ArchivedLogs:Too Much Love

Too Much Love
Dramatis Personae Micah, Shane, Dusk	16 November 2014 Warning: sexual subtext
Location <NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
There's an open airy feel to the floorplan of this unit. The door opens up into a wide expanse of common space that is not so much divided up into rooms as it is simply multipurposed. Ash-grey resin flooring underfoot runs up against the paler grey of the exposed stone in the walls; between the stone support there are wide floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the river on one side of the home and the Commons' central yard on the other. Half of the space has a ceiling at one-floor height, though half of the space is left open with a balcony up on the second floor overlooking the living space below. A slatted stairway heads up to the second floor balcony; on the other side of the room, a fireman's pole running straight down the the basement provides a quicker way /down/. The wide open space here is combination living and dining room; near the windows there are a pair of couches and large armchair around a wide coffeetable; further off a steel-and-glass dining table is surrounded by eight tall black chairs. A full bathroom behind the stairway is done up in dark granite; the glass-doored bathtub/shower is rather expansively large. The kitchen is tucked off in back, beneath the half-height ceiling; in here the appliances and cabinets and shelving recessed into the wall are in brushed steel, wide grey sweeps of tempered glass countertops running around the edge of the room and a large central island holding stoves and oven and deep double sink. Adjacent to the kitchen, beneath the ceiling as well, is a sitting area structured largely around the enormous television against one wall, a wealth of video games for a number of consoles held on the shelves around the television. Crates and beanbags and one low futon folded against the floor are arranged in good viewing distance; opposite the television, a sturdy large pen built out of wood shrines a couch amid a sea of brightly colorful playpen balls. A door in one wall opens up to the apartment next door; a door opposite leads down to the basement. Crisp, clear, and cold has been the definition of this Saturday, though /blissfully/ the sun has been shining through the ever-plunging temperatures of the season. Micah has been intermittently cooking, delivering food, and tending what wounds need attention but not to the degree of needing a /Joshua/ level of attention. After breakfast rounds came a stint of Spencer playtime out on the commons and in the playground, the evidence of which shows in some mud-and-grass-stains on both of Micah's denim-covered knees. The left one sports a small tear that will likely become a colourful patched spot after they go through the wash. The rest of his outfit is hidden beneath a zipped-closed Batsignal hoodie. He is travelling with a double layer of casserole dishes in a carry case on one shoulder, first aid bag on the other, as he wanders into Geekhaus without bothering to knock. "Hey, folks. Non-veggie stage of the delivery service has begun," he announces as he looks around for the best place to set up shop. There are some definite fried chicken smells coming from one of the bags, overpowering whatever else might be in there. Micah has been beaten here by one tiny sharkpup, currently occupying a beanbag on Geekhaus's floor. Co-occupying a beanbag. Shane's claws at the moment are shredding into the corduroy fabric that covers it, his head tipped back against the bag. There's a deep splotching of bruises darker purple-blue against his skin, a large amount of clean white bandaging in various places, readily apparent given his current state of undress. The soft breathy noises coming from him probably /would/ have been more immediately noticeable if not for the rapid flutter of his gills, currently, precluding making /much/ noise. He closes them, though, enough to tip his head back and peer over towards Micah. "-- Hidad!" /Definitely/ breathy. Kind of /pleased/ with life right now. Only /sooooort/ of co-occupying a beanbag, because Dusk is more -- on the floor /by/ the beanbag. More clothed than Shane, if only barely, boxers slung low on his hips; it also makes no secret of the tattered-torn state of his wingsails, the deep wounds gouged in /many/ places against his pale skin (though less deep than they were even just last night), the bruising dark and stiff all down his back. "/Mmph/." -- He has at least a little more /propriety/ than Shane -- in that he has the decency to /stop/ at this announcement. Not really the decency to look abashed or anything; he drapes a wing kind of casually over Shane (by way of modesty blanket!) pushing himself up to a kneeling position. "Oh, shit, food? I -- got kind of an appetite." /Somehow/. /Somehow/ he has worked one up. Micah is pretty much in the kitchen already before he is afforded a clear view of what he's just walked in on. It is