gettin' hurt, either. We're gonna put out the videos, an' hope..." << An' hope that Vector manages t'come through, too. >> He presses in closer to Hive again. "Y'just...gotta tell me when I'm too much, then, okay? 'Cause I don't know. It seemed like maybe the kissin' might've been okay, but I moved too fast after that. I don't...I'm really not sure. I'm kinda a mess of horrible uncertainty when it comes t'...everythin' anymore." "No. I mean, my ability used to just be a giant /turn-off/, nothing kills the mood like /actually/ knowing what bullshit is on your partner's mind," Hive says wryly. "But ever since that last --" He grits his teeth, jaw tightening against the top of Micah's head. << We used to have Halim with us when we did these raids. And he could shut all the chips off straightaway. Never had to keep everyone more than a couple hours at most. Having -- that many people for that long and, fuck, it's /even worse/ with the rescuees because I actually have to /fight/ the fucking chips sometimes. Think it just kind of. Broke some fucking wall I haven't been able to put back up since. >> His fingers knead slowly into Micah's hair. << Someone would only have to be there for hardly any time at all. And we wouldn't even have to keep it if you're worried, you'd just -- have a chance. To actually -- not leave things. Shittily. >> His hand falls down to Micah's shoulder, fingers wrapping around it. He tips his head back against the wall, taking a slow drink of coffee. "I don't know," he admits. "You're not exactly usually the type of -- I think everything's just really fucked up and it had been a really long fucking time since I --" He grimaces. "-- Dammit, shit, now I'm just sounding insulting. Uh. It was my bad. Just sometimes nice to be -- close to someone." << That sounds...rough. Is it somethin' that Lucien could help with? He's managed t'put a /lot/ of your head back t'gether before. >> Micah slowly melts back into Hive's touch, eyes starting to drift closed. The muscles in his jaw twitch suddenly. << Not.../leavin'/ things. We're gettin' 'im back. We're gettin' 'im back an' we'll talk after an' then...whatever happens, happens. I love you. I'm not riskin' you for this. Not you, too. >> "No, I get it, honey. I was kind of... No, I was /extremely/ surprised when y'kissed me. I didn't think you /liked/ guys at all." He sighs, reaching over to fill a hand up with a balled-up fistful of Hive's shirt. "An' I /know/. How much that can help. An' I /wanted/ that." << Still /do/. I just don't know what's /okay/ anymore. >> "I /don't/ like guys," Hive insists; he doesn't sound /defensive/ of this as is stereotypically expected for StraightDudes but just kind of -- puzzled. << I don't know. S'hard for him I guess because he's got nothing to compare it to. He puts me back how he found me but he's only ever known me broken. >> He takes another drink of coffee, longer and slower. Sets the mug down to chase this with orange juice. << Might be getting him back. But when? I can /feel/ how much you've been hurting, man, and it's -- >> He sets the orange juice glass down as well, as Micah's hand balls up into his shirt. "You have no fucking idea how much I miss --" He lifts his hand to rest it over Micah's, fingers curling in around the other man's fisted knuckles. But then dropping to rest in his own lap as he exhales a sharp snort. "... wasn't exactly /okay/ of me either. I mean, 'hey so about making out with you, I'm not actually into you but you're /here/ and I haven't gotten laid in for-fucking-ever' is /pretty much/ a universally shitty thing to say to anyone. I'm -- pretty fucking bad at /people/." << I don't know...maybe if he knew more? If you could just...think what things used to be like at 'im? He's pretty incredibly perceptive. Might be able t'at least /start/ gettin' you back in the right direction. Think it'd be worth tryin'. >> Micah's fingers just grip tighter. << I'm hurtin'. I'm gonna /be/ hurtin' 'til he's back an' Dusk's back an' Flicker's back an' all of this is /over/. I just...if anythin' /happened/ t'you doin' this I couldn't /stand/ it. I love you. >> He sighs down at his hand, but doesn't let go. "I'm not offended. I don't even /care/. Y'think I don't understand wantin' t'be with someone just 'cause y'need t'be close? Besides the fact that you're my friend an' I love you an' I'd do it again /right now/ even though y'just said all that if it would make /you/ hurt less." His forehead presses harder into Hive's shoulder. << I just feel like all I've done is mess ev'rythin' up for everyone lately. An' they keep takin' my people away from me an' it's my own fault an' it's like tearin' pieces /out/ of me. An' I can't help but feel like /I/ deserve it 'cause of what I did. But /they/ don't. They don't deserve it at all. >> << S'his job to be perceptive, I guess. >> Hive sounds noncommittal on the Lucien front, though. His hand returns to curl around Micah's when Micah doesn't let go. "What makes me hurt less is not being so fucking useless," he