ArchivedLogs:Sweeping Up

Sweeping Up
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah, Hive	25 December 2013 After the Christmas party. (Much later the same day as murderplots).
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - 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 myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room 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. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. 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. Much of the Lofts tonight is in a state of disarray, looking somewhat like a hurricane has been through several of its apartments. Which one has, really, a hurricane composed of many stray teenagers and more than a few stray adults, as well. Jackson has -- not sat /still/ in quite some time; he spent the majority of the night cooking before church in the morning and now has moved straight on to cleanup. He's dressed brightly colourful, thigh-high socks in a swirling rainbow of colours, a black miniskirt with straps hanging down from several silver D-rings, purple tank top under silvery fishnet shirt under rainbow-striped hoodie. Purple and silver makeup, nails swirly rainbow as well. He's in the kitchen, at the moment, nibbling on a cookie (chocolate snickerdoodles with a generous helping of cinnamon and cayenne) while he puts away food. There has been a /lot/ of food spread throughout the apartments. Still a /few/ people spread throughout them, too, though the bulk of them have been bussed back home by Professor Summers. Kind of /punctually/ in time for curfew. Jackson is singing quietly under his breath, Pippin's "Corner of the Sky." "Rivers belong where they can ramble --" Around him there's a fluttering dance of lights, in sharp bright colours that skitter like tiny bursts of fireworks through the air. Micah has also moved himself to the kitchen, Priority 1 on clean up to get all perishable food items moved into the refrigerator. These he has been wrapping and boxing appropriately before transferring them to cold storage. For the second night in a row, he is looking a little more put together than usual in his attire: an emerald green V-neck sweater worn over a white T-shirt and relatively intact jeans. His socks are red and decorated with glittery silver-white snowflakes, his auburn hair only a little tousled after being tended last sometime in the early afternoon. Once the cold-goods have all found their new homes on the shelves of the refrigerator, he switches from sort of half-humming with Jax's song to actually singing along with it, his clear tenor suited well enough to the song. He moves up behind Jax, wrapping arms around him, moving in what could be the beginnings of simple dance steps with the other man. Hive has been largely scarce through most of the festivities. There was much gaming, much food, much music and general merriment, and his typical personal raincloud has distinctly /not/ been hanging over the cheer. He's here now, though, in light blue denim long-sleeved button down over a plain white tee, jeans faded and threadbare with large holes in the knees. He slouches his way in to the apartment, hands shoved into his pockets once he closes the door behind himself. He shuffles towards the counter, leaning against it with a deep frown. Listening to the song, head tilting slightly at the lyrics. Eventually he snorts. "Nah. Most people don't actually have goals. Pretty happy to just. Muddle along doing what they're doing." Jackson is moving on from food to dishes once the food is appropriately boxed up. He starts with the already-full drying rack, towelling off plates to stack them on the counter. He stops, though, as Micah's arms wrap around him; his own voice, not particularly gifted with any singing talent, drops a little softer as he nuzzles back against Micah's neck. He falls back into step easily, turning in Micah's arms to rest one hand at the other man's shoulder, slip his hand into Micah's. "Oh, it's been an age since I properly gone out dancin'. S'this great swing club over in Clinton, we should --" His lips curl up into a quietly amused smile at Hive's interjection. "Maybe that is most people's goal. Jus' find something comfortable, live quiet an' happy." When Jax turns into him, Micah presses in closer, leaving no space between them as he moves into more of a proper dance. He leaves off his singing to kiss Jax in quick, soft kisses placed to his temple, jaw, and the corner of his lips. "You say the word, an' we'll make a date of it, sugar. You can show me a thing