readily apparent when he does by the rapid colour-change in most of his exposed skin, freckled-pale going beet red. "Thiiis...this is why I shouldn't ever get out of the habit of knockin'." He sets the casserole dishes on the counter and shifts back toward the door. "Um...s'food there. Fried chicken, sweet corn, green beans, dairy-free mashed potatoes, chicken gravy." Another few back-pedalling steps. "Apologies." Nearly to the door now. "/Kind of/? Only kind of worked one up? I haven't been trying hard enough." Modesty be damned, Shane is bouncing up from the beanbag, claws trailing against Dusk's bare back as he traipses towards the kitchen. "Naaah why would you knock s'your house, too. Anyway it was a good interr... oh man gravy." He's claiming a pair -- no wait a trio -- of drumsticks, dunking one straight in the gravy to chomp a bite, en route to the door too. "-- I have to get to the cafe soon anyway want anything for dinner tonight?" Bright and casual as though his current state were Totally Normal. "Mmmm. Naw you're alright. Half the time I don't even close the damn door." Dusk isn't quite actually making it to the food yet. He flops down in the beanbag Shane just vacated, lazily sprawling and shifting his wings in a futile attempt to settle them comfortably. "That all sounds -- like heaven you have no /idea/ the shit they try to pass off as food there. Hey. Don't go." It's casual too -- almost. There's just the faintest note of genuine /want/ in Dusk's voice. "Feel like I've barely seen you yet." "Didn't mean t'interrupt," Micah explains. Though Shane getting up to pick through the food does stop him from fleeing through the door. "If y'run into anyone lookin' for food who wasn't home for deliveries, there's more of this in one kitchen. Pretty much the same in the other, but with barbecue tofu an' chick pea gravy 'stead of all the chicken stuff. Just...figured after the fight some of y'all could use actual meat. Gives me some practice cookin' it so's I don't get too rusty, too." He scruffs at Shane's hair as the boy passes. Once he's just /naked/ that is Totally Normal for their family, at least. "I'm gonna put t'gether dinner later. If'n y'wanna bring some baked goods home? 'Specially anythin' vegan with icin' or whipped cream that Jax'd like. Thanks, sugar." Dusk's flop combined with injuries and expressed food longing soon has Micah bringing the casserole dishes over to the nearest coffee table instead. "How're you holdin' up, honey?" "Oh shit chickpea gravy. That's going on my second drumstick. Bring home all the sugar, check." Shane waves his handful of meat at the others, nuzzling briefly up into Micah's touch and then disappearing out the door. Dusk shifts in the beanbag, making space for it beside himself. One wing stretches out against its surface, spread out like another layer of blanket for Micah to lie on top of. "Jesus, I don't even know where to start. I feel like I should be fucking glad to be out but." His other wing hitches up briefly in a small shrug, brows pulling together. "I /am/ glad to be out. Fuck. You're all here." "See y'later t'night," comes with a chuckle and a wave as Shane makes his way out. Micah settles into the space prepared for him, curling up against Dusk's side. "S'hard t'be glad of much in the circumstances. At least...s'a reprieve. For now. Get y'fed. Get t'see people. Spread your wings a little." He stretches an arm across Dusk's chest to hug him closer. "Miss you /so hard/. Almost came t'see you when Ion said he thought he could get in. Just. Figured it'd be better with Eric. For food. So we recruited 'im instead." A low growl rumbles in Dusk's throat, soft and a little pained at the hug. He pulls Micah in closer, though, wing tightening around the other man's shoulder. "I missed you like you have no fucking idea. I'm glad of -- of /this/." His head turns, pressing a kiss to the top of Micah's head. "Everything else just feels so fucking uncertain right now. Like, Jesus, fuck, /Themis/, I -- I can't, I /couldn't/, just /thinking/ about that makes me sick but I can't. Afford to just /abandon/..." A small whimper answers the return hug, the kiss. “No. They /can't/. I can't even...the number of ways this is illegal. They /can't/ just...make a class of people illegal an' then mutilate an' brainwash 'em. They can't. We're gonna fight...lawyers. Activists. PR people. Tooth an' nail. Whatever it takes. Because they /can't/. Not you. Not /any/ of you.” Micah clings a little closer in lieu of a tighter hug. "I just -- I can't afford to go back to /jail/ either. For five fucking /years/, by the time I get out my kid's going to be -- could be --" Dusk scrunches his eyes shut, wing rubbing slowly at Micah's arm. "Maybe long-term they can't do it but. I don't know if I can /be/ the one to. Fight this -- fight. I don't -- I guess just fucking taking /off/ wouldn't be any more help, though." The growl is still there in his voice, low and rumbling beneath his actual words. "There has t'be a...time limit