ArchivedLogs:Want/Need

Want/Need
you/we
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah	3 January 2014 Well.../that/ was unexpected. (Warning: Gets a little physical.)
Location <NYC> The Unicomplex - Village Lofts - East Village
In contrast to the messy apartment outside, this room actually tends to be fairly neat. Clothes in the two laundry hampers, books and clutter relegated to the bookshelf or the desks. It's set up for two, Flicker's neat-made bed on the left wall and Hive's generally unmade one on the right; the shared closet is large, on Flicker's side of the room, the shared bookshelf on Hive's side packed full. The back wall holds a pair of desks side by side, both with their own desktops. The walls are eclectically decorated. A replica of Arya Stark's Needle, a few bright-colored but anachronistically somewhat morbid paintings of Jax's, a Mega Man X poster, a stained-glass suncatcher hung in the window and a collage of feathers framed on one wall. Hive hasn't actually left his house since returning from Vector-tracking to find Dusk arrested and Flicker gone. His phone has been off all yesterday, his emails unanswered. Geekhaus is dark, at the moment, the lights in the living room shut off and his bedroom illuminated only by the glow of his monitor. It's had a video playing, screen frozen halfway through /In Time/, but he's paying it no attention anymore. He is sprawled on his bed in jeans and his Link-as-Eddard-Stark t-shirt, a copy of Mieville's /Embassytown/ open face down on his chest. There is a brief knock at the door, followed by a click of keys in the lock. Micah is recently-showered, as evidenced by the spiky still-damp state of his hair. He has changed into a grey henley shirt under a white T-shirt (on which a T-rex with an adaptive reaching aid in each hand is depicted under the heading 'UNSTOPPABLE!'), Batsignal hoodie worn unzipped over top, heavy faded jeans, and thick socks. He has a mug of spiced hot cocoa in each hand as he moves to Hive's room. “Hey, honey. Cocoa?” He holds the mug out within reach. Hive's eyes have been fixed up on the ceiling; they /stay/ fixed up on the ceiling even as Micah approaches, though a small squeezing press of mind offers silent greeting. He just shakes his head at the offer of cocoa, though, fingers pressing down against the cover of his book. "Kids go back to school yet?" With a small frown, Micah sets the mugs on the bedside table. “Later tonight. I ain't had the chance t'drive 'em back down yet. Got dinner in the oven. Y'should come down.” He settles down on the mattress close against Hive's side without seeking permission. “Could...just come down. Altogether.” Hive's eyes slide closed, and his body shifts to rest closer against Micah without really thinking about it. "Huh?" His eyes finally shift over to Micah in confusion. "Not hungry." He shakes his head quickly. "School's gonna be fucked as hell for them. With everyone knowing what's up with Jax and those videos coming out." "Neither am I." Micah's hand moves to settle between Hive's shoulder blades. "I'll eat if you do?" His lips press thin at the mention of the videos. "Ev'rybody at that school knows'n loves Jax. They know the charges are bunk. An'...s'enough of those kids at school who've been through similar things. Enough of 'em /in/ the videos." The hand moves in small, firmly contacting circles. "Y'can stay in the twins' room while they're at school. Or...Jax's. I'm kind of considerin' borrowin' the twins' room anyhow." There's a twinge of discomfort with this thought, an image of a sleeping bag situated on the floor of the bedroom since Sunday. "It's high school. Kids are cruel." Hive closes his eyes, turning up more onto his side. His book falls closed to the mattress as his body curls in around where Micah sits. "I have a room." His jaw tightens, a faint trembling rippling through his back beneath Micah's fingers as he considers this mental image. Swallows, hard. Opens his eyes to look at the cocoa. "You think they're feeding them?" "It's too quiet up here." Micah thinks on the apartment, what it will be like when the twins go back to school. "Too quiet down there." His fingers press in more firmly, the other hand moving to join them. "Real food? The lawyer said they were feedin' Jax. Even with increased portions for his caloric needs. At least at the last place. As for enough light, or blood for Dusk? I doubt it." The muscles in his jaw set hard. "Met with a disability lawyer over lunch today. She's s'posed t'meet with 'em about gettin' Dusk transfusions. For his 'medical condition'." "And God only knows what the fuck Flicker's doing for food." Hive curls in tighter, coiling around Micah to rest his cheek against Micah's thigh. "It's cold as fuck out there." Though it's plenty warm in here, so the bitter cold outside probably doesn't account for Hive's continued shivering. "Spence could teleport them food. Blood. Whatever. -- It's been too fucking quiet here a while. Ian laughed the most. And listened to music too damn loud." "He wouldn't let me give 'im money. Or my sleepin' bag," Micah replies, tone somewhere between agreement and just /moping/. "Jax told Spence not t'come visit again or they might kill 'im." This last comes quiet but hard, between clenched teeth. He swallows and passes the tip of his tongue over dry lips. "I don't like thinkin' of you up here by yourself." His