mutters, tipping his forehead to rest against the top of Micah's head. "You have no fucking idea what it's --" His fingers squeeze tighter against Micah's hand. << You /don't/ fucking deserve this, >> snaps hard and forceful into Micah's mind. << /You/ don't. Jesus Christ. For what? For protecting /your family/ from a bloodthirsty madman who wanted to /murder/ them all? You don't deserve any of this shit. And I wish to God I could take it from you and I /can't/ and it's goddamn killing me. >> There's a heavy press of his mind, in against Micah's in sharp digging pressure. "It was okay for a while. Not getting to hardly fucking touch anyone. Because I /had/ closeness. And it's not even about sex. Dusk and Shane tell me that a lot but I never really understood it till I was in their heads. Just -- want to /be/ close to people. However you express that." The hard clawing dig of his mind presses in further, a yearning hungry /pull/ coming with the touch. His arms curl to pull Micah closer, practically into his lap. "I'm in all your goddamn minds and sometimes I /still/ don't know how to be close to any of you." << You're not useless, >> Micah protests fiercely. << You're only /like this/ right now because of how much they need you. How much you've had t'take on t'help get those people out an' keep their minds from bein' taken over by those chips an' findin' information an' controllin' guards an'... That team wouldn't've been able t'do /half/ of what it's done without you. >> His other hand comes to claim a fistful of shirt, as well, his face just smooshed into Hive's shoulder. << An' you were able t'get into contact with Vector. An' if he makes that video it may /be/ the thing that gets our people back. It's /all/ you. You're about the furthest person from useless that I've ever known. >> << I know, Hive. I know what I /had/ t'do. An'...it's not the /why/ of it, it's the /what/. I killed him. He prob'ly needed...a high-security psychiatric facility, not a damned /bullet/ in his head. But I /killed him/. While he was just...doin'. Carpentry. Spent days killin' /fake-him/ just t'kill 'im /better/. There's...there's something /wrong/ with that. >> Micah presses against Hive even harder. He's quiet, briefly, while Hive speaks. At the pull he /does/ climb into the other man's lap, brushing kisses to each of his cheeks. "I don't know, honey. Whatever feels...okay t'you. I would...I just..." He finally releases the shirt to wrap his arms around Hive and crush him against him. "I love you." "What the fuck is the point of any of that if I still can't do a fucking thing to help any of you?" There's a rougher edge of frustration to Hive's words. "If I just have to goddamn /sit here/ and feel everyone /screaming/ around me and I can't help a single goddamn /one/ of you. Half the time I'm not even supposed to admit I fucking /know/ and even when I do --" His jaw tightens, his eyes screwing up tightly. << You're a goddamn fucking hypocrite. >> This accusation comes even as his arms tighten to hold the other man close. << How many times do you tell the pups not to beat themselves up over the shit they've done when they were backed into a corner? Do you want to know how many people /I've/ killed? It's good. Not to be callous. It /should/ get to you. But not because you're a /bad/ fucking person, Micah, it's because you're a /good/ one. A good one put into a really shitty place. What's /wrong/ with it is the fucked-up /world/ that put you there. Not /you/. >> The hungry touch of his mind sinks deeper, with these small kisses. For a moment Hive's breath catches, his fingers curling in tight to the other man's shirt. There's a hard surge of need, of want, of ache, that ripples through the mental claws sinking themselves in to grip Micah's mind. He tips his head forward, exhaling shakily against Micah's neck. << (love you) >> is felt more than heard, pressed into Micah's mind along with the grasping hold. "You're helpin'. You're helpin' /me/. Please. Just sit here. /With/ me. /I/ need you." Micah squeezes Hive closer, arms around his back, knees pressing into his hips. << I need you where I can hold you an' where I can talk an' oh/gosh/ with all the surveillance I can't even talk. I can't even /talk/ about this with anyone else, Hive, because they'll hear an' I feel like I just have t'/scream/ sometimes an' I can't...even...say anythin'. It's almost worse. Almost worse than before when I couldn't say 'cause Jax would find out. >> A small whimper catches in his throat at the well-deserved accusation of hypocrisy. << I know! I know. It just...it feels so much dif'rent when it's not an immediate...fightin' for food not t'starve. Fightin' t'keep someone else from killin' you /right there/. I hunted this man down like some kind of predator...it's... I know. I know I had to. But the immediacy wasn't there so my mind just won't /listen/ to it. >> More kisses cover Hive's face, his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw. "Please...please tell me what I can do. If...I can help