on when an' what treatments you're s'posed t'be gettin'? I mean. Even /hack/ doctors gotta go through protocols if they wanna keep practicin'. S'there any way we could stall? While we fight this." Micah sighs heavily, head shaking against Dusk's shoulder where it is resting. "Need a civil rights specialty legal team. An' a medical-legal team. I'll ask--" That sentence cuts off abruptly, Micah's eyes flying open wide as he pulls back to look at Dusk. "Your kid? Y'have a kid? When was there a kid?" Train of thought, thoroughly derailed. "Huh?" Dusk gives Micah a quick puzzled look. "There's no kid, /yet/, Isra's just. Just -- preg... nant?" This statement comes out mostly uncertain. "Five years, I wouldn't even know them." “Pregnant? Isra's pregnant? Is that what...she wasn't feelin' well.” Micah's expression is confused to form a matched set with Dusk's puzzled one. “You don't sound so sure.” "Well, I don't know if pregnant is the right word. She -- has an egg? Had an egg. Has an egg. I guess that's not pregnant it's not /in/ her anymore but it's." Dusk frowns, tightening his wing around Micah. "Ours. /Fuck/, ours, Micah, I'm not. I'd be a /shitty/ fucking dad even if I /was/ here. This is a /shitty/ fucking /world/ to put a kid in." "An egg? You all had...an... When /was/ this? How long 'til it...hatches? I'm not even sure how this works." Okay, Captain Distraction, come back from the friends-having-eggs amazement and into the pertinent conversation. Micah shakes his head, trying to remove some of the wonder-disbelief that has taken up residence on his features. "Why would you be a bad father? You're a wonderful person, Dusk, it's... What about. Does Isra want...? What're y'all plannin'? Is someone takin' care of the...egg?" This is a few /large/ steps away from what to expect when you're expecting, usually. "I don't know. We don't know. It's not like we've had an, um, an egg before. Joshua brought Isra into /jail/ to -- to tell me, it was while I was in. Not long. Who knows if it's -- nine months or /what/." Dusk's wing relaxes its hold as his shoulders slump back. /He/ slumps back, staring unhappily up at the ceiling. "I don't know. She doesn't know. We're not really planning -- I'm just planning to do whatever it takes to support her. But fuck I never wanted -- /don't/ want. Christ. Bringing a kid into /this/ world is not. What I ever -- and Micah, this is /me/, jesus. I'm not exactly the picture of -- temperament or good judgment or. Responsibility what the fuck do I know about raising a kid." "Who's takin' care of it right now? Please tell me it's at least...someone who's been in 4H for a minute or somethin'. Where is it?" Micah looks a little /worried/. It's a well-practiced look for him. "I mean, there's a lotta things you do when you're really invested in an egg hatchin' healthy. Should be candlin'. Chances are egg's s'posed t'stay a few degrees below whatever Isra's body temperature is, it's just... Want t'make sure it's okay." His head shakes a bit. "A lotta new parents feel like that, sugar, but it ain't a thing y'do /alone/. There's so many people'd help you all out. I mean, even if folks 'round here weren't very knowledgeable 'bout babies b'fore, Tola's blazed that trail for us already. We can figure this out." He pauses, teeth scraping at his lower lip. "If it's what you want. Is it? What y'all want? I mean...there's options other than bein' an active parent. If it /really/ ain't what... Y'all need t'come up with a plan 'fore the kiddo gets here, is all. An' it sounds like we don't even know when that'll be." "Isra has it. I'm sure she's watching over -- she's protective." Dusk's head shakes, slow but firm. "I'm not /talking/ about like, changing diapers and how hot to make a bottle. Taking care of babies doesn't scare me /raising children/ scares me, I mean what the fuck is some kid going to learn from /me/? Drinking and fighting and terrorism, I'm not what you'd call a -- role model." His knuckles rub against his eyes, a shudder passing through his wings. "We shouldn't be having this kid, Micah." “Okay. Apologies, m'just. This is the first I've heard 'bout any of this.” Micah's hand slips up into his hair, fingers raking through it and leaving it somewhat spiky. “Could learn /why/ t'fight. How t'love people /fierce/ an' not hold anythin' back. How t'be a loyal friend. How t'appreciate...music an' food an' games an' just /life/. Honey, y'can offer a kid what you offer anyone who loves you... Maybe hold off on the drinkin'-fightin'-terrorism parts 'til they're a /little/ older.” He offers up a little smile before nuzzling into Dusk's shoulder again. “Ain't a matter of should or shouldn't at this point. What d'you all want t'do now that it's happened? S'the question now.” "I -- don't know who knows and who doesn't," Dusk admits, teeth dragging against his lower lip. "I mean, I was kind of -- mostly out of communication, this just kind of. Got dropped on me. In solitary I had a lot of freaking time to just sit and -- dwell. And those things are all great," a small blush is entering his cheeks, "but they don't do you much good dead or in jail." His wing slowly curls against Micah once more, gradually tucking the older man back against his side. A ripple of tension courses through him, muscles tightening. "/Hasn't/ happened yet. Thing's not even born." “Well...nobody done told /me/ nothin' 'bout it, so I'm guessin' it ain't gen'ral knowledge,” Micah surmises, reaching up to trace fingers along the scruff of Dusk's jaw. “We're gonna do everythin' we can t'fight for y'to be free, honey. But y'all need t'make a decision an' soon. 