fingers curl in against Hive's back, scratching down along his spine and ribs through his shirt. "You need your damn money. S'fucking -- shit. We barely paid goddamn rent this month, though, and now I --" Hive lifts his head, but then just thumps it back down against Micah's lap. << He can send shit and /not/ go. Just teleport Jax a granola bar. Wrap it in toilet paper he can flush, nobody'd even know. Blood's harder, can't do shit about needing it to be packaged. >> His words are their usual hard stab of pain. His back presses up into the touch, his breathing a little shaky. "-- /I'm/ never fucking alone." “Got enough I can give to a friend t'stop 'im starvin' or freezin' t'death,” Micah argues bitterly. One of his hands moves up to tangle into Hive's hair, rubbing at his scalp. << Not Spence. Joshua, maybe. I just...don't want t'make anythin' worse. Got no idea.../what/ they're doin' to 'em. Who would notice. If they're just bein' /watched/ continuously. What they'd do t'punish... >> He shakes his head roughly. “Y'know that's not what I meant. Your /head/ bein' loud ain't the same thing as livin' with /family/. You're not used to...this.” His hand gestures to the empty, dark, quiet apartment. Hive's head tilts, slightly to the side, knotty scarring rubbing up against Micah's fingertips like it /itches/. Which very possibly it does. << Yeah. No idea. But -- fff. Jesus this is bullshit there's /so much/ that we could /do/ if -- what the fuck is the point of having all these powers if -- >> His muscles tense again in their curl around Micah. << Just one more time. If Spence was in there just for a /minute/ -- it'd be way less suspicious than if Joshua was and I could link to him. To them both maybe. And they wouldn't have to be /alone/. >> "... really fucking cold," Hive agrees out loud, also rather bitterly. He squints up at Micah at the mention of family, dark eyes locking on the other man's for a moment. "Family --" He swallows. "Siblings and cousins and a college dorm and a fucking frat house, I've never lived alone in my gorram life. Even fucking /Prometheus/ gave us roommates." << /No/, Hive. >> Micah's mental voice is sharp to the point of harsh. << Not at the risk of killin' you. Neither of 'em would want that. I don't want that... >> His fingers scritch in more firmly, both against back and scalp. "Then come stay with Spence'n me...'til we get 'em home. Whichever room y'want. Or the livin' room. I don't /care/. Just. Come stay." The ache in Micah's mind is echoed in his words, almost palpable. << But he's in there alone. /Alone/ without /anyone/ in the fucking /dark/. I could -- >> Hive's breathing whistles out through clenched teeth, his face turning down in against Micah's jeans. "This whole fucking building just tastes like hurt. How do you – breathe." << I know. I know they are. But it isn't doin' anyone any good t'lose /more/ of you. We're /haemorrhagin'/ our /people/, Hive. >> Micah draws a shaky breath. “Painfully. Sometimes. Gotta actually /remind/ m'self to. Gotta. Keep it t'gether for Spence an' the twins an' you an'... Can't just give up. Can't make the hurt /worse/. Gotta try t'make it better.” His fingers continue their work, as if they can push the pain out of Hive--despite his own, ever-present like a heavy shadow. Hive presses up into the touch, still, but eventually he finally struggles upright. Heavily. "It doesn't get better. You just. Add /more/ shit to everything you're already carrying around. And just keep adding it. Forever. This whole goddamn town just tastes like hurt." His feet slide down to the floor, but he doesn't stand. He leans against Micah's side, head resting on the other man's shoulder. "What happens when you do? Give up?" Micah's arm wraps around Hive's shoulder when he leans in, fiercely tight. “It has to.” << Please, Hive. Love you. /Need/ you. >> His head shakes repetitively in a slow denial. “I don't...can't...won't. Ain't no other way.” Hive's head turns, face pressing in against Micah's neck. The squeeze around his shoulders is echoed by another squeeze, pressing in deep and slowly vicelike around Micah's mind. "There's always other ways. /This/ way is just. Bullshit, we're not. Not getting anywhere except --" He falls off into silence, breathing slow and deep as his mind starts to sink hungry claws into Micah's. << Need you, >> he echoes. Micah buries his face in Hive's hair when he turns, pressing kisses to the top of his head. His arm squeezes harder at the mental grasping, though his mind nudges gently against it like reminding a kitten not to claw the furniture. << Need you /alive/. Please come? Dinner? Stay? >> He breathes deeply against Hive's hair, just taking in his scent and warmth. Hive draws in slow deep breaths against Micah's skin, too, though with Micah freshly showered, Hive is /definitely/ getting the better end of this deal; he's still in the same clothes he's /been/ in for two days, unshowered since then. Mostly he smells of sour sweat and cigarettes. At least he has actually brushed his teeth. Small blessings. His mind halts, for a moment, reflexively drawing back at the nudging but then pressing in again in slow hard squeeze. << Alive -- >> He echoes this uncertainly, /unhappily/. << I just want this all to be fucking over. >> The deep breaths continue, alternating with series of kisses. << We're doin' what we can, honey. The