or two, maybe." Guiding them through a turning step so that he can look at Hive, he nods in greeting. "Hey, Hive. Ain't seen much of you t'night, feels like. An'...yeah. Everybody's got goals. Some of 'em are just a lot more /simple/ than others." His head tilts slightly, regarding the telepath. "You eaten lately? There's /so much/ food around." Hive's lazily half-lidded eyes open just a sliver wider, focusing on Micah and Jax, watching those small kisses with a very faint flush dusting his cheeks. He slouches down further, dropping his chin to rest on his arms. His eyes close even as his mind opens, quietly listening to the other men's minds. "Most people have fucked it up, then. They're not comfortable or happy they're just. Kind of fucking -- muddling along." His head shakes, bony shoulders hitching up in a quick shrug. "I had -- yeah." Though here he frowns deeper. "Yesterday, maybe." He pushes away from the counter, moving away to grab a broom. "S'a crapton of food, how long did you spend cooking." Jax closes his eye, humming now soft and happy as he dances, dropping naturally into following Micah's lead. There's worry in his mind easy enough for Hive to read, stress, homesickness, a bone-deep exhaustion that the short winter days are not helping. A longing of his /own/ to just find something comfortable, live quiet and happy. But blossoming warm and bright to eclipse all this is a warm contentedness, safe and secure as Micah presses closer to him. His head tips, lips brushing softly to Micah's. "I'd like that. Soon. Maybe this weekend. Some time 'fore school all starts back up and free time vanishes again." His eye shifts over to watch Hive with a small furrowed-brow of concern. "Yesterday? Oh, gosh, sweetie, you gotta eat somethin'. We got so much -- everythin'. S'curry if you like?" Micah squeezes Jax's hand tight where it is twined with his own, holding him close as their steps slowly travel around the kitchen. "Hive. Honey. There is food /everywhere/, it's almost harder /not/ t'eat somethin'. Could just put a hand out an' have food in it most of the day. S'almost /tomorrow/ already an' you not eatin' since yesterday... S'cookies right on the counter 'til we can get y'somethin' more substantial. What're y'in the mood for?" There's a little twinge in Micah's mind when Jax mentions wanting to go dancing /soon/, a flutter of panic when he names the weekend as a preferred time. "Maybe Friday night?" Micah proposes hopefully. "Got some appointments durin' the day tomorrow an' Friday, an'...some over the weekend. Just don't know which day yet. Could...prob'ly do somethin' on the /other/ weekend day from whenever the appointments come up." The word 'appointments' doesn't feel the same in Micah's mind as usual. Fewer associated thoughts of children and medical needs and equipment specifications, more cold metal and blood. He shakes his head as if to clear it /physically/, tamping down the line of thinking that threatens to follow, the slight queasy feeling in his stomach. Hive is doing a small dance of his own, sliding in socked feet around the living room floor to sweep. Cookie crumbs and pine needles, bits of tape and scraps of wrapping paper. "I'm --" His eyes lift again to watch the others dance, and he gives his head a small shake. "Not in the mood for. Food. /Maybe/ cookies." Though he seems in no hurry to head back towards the kitchen, broom whisking softly against the wood floor. "Holidays get busy at work for you?" His question is /totally innocent/, honest. Though as his brows quirk up questioningly his mind kind of /focuses/ in on Micah's at the unusual thoughts. "I mean, y'can eat all the cookies you want, love, but even /I/ get kinda crashy-headachey if I don't eat /nothin'/ but straight sugar." Jax's gaze ticks back towards Hive as he dances, teeth scraping lightly against his lower lip and a trickle of concern coiling through the happy warmth. "Y'aright, honey-honey?" His hand squeezes Micah's back, nose crinkling thoughtfully. "Weekend appointments? Um -- mmm. I don't remember what shift I pulled Friday, google'll tell me though. S'always next week too though." "Well, we'll start y'in on some cookies an' then maybe your body will remember what actual food is like an' you'll want somethin' else after," Micah proposes, moving with Jax over to the counter by the cookies. He finally releases his grip on the other man, ending the dance with a light kiss pressed to the inside of Jax's wrist, so that he can fetch three cookies and deliver them to Hive. "Not...generally a real busy time