you it'll help me. That's what y'can do for me right now. I need...t'feel like I'm actually makin' somethin' better. Without the...without all the /ugly/ attached to it." Micah's voice has reduced to a feather-soft whisper. "Please, I just...want t'help. As much as you do." << Scream, then. I can hear you, even if nobody else can. This shit is fucked up as hell. Keeping it all to yourself -- that kind of shit just eats you alive. >> Hive's eyes stay closed, his fingers kneading against Micah's back. "I'm here," he whispers back, a fierce promise that comes with a harder clench of mental claws. Sinking in deep and with an increasing pain as Hive's muscles tighten against Micah. The pain clears up rather /abruptly/, hard clenching grip replaced with a rather familiar pressure, less /squeeze/ and more blanketing now. Hive draws in a shaky half-moaned gasp of breath, his forehead pressing down against Micah's neck. The rush of his thoughts against Micah's is a cluttered jumble that takes a disorienting moment for him to sort out, and even once he /does/ he does not erect the usual solid /walls/ he keeps between his mind and the one he is joined to. There's a hard desperation, clinging to this contact because he doesn't know /what/ to cling to, hanging on here tight for fear that if he lets go he'll give up trying to hang on at all. Beneath that Hive's mind is mostly just /raw/, chafed sore and bloody by the constant press of lost and hurting minds around him with no ability to help them. For the first few moments of connection his mind is just as open to Micah's as Micah's is to him, a shared (/loud/, Hive's mind is always loud; behind Hive's flood of ache there are other voices, always, Spencer building a TARDIS out of K'nex in his room with which to go /steal/ Jax off to have space adventures far away from here, the twins with a rather similar /ache/ in their bedroom, Sebastian's a fierce and angry protectiveness of his family, Shane's similarly at a /loss/ for how to help) consciousness that /gives/ as much as it drinks Micah in hungrily. << (here) >> surfaces, Hive's thought in Micah's mind. << Here. /With/ you. I'm here. >> Micah clings to Hive...literally, because that's the only kind of /holding on/ he really knows how to deal with on an intellectual level, squeezing tight and pressing more kisses to his hair and face and neck. << I know. I know you hear me. You've...had t'hear me an' I'm sorry. >> While not an actual scream, there is a constant painful /something/, aching guilty angry lonely helpless and just crying like an infant that has no other means of communication...every need, just crying. At the squeezing-painful-press of meeting minds, Micah brings his lips to Hive's, again closed, trying for soft, but ending up pressing back hard as well. He takes in all of this from Hive, mind curling up against his like a hug of its own, fingers splayed and feeling and kneading and drinking in. << Shane's afraid you're going to hurt yourself. You can't. You can't do it an' you can't /leave me/. >> His mind grips onto Hive's and clings harder. << This...this won't hurt you, will it? You can...whatever you want, I just don't want it t'hurt you an' y'can't leave, okay? >> << I hear everything. Don't be sorry. Just don't shut me /out/. >> There are snippets of memory that bubble up along with this, sitting at the kitchen table with Micah, echoes of words ("/You/ wanted t'see me angry," "/my/ family" -- that latter still wrenches even now in a keener way than the rest), Micah's tears against his shoulder, the almost-chance to help. Lying in bed later, feeling Jax's worried confusion and Micah's tears and straining to return to his usual habit of non-interference. In shared mental space the recurring mental thought of the gun upstairs in his desk, the crushing screaming /need/ to make all the secondhand pain /stop/, the number of times -- begun some months ago but skyrocketing in the aftermath of living through the zombie plague from a hundred different horrific points of view -- that he's been so close to /using/ the pistol, these all answer the question of Shane's worry clearly enough, even if Hive shakes his head in uncomfortable rejection of this train of thought. His still-too-bony arms curl in tight and the lonely-aching-need from Micah is taken in, absorbed until it may as well be his own. << Everything hurts. >> His mouth presses back to Micah's, hard. << Everything always fucking hurts. But at least /this/ is my /own/ choice. >> << But I /am/. I /am/ sorry. I don't want to...I never /do/, I just had t'keep all of you out of it 'cause someone would've...someone would've told Jax or gone t'do it themselves an' gotten caught an'...I guess it wouldn't've been worse than this but I didn't /know/. I didn't /know/ this would happen. I thought I could just make Malthus stop an' then it all would /stop/ an' it would finally be /over/ an' they would be safe. >> 'They' flashes first to Spencer, the twins, Jax, but also to Dusk, Hive, Flicker, Horus...slowly