ArchivedLogs:Want

Want
Dramatis Personae Micah, Lucien	22 October 2013 Checking in after shared loss.
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. Micah has been home for a few hours. Enough time for a quick shower and change of uniform from work gear into home gear of T-shirt (vaguely Art Nouveau Dr. Whooves on a TARDIS blue background), patched jeans, and a pair of socks in bright tiger stripes. Also enough time to assist in preparing several pans of casserole and get them into the oven for baking. Once the food is at that cook-on-its-own stage, Micah sets a timer on his phone and shoves the phone back into his pocket. Then he rests a hand on Lucien's forearm, gently requesting that they move to a more private room to talk, guiding the other man back to the bedroom for lack of another place that isn't jam-packed with people. Who knows how long Lucien has been around; he's drifted from Greyhaus down to here at some point, though, to make sure dinner preparations are on track. Bring down a stray bag of food that had found its way upstairs but was destined for the casserole. Help with chopping and cleaning -- at least until Micah approaches. His brows raise, eyes fixing on Micah for a moment before he slips out of the kitchen silently, joining Micah in the bedroom. Incongruous among the refugees and their borrowed thrift-store clothing, he looks sharp as ever, elegantly tailored grey suit though its jacket has been waylaid. "Is something the matter?" he asks, once they are in the bedroom with the door closed behind them. The door gets a gentle nudge with a foot to close it before Micah walks across the room, pulling out the desk chair to offer Lucien a seat before perching himself on the edge of the bed just next to it. “Matter? No...I guess no more than usual, no. I just...ain't had a chance t'stop an' talk t'you without all the din out there.” His head tilts, brows furrowing slightly as hazel eyes study Lucien's face. “How are you doin'?” Micah's tone implies this is more than just a general check-in. Lucien doesn't take the offered seat, though he does cross over towards the desk to lean against it. His fingers trail along its surface, gaze skipping around the room. "It's funny," he muses, "in so many of my acquaintances' homes this is the room I am /most/ familiar with. I have so rarely been in here, though." He turns his head to study Micah right back, brilliant green eyes calm as they meet Micah's hazel ones. "Busy," he answers mildly, "there have been several dozen people in need of feeding." Just in case Micah missed that. "Are you alright?" “Maybe that's 'cause you're a friend here 'stead of an acquaintance?” Micah nods at Lucien's answer. “That tells me what y'been doin', but not really how you are.” He sighs at the reciprocated question. “I'm gettin' through it. Incredibly grateful Jax got patched back together, it was...real close there for a minute. An' the man who tried t'kill 'im /again/ is still out there. Plannin' t'try again. An' knowin' that is kind of chillin' an' like fire in my /brain/ at the same time... Honey, did they tell you everythin' about 'im? An' Nox?” His hand grips at the blanket on the bed, using it as an assist to try to even his tone while he speaks. "From the initial reports I thought we might be preparing for his funeral," Lucien admits mildly. His eyes shift downwards, from Micah's face to his hands, and when he /does/ take a seat it isn't in the desk chair but on the edge of the bed alongside Micah. His hand moves to rest over the other man's, without any mental assistance to this touch. Only his fingers curling gently around Micah's. "Only that she did not make it out. I did not ask further. Things have been busy enough without me imposing upon anyone for the unpleasant details." “We...might well have needed to. If not for happenin' t'know people with very handy abilities. Without some very specialised doctorin', he wouldn't've made it. Even /with/ it...would've been...not good.” Micah's eyes press closed a moment against remembered images, as if they can shut them out. He turns his hand palm-up into Lucien's, turning his eyes back to the other man's face. “Did y'wanna know? I can tell y'what details I have. But y'don't /need/ t'hear 'em.” "I have not seen that t-shirt before," Lucien muses in offhand non-sequitur. "I thought you only owned five. I will have to update my count. Your friend up on five also wore Doctor Hooves today." His gaze still fixes on Micah's hand, thumb moving slowly against the other man's knuckles. "Lucky you have handy acquaintances, then." His lips press together, thin, his eyes travelling back up to Micah's eyes. "I need to hear them. I do not know if I need to hear them from /you/. You loved her. You do not need to rehash it for my sake." "Y'payin' /that/ much attention t'what I'm wearin'?" Micah inquires, a hint of red creeping into his cheeks. "It's...newer'n my other ones. Got it maybe a month or so ago? Pick up an extra now'n then as the older ones get t'the point y'can't wear 'em everywhere. Messed one of my other ones up a bit...slidin' around on the asphalt after the attack in the