ArchivedLogs:Unnerving

Unnerving
Dramatis Personae Hive, Parley, Flicker
In Absentia	2013-07-20 '
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Lobby - East Village
Bright and sunny, the lobby of this apartment building is clean and unassuming. Requiring an electronic keycard for entry, the pair of elevators dings cheerfully when one arrives. A small sitting area has bright yellow couches and small coffee tables, though the nearby vending machine is perpetually running out of /something/. Tall windows let in plenty of light during the daytime, and the building maintenance keeps the common areas spotlessly clean. A bank of mailboxes near the sitting area collects mail for the building, a recycling bin right at hand for the unwanted spam. Beside the mailboxes, a large corkboard serves as informal meeting space for the announcements, perpetually flyered with notes and notices from the various apartment residents. It is morning. /Why/ is it morning, Hive looks kind of disgruntled at this fact. Sourface. Crankyface. Slouching his way down to the lobby, still in pajama pants, undershirt, YAWN. Beside him, Flicker is the disgusting picture of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed -- OK, it's not /that/ early morning, Hive has no excuse. And yet. From his droopyeyed appearance you'd think it was the crack of dawn and not halfway to noon. He slouchshuffles his way over to the mailboxes, nudging a toe at a large box that has been delivered there. Two smaller boxes beside it. He toes one of the smaller boxes away after inspecting its label curiously -- not for him, PFFT who cares -- and then grabs the other of the smaller boxes. Also not for him! But it's for Joshua so he'll claim it anyway. The bigger box he prods again. Prod prod. "The fuck did you buy." He glares at the box like it has offended himd deeply. "Love," Flicker answers cheerfully, reaching around past Hive to actually /unlock/ their mailbox. "/You/ weren't giving me any so I had to send out for it." "What units of measurement does that /come/ in?" Asks the wall nearby. Well, or the Parley leaning against it. Under his arm are a few envelopes, one of which he's torn open - he still grips it in his teeth by the corner, like a mother cat with a paper kitten, with the business-like contents of it in his hands, sporting the tell-tale double-folds that segment the paper into three sections. He seems to still be reading it, but he's speaking as well, a high musing curiosity in his voice, "Does it come in a liquid or a solid? --that goes to my apartment, doesn't it?" The JoshuaPackage. He /eye/-flicks at it. Dubiously. There's a sudden ghost where there used to be a Flicker, vanishing reappearing vanishing reappearing behind /Hive/ now in abrupt /startled/ shift when Parley speaks; his eyes narrow not on Parley but on /Hive/ like: dude, some /warning/. Hive is his person-radar. His keys drop to the floor in front of the mailboxes. Hive's teeth just grind, in a slow steady grrrrrit, and he stoops to collect the keys and finish the task of unlocking their mailbox, Joshua's box still tucked beneath an arm. "Yep," he answers the last question first, in a grunt. He takes out their whole wad of mail and just /hands/ it to Flicker. Flicker's expression has eased from startle to smile. "Oh -- hey, Parley. Um -- it -- comes in both but the liquid form is --" "Messier," Hive finishes for him, still toeing at Flicker's large box, "and Flicker can't try it until marriage." When Flicker fades, Parley so slightly jumps as /well/, eyes slipped a shade wider. "-Sorry," comes the default initial response, following to where the teleporter /ends up/ with a quiet exhale. "I'm starting to wonder if I should wear a," he pulls the envelope from his mouth and taps at the front of his throat with the slightly soggy corner of it, "...bell collar." He has a slight chuff of amusement for Hive's last comment, "Well. There's always... powdered?" As opposed to liquid? He looks slightly uncomfortable even /saying/ it. Moving /on/, "-mnh. I can help you carry some of that." He folds up the letter, tucks it into the envelope again. "Couldn't hurt," Hive offers in grunt as well, eyes flicking up to Parley's throat when it's tapped. Flicker's smile curls wider in his scarred face, eyes lighting. "-- They made me do that for a while," he admits, "you could have my old one if you want." "Tried it with Ian, but that motherfucker's collar'd just slip right the hell off." Hive