spiralling out into the vast /network/ of people, /mutant/ people that Micah was fighting to protect. Or trying to. << Oh, honey... >> His arms press tighter around Hive, to the point that his muscles ache. << I just meant I had t'protect them. That I couldn't let it happen anymore, that /I/ had to... I didn't mean /not/ you. I /love/ you. And I only...I only changed my mind again because Dusk said it would /kill/ you. I was tryin' t'protect /you/, too. >> << /No/! >> Well, so much for not screaming. The images of the gun draw a hard, slamming, instant denial from Micah. << Nononono. >> His mind changes the image, slams the drawer on the desk closed. Places an oversized lock on it, fixes it with an oversized key, hides the key away in his own pocket. << You can't you can't you can't, /please/. >> Micah's mouth presses, claiming, over Hive's. Locking and pushing as if forcing air into his lungs to keep him breathing. << I don't mean hurt. >> Some small thoughts are associated with this: stepping on a Lego, accidentally brushing a finger against a hot pan on the stove, thudding a forehead into an open cabinet. << I mean /hurt/. >> This comes with a memory of Hive, staring and empty, Micah helping to comb his hair, wash his face, brush his teeth, all while Hive neither speaks nor moves. << I can't.../hurt/ you. Can't have you be gone. Please stay here with me. >> He kisses the other man again, desperately trying to hold on to him. << I love you. >> << -- I thought. >> Hive doesn't actually finish this thought in words. A bubbling spill of secondhand /warmth/ surfaces this time, Jax and Micah, Micah and Dusk, helping Spencer with science experiments in the kitchen, the twins falling asleep in boneless puppy-piling on their fathers' laps; memories fierce and warm but just as much /not his/ as all the pain. Just as much uncomfortable uncertainty about where he fits, how much he's allowed to see, what parts of all the lives around him it's okay and not-okay to touch. << I just -- thought you didn't -- >> He holds Micah tight, though the touch of his lips grows softer. Yielding where Micah's is claiming, drawing in a breath Micah pushes out. Desperate, perhaps, as well, though the lines in this shared space are blurred; whether it's Micah's desperate clinging now or his own is hard to distinguish. << (here with you) >>, he agrees, though he might as well just be saying, << (us) >>, there's little distinction there, too. It takes a moment to push past the stabbing, painful sense of loss and need at those images, particularly the ones with Jax and Dusk in them. << No, please, please. >> Micah feeds back memories of sitting with Hive at Home eating hashbrowns, feeding Hive radishes through a fence, all but abandoning Chinese food in Hive's room at Mendel with Jax and practically knocking their chairs over to get to the bed when they feel the press of his mind, trying to rescue some fish at Hive's new office, an endless parade game nights, that /same/ memory of crying against Hive's shoulder, lowering Hive to the bed in his room. << (need you) (want you) (love you) (please) >> He kisses Hive again and again, barely remembering to let either of them breathe. << (need you) (want you) (love you) (please) >> These thoughts might, at first, have been Micah's, but at some point in there they become Hive's, his mind yielding to the older man's touch even as his body does. He sinks back against the wall, holding Micah close against him. As Micah's thoughts fill his mind the intensity of his kisses grows, swelling to evenly match the other man's. The little pull toward Hive as the other man sinks against the wall is answered immediately, perhaps a little /too/ immediately, Micah crushing the other man between himself and the wall. His kisses continue, at Hive's mouth, jaw, neck, collarbones. His hands slip up under the other man's shirt, fingers splayed and seeking as if to confirm his presence and solidity. It takes a few moments for Micah's mind to collect itself through the intensity of want and need, a little twinge of regret not /quite/ working its way to his body yet. << Doing it again. Sorry. Okay? >> Again, more time passes before he is able to clarify further. << Are you okay? Is this okay? >> /And yet/, he is locking another hungry kiss to Hive's lips. Hive's head tips back, eyes fluttering closed at the kisses pressed to his skin. Beneath his shirt he's perhaps /not/ as solid as some of his more well-muscled friends but still very much there all the same, skinny-bony with hard angles rather than hard muscles. Too much hipbone, too much ribs. His own hand mirrors Micah's at this motion, sliding underneath Micah's layered shirts to splay fingers against skin. The question is answered with -- need, with want. Micah's want and need, flooding in to eclipse most else in Hive's mind. Echoed emotions drunk greedily in and reflected back to Micah. << (need you) (want you) (love you) (please) >>, a soft stolen chorus that resurfaces as Hive presses just as hungrily into the kiss.