sewers." He grips Lucien's hand a little tighter. "I loved her...so d'you. It might...be better that way. I think it would, for me...if someone had t'tell me somethin' like. Lucien-honey, I don't have a lotta details, but I can tell you what I know." Micah shifts in his seat, the mattress creaking faintly with the movement. "Malthus. He's that same man with the government group, HAMMER, that raided the sewers an' wrecked the church over in Harlem. The one who ordered Jax dead an' nearly killed 'im again this time. He's the one that kidnapped Nox. Prometheus...has figured out a way t'transfer mutant abilities t'humans. It's lethal. She died when Malthus took her shadows for 'imself." His hand squeezes at Lucien's again. "That's all I know, hon. I am so--" His voice starts to break, but he bites down on the tip of his tongue to fight it back. "So sorry." "Your wardrobe is consistent enough, noting when it changes is hardly a challenge." Lucien's quiet casual tone doesn't actually change, from discussing Micah's t-shirts to discussing Nox. "Transfer mutant abilities?" Still even in tone, the lift of his eyebrows is the only shift to indicate his curiosity. And just as level: "Malthus. Malthus /Rogers/, would that be?" His lips press very faintly together when Micah's voice cracks; he lifts the other man's hand to kiss his knuckles, a very soft flush of comforting warmth rippling through Micah with this gesture. Lucien's ongoing discussion of wardrobe darkens the colour on Micah's cheeks. The rest of the conversation easily steals his attention, however. “S'part of how he hurt Jax so bad. Usin' the shadows. Turned all the lights out,” Micah explains further, shoulders creeping upward slightly. “I don't... Everyone's been callin' 'im just 'Malthus'. I imagine one of the reports on the Harlem incident's got his full name listed in it, though.” His eyes close again briefly at that little kiss, though a sigh seeps from his lips when the flush of Lucien's ability is added to it. “Honey, y'don't need t'be....she was your... I'm s'posed t'be helpin' /you/ right now.” His tone sounds a bit disappointed in his own performance thus far. Lucien doesn't release Micah's hand, dropping it back to rest in his own lap. The quiet trickle of comfort continues, gentle and warm. "It is hardly a common name. Or a common profession. I have met the man." The hair on the back of Micah's neck prickles, as if he has caught a chill, his lips twisting slightly against a sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Have you? May I ask where?” His eyes no longer meet Lucien's. "Work," Lucien answers simply, his eyes shifting to watch Micah's expression. The soft warmth recedes from his touch though his hand stays in Micah's, mental senses just carefully alert to /feel/ the shifts of Micah's emotion without affecting them, anymore. "He was rather straightforward about his profession with me, actually. I asked what he did, and he said he kills mutants. Most people are not quite so up front with that sort of thing." Micah bites at his lip, having gleaned no useful information on Malthus there. Lucien's further depiction of the man worsens the sick feeling, though it also bolsters a certain /resolve/. That the man cannot be allowed to continue /existing/. "As simple as that, was it?" Micah's eyes stay down on his hand, practically /unable/ to look up. "The boys have run into 'im /twice/. He threatened 'em the first time. Tried t'mess with their heads. Second time just told 'em he's gonna kill Jax /because/ Jax is a good man. I can't even begin..." "As simple as that, yes. To him it seemed very clear-cut." Lucien's hand tightens around Micah's when that sick feeling grows. "Can't even begin --" he prompts quietly. "This is a war, Micah. I'm sure you know what they say about love and war." "I don't know. I don't know...it just seems like it's not a mindset that's s'posed t'exist in an actual person." Micah's shoulders curl in, making himself just a little smaller. "This wasn't...even what I meant t'be talkin' about. I was s'posed t'be helpin'." He shakes his head, frustrated on several levels. "I'm sorry." "I sincerely doubt, Micah, that this Malthus actually has some desire to rid the world of goodness." Lucien's tone is very dry. His hands shift, when Micah's shoulders curl in; he transfers Micah's hands from one hand to the other, freed hand now lifting to curl around the other man's shoulders. "Please. You lost a woman you loved and there is a man with her powers trying to murder your fiance, I would be somewhat concerned if you were not something of a mess." “I /know/, Lucien, I'm not...tryin' t'turn the man into some kinda 80s cartoon villain, I just...don't understand.” Micah's breath gusts out in a heavy sigh. He leans into the other man when that arm is offered, as if he wouldn't have remained upright otherwise “You're not,” he observes quietly. “At least not...out here.” "Have you seen the news surrounding mutants, lately? Murderers and terrorists and lunatics all. It is easy to convince the world to fear /that/. Jackson is a devoted family man who -- over and over -- has stood up to protect