'Specially if you're still at the stage of...possible termination. Not knowin' how far along the egg is in cookin' makes it harder. Sure we could estimate gettin' a peek how it lights inside, like y'do birds an' reptiles. Might be helpful. But y'all should have that...termination, adoption, or parenthood discussion. 'Cause you're past the point of philosophical opposition t'/gettin'/ pregnant. S'what I meant.” "Oh." Dusk rubs his face against Micah's fingers, turning the tracing into more of a scritching at dark scruffy beard. "Lots of things make it harder. S'an /egg/. I mean, the -- bodily autonomy question is kind of -- nonexistent given she's. Evidently. Oviparous. Which makes it --" His weight sags further against Micah. "It's just horrifying," he admits in a rougher whisper. "Whatever /hatches/ out of -- it's not likely to be anyone the world's going to treat /well/. I -- feel kind of sick. Every time I think about." He tips his face down further, closing his eyes and mooshing face in against Micah's palm. "But I /love/ her. Whatever she wants to do I'll stand by her on that -- as much as I. Can. If I'm in jail. Or all hacked up or -- who fucking knows. Where I'll be." “I agree on that...it ain't like she's forced t'carry it just now. Even if y'all decided...from this minute y'didn't want it. Could find someone else t'take that job. But it is you two's decision either way.” Micah's other hand shifts, fingers petting through and working out tangles in Dusk's hair. “We'll do what we can. Like we do for Tola. An' the twins. An' meanwhile keep workin' t'make things better.” Pausing in his administrations, he places a light kiss to Dusk's hair. “But y'all should talk 'bout it. What /she/ wants. /And/ what you want. Prob'ly it'd be easiest t'keep it...independent of the legal situation right now. Can cross that bridge once y'figure what y'all /want/ t'do.” Another kiss, this time to his forehead. “An' we'll help ev'ry step of the way. With whatever decision y'all make 'bout the baby. With how t'help your situation. All of it.” "An egg with probably some kind of horrifying vampire gargoyle demonspawn inside?" Dusk's voice has slipped into wry, his head shaking against Micah's hand. "What crazy motherfucker would want /that/." It's kind of a rhetorical question; he's moving on, snuggling in against Micah with one hand slipping around the other man's waist. "What I /want/..." His breath pushes out slow, wing squeezing again. "... is some fried chicken. and after that I don't really know." “Oh, stoppit. Have you /seen/ baby bats ever? S'more'n half a chance the little peanut'll be ludicrously cute.” The question is rhetorical, but it has Micah looking down, chewing on his lip. “Honey, I could talk t'Jax. 'Bout. If y'all don't want the... If y'want me to.” He burrows luxuriously into the warmth of Dusk's side, the velvety-softness of his wing. “Well, I /did/ come t'get y'fed.” Conveniently, those dishes are within arm's reach. Very /stretchy/ arm's reach, but success is made in getting the container down to where Dusk can claim as many greasy-crispy-spiced chicken pieces as he likes. For half a moment, there's a smile on Dusk's face. "Like I said, crazy motherfucker." It's teasing, his tone, but the kiss he presses to Micah's lips is sudden and /fierce/. "You did. Smells delicious, too." The slight huskiness in his voice is probably a little out of place to just be talking about fried chicken. A smile! Now that's gratifying. Micah returns it in kind, though his is not so easily chased off. “It's the popular theory,” he says of the crazy accusation. Kisses, though, might be a good enough reason for his lips to pull out of their smile. Kisses returned as if Dusk had been gone for months instead of weeks. “I love you.” It seems a little bit of a non sequitur to a fried chicken conversation, as well. Dusk's wing curls up, pulling Micah in over top of him rather than alongside. Chicken, perhaps, temporarily forgotten. His next kiss is deeper, longer. "Too much love. Maybe the best kind of crazy." At the tugging, Micah is forced to move the dish from its spot on his lap, scooting it over onto the floor. Sometimes it's a blessing to have a pet-free household. He slips easily into place, a knee to either side of Dusk's hips, fingers buried in his hair as he presses in for another kiss, and another. “Maybe crazy. But ain't no such thing as too much love.”