ArchivedLogs:That Confused Look

That Confused Look
Dramatis Personae Hive, Shane, Steve	Yule "{So, is this a... Harry Potter thing?}"
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. It has grown late, tonight. Well past midnight though it won't be dawn some time yet. Dinner has long since come and gone but there's still mulled cider and eggnog hot in the kitchen; upstairs board games are still going on. Outside, a bonfire, and in here the room is not dark but alive with quite a lot of candlelight. In one of the hammocks, Spence and Sera are curled up under a blanket, quite fast asleep. Nearby, Shane is in a rocking chair, dressed blandly in jeans and a crimson v-neck sweater over a pale henley. He has a textbook beside him on the chair and a tablet in his lap; a mug in front of him has long since been emptied. There's a faint prickling of pain, ceaseless but muted in the back of his mind, minorly distracting as he tries to focus on his studies. Far /more/ distracting are the myriad other stresses that keep trying to encroach; about how very poorly Jax has been doing, about how very poorly /everyone/ has been doing, about how he'll ever get Evolve back off the ground, about the children a few chairs over, about, about, about. The sick pall of grief that hangs over all /this/, much like the prickle of pain, has become so everpresent that it, too, kind of fades into the background. He rubs at his eyes, lifts them briefly from his notes to watch the candles dance. Hive wanders in from the dining room. Quiet. Picks up Shane's empty mug, wanders back out; when he returns, it's with a filled hot mug of cider that he sets down on the table by the boy. He takes a seat of his own, curling down into a hammock in front of a few lit candles. Says nothing. His eyes fix on Shane, and then on the same candle that Shane watches, pupils constricting as he stares into it. Steve had been upstairs in his room ever since he got back earlier in the evening, but now he's ventured out, preceded by his bewilderment as to the reason for the get-together at the Commons. Not that he hasn't got other things on his mind, between dark thoughts about the continuing quarantine, dark thoughts about the state of the country in general, and the ever-present pain of being torn from everyone he had loved -- the last raw and hurting all anew after the Longest Night service. He slips into the sunroom, still dressed for church in a purple, green, and white flannel and khakis, his shield on his back and a sketchbook under one arm. Nods his greeting to Shane and Hive. Takes a seat and for a moment seems unsure what to do with the mug in his hand (black and emblazoned with the iconic design on his shield -- Tag had just handed it to him when he passed through the kitchen), but then just sets it down on the coffee table before him. Shane blinks, one set of eyelids and then the second when Hive takes his mug. Then again, when it returns, filled. He eyes it with a trace of bemusement, looking up to Hive and then back to the candles. "{The fuck are you, psychic or something.}" It's dry, Quebecois-accented French. He leans forward to pick up his mug, taking a cautious sip before deeming it Not Too Hot To Drink. His chin lifts to Steve. "{You missed dinner.}" << {Or something.} >> Equally dry. It whispers back soft and sussurating, a shiver of voices echoing across the surface of the others' minds as a ghost of smile slips across Hive's face. His bony fingers curl together, then unlock. Aloud: "{There's plenty of leftovers. That confused look is like the most standard part of your outfit, dude. See you with it as much as your shield.}" "{I ah...wasn't really hungry, somehow. But I'll poke around for leftovers in a while.}" Steve's head tilts just a fraction of a degree to the side at Hive's. "{What confused look...?}" he asks, his French fluid and continental but very country to those who would recognize it. Then he blushes quite abruptly. << Oh. /This/ confused look. >> "{Well. My wardrobe and my all-American good looks are so generic, I have to do /something/ to help people recognize me.}" Shane's gills flutter rapidly, something twinging in his mind -- sharp, gnawing, ravenous, /he/ was at dinner, certainly, but how much of it he actually /ate/ is -- another question entirely. The smile that curls across his face is quick, though, toothy and sharp as he leans in and props his elbows on his knees. "{/Trust/ me,}" he says with a soft huff of laughter to Steve, "{not many people around here are going to have a hard time remembering /your/ --}" He starts to uncurl his fingers in Steve's direction, though this summons up a flare of pain in his mind; he settles, instead, for waggling his mug towards -- all of Steve. "{all-American good looks. What's confusing /now/? Maybe we can help.}" Hive's brows raise. He tilts his head towards Steve at the question. Aloud, just, deadpan: "{The shield helps, too.}" "{The shield keeps changing.}" Steve tugs said shield from its harness and leans it against the side of his chair. Its colors are still red, gold, and green in place of the traditional red, white, and blue. "{Probably very confusing to some people.}" His eyes focus on Shane's fingers momentarily when he breaks off the gesture, brows wrinkling faintly. "{This...get-together? I know they're not uncommon here, and certainly there's no need of an occasion, but this one is running rather late. I suppose it's got to do with the winter solstice? Is that a thing people celebrate, now?}" "{Oh shit,}" Shane's eyes widen as the shield comes out, a quick flutter to his gills. His hand -- which he is cautiously curling back around his mug, now -- bears a number of cuts, sliced thin and red and raw through the webbing of his fingers (it hangs loose between each finger, now, severed and separated from where it should stretch.) "{Who the fuck are you, where'd Steve go? Hive there's some goddamn /Christmas Elf/ in our house where Cap used to be.