locks their mailbox again. He shoves Flicker's keys into his pocket. Flicker's smile twitches lopsided. He starts sorting through their mail. Junk-junk-junk. "S'alright," he says lightly, "it's not so much to carry. I don't -- powdered --" "-- Think Ryan has his share of the powdered," Hive offers. Parley pauses for a moment, glancing at the side of Hive's head with a gradual furrow between his brows - it fades the next moment in a smile aimed to Flicker, "What. - Do you really? Did it help?" He comes away from the wall slightly, moving gaze from where Flicker /had/ been to where Flicker has moved to now, "--Does it always happen? When you're startled?" Much quieter, an uncertain flutter, like the wingbeat of a moth against a screen door, skims against the outer parameter of Hive's mind. << (..?)(something wrong?) >> "I did. I do. It did help, I think -- well, I didn't sneak up on people quite so much," Flicker says with a laugh. "My roommates liked it, anyway." "Motherfucker gave us heart attacks routinely when we moved in together," Hive grumbles, elbow nudged back to pone bony-sharp against Flicker's ribs. "Yeah so I mean. If you want. Around home anyway," Flicker shrugs, "people -- appreciate. Not," his nose crinkles and he elbows Hive right /back/, "being startled half to death --" "-- though now he just does it on /purpose," Hive mutters. Flicker /grins/. Bright. He tips his head forward to bump his chin against Hive's shoulder. "It doesn't -- always," he answers quieter, "But mostly. Lately." << Wrong? >> This cuts quick-sharp as ever, if a little disgruntled-fuzzed with still sleepy irritability. << What why? >> For a moment, Parley's somewhat severe features light up. "/Could/ I borrow it? It's difficult for me to /not/ to--" << (...ss.)(become quiet)(fade away.) >> He smiles down at his mail, adding, "Ah. I've learned that, yes. That it's unappreciated. -- I /am/ sorry." The impact of Hive's severe mind strikes against Parley's soft mind, and rather than wince, there's only... give. It cushions. Whispering back wryly, << (it's nothing.) >> He offers a few absent groomings to the furthest outskirts in apology. He raises his eyes again, "How long have you two lived together? You seem nearly brothers." << What? >> The whisper, the apology, seem /more/ irritating to Hive than the initial question, rousing a /genuine/ flicker of perturbation rather than the impersonally default sleepy-gruff he'd had before. << -- Stop fucking /doing/ that, dude. >> "Not your fault," Flicker says with a small laugh, "though when I did it it /was/ mine. You can't help it. I just liked the /convenience/. If you really want it," there's amusement bright in his warm mental scape, "you're welcome." He tosses another junkmail into the recycling. Warm fades into contemplative at the question. He doesn't answer it, just rests his chin against Hive's shoulder in less a bonk and more a press, this time. "-- lived together," Hive echoes this turn of phrase wryly, "shit. In cages or out?" Parley's mind grows very still, as Hive's irritation spikes. It doesn't recoil, though the light combing of rasps ceases when bidden. << (you seemed quiet.) >> He answers; still in a whisper, though more even now, and well constructed. His eyes are settled on Flicker, exhaling softly through his nose, "--that is a better question, isn't it. It's more complicated here. Mh." He is absently aligning the top left corner of the envelops in his fingers into a single even stack. "Whatever you would be comfortable answering, I guess." << Ngh, >> is just as irritable when the rasping /stops/. << I don't fucking mean stop /that/. I mean stop -- >> Hive's hand lifts, his knuckles grinding against his eye in annoyance. Flicker, not hived, but not really /needing/ to be, digs his chin down against Hive's shoulder. "I lost track," he admits softly, and it's not evasion but a genuine uncertainty: time in cages sort of /blends/. "Some -- years. I was --" "He was fucking small," Hive also says this irritably. << -- Your mutation makes you disappear, >> he finally finishes his earlier thought. << But /you/ don't have to fucking do it too. S'like you /half/ fucking say things and then turn around and decide not to if there's even the slightest bit of resistance. The second anyone says anything to you you /cringe/ up, /slink/ off. You /feel/ like you're apologizing before you've even said it, it's goddamn unnerving. >> Parley nods; it's not callous, but it's a practical