even the people who work against him. As a public figure he is far more dangerous even than he is as a soldier. Malthus doesn't want to kill him because he /is/ a good person. He wants Jackson dead because the /world/ sees him as a good person. Once society starts humanizing -- respecting -- /admiring/ mutants, this fight is lost for men like Malthus." Lucien's hand rubs slowly against Micah's arm, his grip squeezing in gently to hold Micah against him. "Nobody," he answers just as mildly, "is trying to kill /my/ family." “But they /are/ good people. That should...be enough,” Micah argues weakly, not even an /arguing/ exactly. He presses in harder against Lucien, as if the force of the contact itself is bolstering. His breath is shaky for a few moments before he manages to redirect himself out of sheer stubbornness. “Y'been through a lot, hon. So many people, recently. An' then...this. On top of it all. I meant t'be makin' sure y'was okay, but... Is there anythin' /you/ need?” "No. Some of them are good, and some of them are terrible. They are just people, like any others. And /that/ should be enough." Lucien actually sounds amused, here, a very faint note of laughter contrasting Micah's shaky breaths. His fingers curl up over Micah's shoulder, absently kneading there. "Should be, but when is it ever? They need people like Jackson. To be three times as good for half the recognition of it. And perhaps counterbalance the ones who are not." He tips his head down, kissing Micah's forehead when the other man presses in closer. "Right now? To go upstairs and check on the dinner there." “I know, that's...what I meant. I'm...no good at talkin' today. More'n usual. Sorry.” Micah's forehead thunks against Lucien's shoulder. “Right now or not right now, just...anythin'.” He shakes his head, not really knowing what else to ask. “You're /kind of/ impossible, y'know that?” "Does it bother you?" Lucien's voice is still quiet and mild, though a trickle of curiosity has crept into it. His fingers trace slowly up against the side of Micah's neck. "I cheat, I suppose." His hand presses in, fingertips resting over the pulse that beats there. "I feel everything you feel." “That you're impossible?” Micah returns with just a hint of a laugh. “It doesn't /bother/ me so much as...it's a little frustratin'. Makes me feel like I'm always /chippin'/ at you instead of really havin' a conversation. An' I don't know if it's somethin' I should keep doin' or if you really wish I'd stop an' are too polite t'say so.” Micah's chin tilts just-slightly upward, habitually facilitating and accepting the touch to his throat. “Y'do cheat. /So/ much. D'you really even need t'do that t'figure me, though?” "I am having a conversation. And I am many things but I am not sure /polite/ is among them. Not when I am not being paid for it and often not even when I am." Lucien's fingers slowly walk their way inwards, wrapping more fully around Micah's throat at that accepting tilt of head. "I do not need to do it to figure most people," he answers softly. "In my line of work, reading people is something of a necessity." His fingers press in, though it's a slow careful sort of squeeze, not a great /deal/ of pressure to it. Just a soft grip, feeling the other man's skin beneath his; feeling the emotions that run beneath /that/. "I don't need to feel you, no. But I do enjoy it." “Okay,” Micah responds simply, accepting Lucien's word at face value. His skin flushes a richer red as Lucien's fingers move along his throat. “I always figure I'm a little transparent,” he admits, the blush serving as a timely illustration. He shivers, slightly, at the harder press of that hand. A slow swallow pushes past the pressure. “Good. I'm glad t'offer /somethin'/, then.” The small curl of a smile at his lips is a touch wry. "It's an interesting contrast between you and your pet. The things I feel from him rarely match the ones he shows." Lucien's thumb lifts, tracing lightly against Micah's jaw and up to his cheek, following the red path of the blushing. His fingers tighten in, at that swallow; there's a brief firmer few seconds where they squeeze down tight enough to constrict the flow of air. Lucien is watching Micah through this with mental senses more than with visual, drinking in the other man's feelings before releasing. Still resting against Micah's throat, though more gently now. "What else, exactly, do you feel you should be giving me?" "He's gotten a little too used t'hidin'," Micah acknowledges with just a flicker of the concern that always surrounds that topic in his mind. Then Lucien's hand tightens and Micah's lips part slightly in what very likely would have been a small gasp, now aborted. His heart quickens in its beating, nearly racing, the pounding pulse obvious against Lucien's fingers when they loosen again. Micah squirms under this handling, though not in any attempt at pulling away, rather nuzzling closer into Lucien's side. "Just...tryin' t'be your friend an' be /there/ for you, Lucien. Y'just don't make it easy t'know exactly how. I want t'make things a little better by bein' here...let you know that I love you. What /do/ you want? Maybe I'm not so good at readin' people as you are." "It is a useful skill, and he is good at it." Lucien's voice is a low murmur, his eyes focused rather intently on Micah's face through that small part of lips. There's a faint flush creeping into his own face, his breathing slowing in contrast to Micah's racing heartbeat. His hand stays against Micah's neck, his quiet answer coming only after a long delay of thought. "I don't. Want." “Exceedin'ly,” Micah agrees with a hint of resignation. “Between the two of us maybe we're just an average person that way.” He lingers against Lucien's side, just enjoying the heat and presence of him. Lucien's answer draws one of his eyebrows up in confusion. “But y'have to. It's what...makes people do anythin'. If y'don't want, y'don't...do.” "People have so very many desires. I feel them all." Lucien's fingers start to press in again, here, squeezing slowly but firmly harder at Micah's throat. "They want and they want and they /want/ and it does. Drive them. Maybe somewhere here I have desires but they don't -- burn. As most people's do. It is pleasant, though. To feel --" Lucien's grip tightens, a harder choke of pressure that eases again soon. "-- What people feel. Perhaps it reminds me of /why/ people continue to – do." Micah melts into Lucien's touch, trusting and pliable. "So y'want, just...quietly. Maybe could talk t'those wants a little more an' see if they'll speak up sometimes?" And that's the end of Micah's advice, his voice occupied in forming tiny whimper until the sound no longer has a way out. He simply sits after, trembling silently for a few breaths. "You're more than welcome t'feel what I'm feelin'. Anytime y'need. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's keepin' more'n enough /feels/ around. Could spare quite a few." He reaches a hand over Lucien's shoulder, snaking along behind his back, then pulling himself /up/ rather than Lucien /down/ to join his lips to the other man's for a kiss. Full of more than enough unguarded feelings of love and want and need and comfort and and and... One hand rests at Micah's neck, still, though Lucien curls his other around the small of the other man's back. "I will take what you feel, then. I will take --" He doesn't finish this thought. He presses his mouth back to Micah's, a very soft gentle kiss that comes with a fluttering ripple of warm pleasure dancing through Micah. Together with this, his fingers tighten again, holding them there until he breaks off the kiss and loosens his grip to let Micah breathe again. "-- You do have rather a surplus." Micah's spine slips along, lengthening under Lucien's touch, pushing him up into the gentle kiss. Though the kiss deepens, hungry, with the tightening of fingers at his throat and that flutter of pleasure that he takes and gives right /back/ freely. When he finally extricates himself from the kiss, he is flushed and dizzy and drawing quick, gasping breaths--though some of this could be attributed to the brief blocking of his airway. “Always have...a lot,” he agrees between breaths, that breathing slowly returning to a more regular rhythm. “An' a lot t'share.” His hand traces along the back of Lucien's neck. “I love you.” Lucien's face is still faintly flushed, when he breaks off. Slowly, his hand drops from Micah's neck, running down along the other man's chest. His forehead rests lightly against Micah's, the same small flutter of pleasure continuing; at least until he straightens, contact breaking off as one hand falls to his lap and the other to the mattress behind them. "I should check on dinner. Thank you," he offers in the same quiet calm tone as before. "For checking in." Micah's hand continues its slow petting at Lucien's neck, remaining open to the other man's explorations of whatever emotions he finds there. He takes the flutter of pleasure again, threading it into the more complex tapestry of his many-feelings and reflecting this again. Once Lucien pulls away, Micah's hand drops, taking the signal to turn down the connection. “You're welcome, hon. Thank you for lettin' me help...as much as I could.” His teeth press gently into his lower lip, not worried, just feeling the pressure. “Always feel free t'ask. If you ever need... I'm here.” Lucien lifts a hand, his fingers tracing very lightly against Micah's cheek. Down along the line of his jaw. Against the side of his neck. He stands, then, dropping his hand to his side. "It is good to know," he acknowledges. "You and your boy have been better friends than --" His head shakes slightly, hands folding behind his back. "I would make you that same offer, if ever you needed." And then he turns to go, head slightly bowed as he slips back out towards the kitchen to fit himself back into the work routine. The touch draws Micah to it as if magnetically, nuzzling his cheek into the hand. "It is good to know," he echoes, adding, "Thank you," in reply to the reciprocated offer. He watches Lucien leave, keeping his perch on the bed, taking a few moments longer to collect himself before moving out of his quiet space into the din and bustle of the common areas.