for work, no. Just had some special situations come up recently," he evades by omitting significant quantities of details. "I'm fine, hon. If we can't get the schedule straightened out for this weekend, we can get a firmer plan set up for the next one in advance." The thought of the /following/ weekend comes with almost a mental sigh of relief...the next weekend, /finally/ safer. He touches Hive's arm as he approaches, holding out the cookies for the telepath to take. "What d'you want t'drink with 'em? We also got pretty much everythin' on that front." "I know what food is like," Hive grumbles. He pauses in his sweeping, tucking the broom into the crook of his arm so that he can take the cookies from Micah. "/Fine/," he asserts shortly. "Just fucking crowds, you know. But --" Some of the /grump/ in his expression lightens with the admission: "... nicer than the usual crowds. Had more happy mixed in than usual. /You've/ got a shitton of it yourself." He slings this at Jax like it's an accusation, and crams one cookie whole into his mouth. << Safer? These particularly /violent/ kids you're turning into cyborgs now? >> Hive's mental tone /spikes/ its way into Micah's mind, a whole lot dryer than usual. << You taking lessons from Jax? Usually his schtick, face saying some bullshit when his mind tells me otherwise. >> Unlike when he just told Jax he was happy, telling Micah he's lying /doesn't/ sound like an accusation. Just thoughtful. He swallows his overstuffed mouthful of cookie, shrugging. "Cocoa, if there's any left. Almond milk if you're gonna have to make a fresh pot." Jax returns the small kiss with one of his own, light on the tip of Micah's nose. He returns to the dishes as Micah heads out with cookies, still dancing to now unheard (though it's still audible in his /head/) melody as he twirls with more /flourish/ than is necessary to take plates from counter to cabinet. "Next weekend for sure," he agrees lightly. "I'll even /ask/ for a day off if I gotta. If it means going out dancin' with you. Oh gosh can we wear suits and everything?" His eyes do not /actually/ blossom starry here but there's an eager hopefulness to his tone nevertheless that strongly suggests starry-eyes. His cheeks flush deep and dark at Hive's... accusation. "I know. Had a whole lotta worryin' lately. Pretty much nothin' /but/ stress an' worryin' for months straight, feels like. But I --" Here his cheeks flush darker, mind flickering to lingering ache from bruises, teethmarks at his neck, the feel of his arm being twisted up hard behind him. A /peace/ that comes with these remembrances rather than the fear violence might otherwise bring. "-- kinda left off worryin' for now. Much as I /can/ anyhow. S'been nice to just -- see everyone. Dance. Smile. B said somethin' to me the other day --" He hasn't left off /all/ his worrying, it seems; there's a definite ping of concern at the thought of Sebastian. His head shakes quickly. "S'just, life's always such a fight. But if it's nothin' /but/ fight, kinda lose sight'a why we even bother. Sometimes I forget how much we all need /breaks/ sometimes. Goes for you, too, y'know, honey-honey." He's reaching over to flick the stove back on, reheat a pot that once held a lot of cocoa and now holds just a little. "Some cocoa. Lemme heat it back up for you." Micah's hand draws back from Hive's arm reflexively, as if he'd touched a hot iron, when the mental question burns into his mind. There's a sudden-momentary flash of imagery centred on a handgun at the word /violent/ before Micah manages to shut it down, filling the space with a sort of fuzzy mental static to avoid accidentally thinking the /wrong/ things. << No, >> comes as a denial to...all of it. << Just can't say every single thing that's goin' on all the time. >> "The mulled cider ran dry even before all the kids left, but there might still be a spot of cocoa in the pot on the stove," he muses aloud in attempt to cover for the mental conversation. That excuse also serves to move Micah away, back into the kitchen, where he retrieves a mug from the drying rack and sets it next to the stove where Jax is reheating cocoa. "If you're willin' t'get me dressed up, I'm willin' t'wear it," he responds to Jax, smile fond at the other man's excitement. "Was a nice party, wasn't it? Good t'see all the kids havin' a good time. Just eat too much good food an' be with people..." Hive lowers his eyes, lids slipping half-closed again and the muscles in his arm tightening when Micah's hand pulls away. << {Sorry.