}" He leans back in his chair, lifting his mug for a slow drink. One shoulder lifts, falls. "{Well, sure, the witches celebrate it. Witch around. Cast spells to make sure the sun comes back and we're not locked into eternal darkness. The rest of us just drink and let them do the hard work.}" Hive's expression doesn't change, really, but there's a ripple through the room, a mental touch that brushes up -- warm and flooding overwhelmingly with a sudden fierce affection at Shane's first reply. Deep and intense, it fades again soon. He is quiet after this, his eyes slightly unfocused and locked onto the candles once more. Steve tries to stifle his laugh, but it still comes out, a sudden guffaw. "{If I /were/ Chrismas elf, I'd have a much easier time coming up with presents, no?}" He lifts up his mug and takes a long, appreciative sip of the mulled cider. << Everything in this era tastes /better/ than it did in mine. >> "{So, is this a...Harry Potter thing?}" But his brows knit again when he sees Shane's fingers more clearly. "{Your hand...do you need bandages?}" There's a kind of guilty/self-conscious twinge in Shane's mind at Steve's question, his gills fluttering rapidly for a moment and his hand tightening against the mug -- which only brings a greater swell of pain that he very deliberately ignores. "{Oh, uh. It's fine, it's not that bad. I mean I did it... it'll be --}" He shakes his head. "{Just need to get through exams,}" he mutters. It's made rather easier to ignore by the flush of feeling that comes from Hive; he relaxes as though /into/ it, nestling back into his chair with a happysoft sigh. Through the chaos in his mind a strong pulse of love answers Hive's touch, reflexive and every bit as fierce. He sets his tablet aside on top of his textbook, climbing out of his chair and over into Hive's hammock instead. "Harry Potter?" Shane's brows lift, his head giving a quick puzzled shake as he tucks in against Hive's side. "{What? That's fiction, dude. I'm talking about /actual/ witches. The Tessiers come over to get their magic on.}" The mental touch coils back out when Shane climbs into the hammock with him. Kind of indiscriminate, it wraps snug and firm around Shane and Steve both, coiling in a hard mental squeeze that once again comes with a flooding rush of warmth. << (I'm not) (the only one) (who needs) (these hugs) >> This thought doesn't come in words so much as a series of abstract /concept/. Shifting images; the children sleeping nearby in the hammock (Sera's pale thin form); the eldest Tessier brothers lighting white candles off of a taller one; Jax hugging his knees to his chest and staring into a bonfire; Horus preening his feathers on the balcony of the Treehaus; Joshua slumped exhausted into a chair on the roof. It takes a long moment before Hive remembers his /own/ arm, curling it out around Shane's shoulders in a slow squeeze. He just shakes his head at the mention of Harry Potter, nodding to Shane instead. "{/You/ did it...?}" The perplexed look creeps back onto Steve's face at Shane's not-quite-explanation of his wounds. << He doesn't want to talk about it, clearly, but... >> "{Surely your exams must almost be done?}" He closes his eyes when the flood of warmth and the images sweep out over him, hand tightening on the arm of the chair until it creaks in complaint, then promptly releasing it. It takes him a few seconds to recover, his own thoughts a jumble of longing, ache, and even a touch of helplessness. But he masters himself, both outwardly and inward, "{/Actual/ witches? I don't understand. Weren't witches just...imaginary scapegoats from olden days?}" << More. Olden days. >> "{Huh? No. Actual witches. Like their religion, dude. I mean they don't fly around on fucking /broomsticks/ they just -- have orgies and black magic and worship Satan naked at the winter solstice, that kind of thing.}" Shane closes his eyes, turning in to press his face in against Hive's shoulder. A low whine of growl rumbles through him, the sudden fierce ache that swells though him briefly eclipsing most other thoughts. It has passed by the time he finishes nuzzling against Hive and looks back up. "{Been a lot of hug-needing going around.}" His eyes have travelled back towards Steve here, looking down towards the arm of the other man's chair. He slides back out of the hammock-chair, making it swing unstably as he moves, and presses a kiss to Hive's temple. "{Last two are tomorrow. My fingers just. Aren't really made for piano. I'll be glad for vacation.}" He moves over to squeeze Steve's shoulder, passing back towards the door. "{I'm getting food. I'll get some for you both.}" It's not so much a question, as he heads for the kitchen. Hive raises his eyebrows at Shane's answer. His eyes scrunch shut. "{Sorry,}" he murmurs, first, the mental sensation fading away as he looks at Steve's hand squeezing down on the chair. "{I didn't --}" He shakes his head quickly, straightening in the chair and planting his feet firmly on the ground when it starts to shake. "{You could probably ask Matt. He -- might explain his religion a bit better than Shane. /After/ food, though.}" Steve /probably/ would be looking confused again if he weren't so busy looking utterly scandalized at Shane's list of Things Witches Do. His mouth falls open, his eyes going wide. At least his shock has, for the moment, pushed out most of the /other/ unpleasant thoughts and feelings. Along with any coherent thought for several long moments, though he gathers his wits again in fairly short order. "{Piano? Oh, that...godspeed on the remainder of your exams.}" He leans into Shane's hand -- /carefully/ -- as the boy passes. "{And thank you.}" Looking back at Hive, he shakes his head slowly. "{It's all right. I just -- }" << There's so much pain I... >> "{Thank you. I'll. Try that.}"