understanding - small. Like a brush of ascending wind, his gaze rises up from Flicker's feet. What must a young Flicker have looked like? How small is small? His smile is simple, hard; /approving/ maybe, "And you've stayed by each other." Parley's mind remains the sense of some secret muscle flexed deeply hard, remaining tangible and carefully still, swallowing in Hive's words until they fill him up with the hard iron color and bright-polished spearpoints of the telepath's mind. << (unnerving...) >> It bounces in, like an echo. Thought over. "Been a few years on the /outside/, though," Flicker says /this/ with more certainty, with a quick smile. "-- Three?" "Thereabout," Hive agrees. "And yeah. The four of us --" << three >> softly corrects, now, in Flicker's mind; Hive winces for it but continues in the same tone, "-- moved in together pretty soon after. Well. Us two first. Them two a few months later." "How long were you --?" Flicker asks, a little quieter. << Unnerving as fucking hell. There's something about you that apologizes for goddamn /existing/. Except -- >> His jaw clenches. << Except it feels less apology and more just /cringing/. Which does nothing but make other people feel like, shitfuck, should /we/ be apologizing to /you/? I mean, >> Hive exhales a sharp-heavy snort, << there's some benefit to that if that's what you're going for but it makes my goddamn skin crawl, sometimes. >> Opening ever further like a dilating pupil in the dark, the more Hive says, the more is taken, and a long mental silence follows. He's fanning the side of his neck with his mail, the summer heat already begun to thicken into a swelter. "Three years," he loosely tosses a bit of hair out of his eyes when he says it. << (okay.) >> He says, at length. << (thank you)(for telling me.) >> Flicker nods, taking this answer without shock or anything much but cataloguing. "S'an adjustment, isn't it?" Quiet, he is leaning forward to tuck the few remaining envelopes into Hive's pajama pocket. "Was your --" he almost says, and then corrects himself: "Was /Mirror/ your roommate before, too?" Hive grunts. Pats at the envelopes in his pocket with another snort. "Think so," he says, though he's glancing to Parley for answer. << You're cool, >> has a withdrawing of irritation, melting away back into just Hive's default bland-gruff, << when you're /having/ a conversation. And not /running away/ from one. >> "I'm learning." It's a blank answer. But it softens. "We were roommates for a little while," Parley is kind of just staring as Flicker /loads/ up Hive as the mail pack mule. You probably would need a stick to whack him with to get him to go anywhere. "...Ze spent a lot of time as -- Me." His voice quiets, smiling. "...when they would come for one of us, they could never tell us apart." Something like humor is offered, to Hive's mind. Though it's not warm; there are callouses on it, worn edges. But a relaxing as well. << (i'll have to) >> he admits << (watch myself more closely.) >> Flicker slips around from behind Hive, finally, now that his hands are unburdened, so that he can claim the bigger box still on the floor. Slightly bulky but apparently not /heavy/; he is not a large man but hefts it without much effort to eventually tuck it beneath an arm, against his hip. "-- That could be useful," he's saying this in thoughtful /consideration/, reflecting less on past and more on future application of this. He nudges Hive with his free elbow. "You wanna brunch?" "I want to brunch like I want fucking oxygen," Hive answers. And mentally, only the formless-wordless equivalent of an acknowledging /grunt/. "I'm glad," Flicker says. "That you have hir." "Have hir?" Parley raises his brows, eyes opening fully to look upward at the ceiling. "Hmm." He returns to looking of them, only passingly though, to say with a smile that doesn't really polarize itself in any specific direction, "I'll talk to you later, then. Enjoy your meal." With a lazy semi-wave, he turns to head towards the tall windows of the sitting area, cutting a dark shaggy-headed shape against the sunlight outside. "Later," Flicker's smiles is warm, and ghosts away into nothing; he vanishes with his habitual after-image, blurry not-there-Flickers that disappear entirely as he makes his way back UP. Hive /grumbles/ at this rapid exit. "-- See ya," and tucks his hands into his pockets (Joshua's small box still tucked under an arm) to slouch his way the /normal/ way back. Up the /stairs/.