} Yeah. No. I guess you can't. >> He sets his remaining two cookies down on an abandoned napkin on the coffee table, dropping the broom from the crook of his arm back into his hand. "Yeah." His mouth twitches into a smile that fades away as quickly as it's appeared. His fingers tighten hard around the broom as he returns to sweeping. "Those kids can use a day of happy. Was good of you. To invite them all. Even heard Karrie laughing." "Hive-honey that ain't eating, you're cleanin' again. I can clean just fine, y'know." Jax returns to the drying rack to nab the silverware off of it, taking the whole cup to go put it all back in drawers. "Usual state'a your apartment, I didn't even know you /knowed/ how to use a broom." His gaze sweeps down over Hive, lingering on the other man's hands a moment before looking back to his silverware. "Yeah, was good. Hectic, but good. Think I might hold off on doin' it /again/ for a real long time, though," he says with a crooked grin, "even /I/ ain't cooked that much in ages. -- An' sweetie I will get you polished up till you /shine/." Micah's thoughts are intensely regretful and apologetic at Hive's response, though he says nothing either aloud or with his mind to acknowledge it. "Yeah, she was. I think everybody was finally just able t'relax for a second. Don't always realise how much we're holdin' our breath these days 'til y'get the chance t'let it go." With Jax busy with the silverware, Micah takes over unloading the dishes from the drying rack and rehoming them to the appropriate cabinets. "Was a pretty heroic feat of cookin', even for a kitchen god," he comments with a teasing look darted in Jax's direction. "That'll be another batch of hard work for you, I think, but since you're sure t'outshine me either way...guess I should at least /attempt/ t'keep up." He brushes his shoulder up against Jax's as he passes by on his way to collect more dishes. "Oh -- yeah. I guess I am." Hive stops right where he is, relinquishing the broom and propping it against the wall. "You're right, I -- don't really --" He slips his hands back into his pockets, shoulders dropping into their usual slouch. "Shouldn't sell yourself short, you polish up good." He's drifting away without any proper farewell, scuffing his way through the living room and back towards the door. Jax leans slightly into Micah's touch, shoulder pressing back in more bump than brush. "Nah. M'pretty much like the moon, y'know, I don't make no light, I just echo it. /You/ help keep me bright." He rubs the backs of his knuckles against his eye as Hive heads for the door. "Sweetie, you ain't even had your --" He exhales sharply, clicking the burner under the cocoa back off again. "Honey-honey, s'somethin' wrong, can we -- you don't /gotta/ eat if you don't want I just. Worry. About you." Micah presses right back into Jax's shoulder, bending to place a kiss where his skin is exposed just above the collar of his shirt. A light pink blush steals over his cheeks at the compliments from both men. When Jax points out that Hive is leaving, guilt pricks at Micah's mind. “Oh...honey. At least take the cookies an' your cocoa along with if y'gotta go. S'all warmed up, just gotta get it in the mug for you.” "Huh?" Hive frowns over towards Jax and Micah. His shoulders stiffen, eyes narrowing on them. He shakes his head quickly, a wince crossing his expression. "Don't -- guilt," he grumbles, rubbing at his temple. "Ngh. I need a damn cigarette." This is the last thing he says before disappearing back into the hall and closing the door behind him. Jackson shivers at the small kiss, his expression warming. He leans in to peck Micah lightly on the cheek, but this warmth is derailed by Hive's exit. "What?" He throws Hive a rather confused look. "That was -- more'n his usual complement of grouch." He still sounds concerned, but he moves back to the sink to set the silverware basket back in its place and start in on the /rest/ of the dishes still in the sink. "I'll hafta check in on him in the morning. See if he's had nothin' /yet/ then 'sides cancer sticks." He's back to humming, though, quiet. “Was a whole lot more people around than usual tonight. Prob'ly just has a brain-ache from all the minds crowded in such a small space,” Micah guesses with a shrug, though he does send a worried glance to the door, as well. “Don't know why it's always so hard t'keep folks /fed/ around here. 'Specially with this much food just sittin'!” He rubs a hand along Jax's back in passing, collecting discarded dishes from the stove and countertops and gathering them next to the sink for washing.