videos. Vector. You're /helping/. We just gotta...see if this'll work. It's gonna take patience. The time's gonna be /agonising/, but...we gotta give the efforts time t'work. >> MIcah's arms pull Hive closer, almost into his lap, the need to be close to him keen in his mind. It's almost /inviting/ of that pressing in...but recalls to nudge back. Gently. Eventually. << I know, honey. Just want 'em /home/ an' /safe/. When I did this. It was...so that it all /would/ be over. >> "Need you," Hive whispers, rough and wretched at that nudging back, mental claws sharpening in their grip. << Never going to be safe. They come home, it's just a waiting game till the next time. You were right, with Malthus. This shit only ever ends with death. >> Micah whimpers at the whisper, hauling Hive the rest of the way into his lap, pressing against him with his body as surely as Hive does with his mind. His eyes squeeze closed and his head shakes, turning slowly side to side, just denying everything. That little mental nudge back comes again, though this time coupled with a kiss--a chaste, soft pressing of lips to lips--as if to soften the blow by changing the /type/ of contact but not the /quantity/. Hive curls in close against Micah, his arm curling around Micah's back. His eyes squeeze closed, too, forehead resting against Micah's. He draws in a soft surprised breath at the brush of lips -- the contact comes with a /harder/ squeeze, mental fingers sinking in with a very /clear/ rush of hunger, of need, digging hard and deep into Micah's mind. But they pull back just as quickly, though here too he trades physical contact for mental. His fingers lift to curl into Micah's hair, mouth pressing harder and fiercer against the other man's as the mental grip withdraws. Micah's arms wrap around Hive, pulling him in almost painfully-tight. His forehead pushes right back against the other man's, just seeking /connection/. The mental dig meets again with that ambivalent mix of /want/ and need to prevent it, to protect Hive. At the sudden fiercer kiss, Micah gasps in surprise, lips parting and stealing the air from right against Hive's. There is no ambivalence here, however, the kiss returned without the slightest resistance once the mental grip is released. Hive's fingers scrunch in against Micah's hair, fingertips kneading slowly at the back of the other man's head. His mouth presses to Micah's hard, lips parting as well and a flicker-brush of tongue ghosting against Micah's. His other hand curls Micah's sweatshirt into a hard grip, bunching the fabric up into a fist with which to hold the other man close to him. The chasteness has rather fled the kiss, pressing deeper, warmer, hungrier. Micah's need for this contact comes through in the squeeze of his arms circling Hive's waist, his hands slipping, trembling under the other man's shirt to steady themselves against the bare skin of his back. His head tilts slightly into Hive's touch, his mouth not leaving the lock of the kiss. Hive presses in with a small whimper of his own, muffled and soft against Micah's parted lips. His fingers uncurl to just spread flat against Micah's back, his body pressing in against the other man's. There's not much chaste to his touch, either, needy-hungry in the touch of his mouth to Micah's. The fingers slipping to touch warm against his skin draw another gasp -- and a harder clenching down of his mind against Micah's, mental touch returning as fierce and claiming as his press of lips. Cradling Hive in tight-constricting arms, Micah turns, lowering him to the bed, pressing down on top of him. His knees move out to hook outside of Hive's legs, just that much more contact. With the harder push into his mind, his body presses just as forcefully against Hive's. His mind's resistance (again, at the same time so full of wanting) is gentle, simply nudging against that clenching, gripping dig. No more than that. Just deeper kisses, hands against skin, body pressing close. Hive's hands slide down Micah's back, slipping under the other man's shirts, fingers skimming along Micah's waist as he is lowered to the mattress. The hard clench of his mind into Micah's comes with a chaotic storm of transferred feelings, fear and /ache/, helplessness and hopelessness and a desperate hungry need, drinking in the contact and grasping for more. << -- please -- >> For a moment (as Hive's mouth presses to Micah's, as his hips roll up against the other man's) the soft word seems as though it may almost be coming from Micah's own mind. Until Hive pulls back, sharp, swallowing hard as he breaks off the kiss. A bright sting of tears in his eyes as his mind pulls back, too. His hand slides around to Micah's chest, but this time the touch is gently restraining, a faint push to lever just a little distance between their bodies. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and with this word comes another hard press of Hive's mind to Micah's. His jaw clenches as this squeeze withdraws, a deep flush of color in his cheeks. "I can't -- stop it." At the little 'please', Micah's mouth pushes in harder, a small sound somewhere between a growl and a moan deep in his throat presses against Hive's lips. His hips rock in to meet the other man's, knees squeezing in against the outsides of his thighs, hands sliding up his back and taking the shirt up along with it. He's near to tugging the garment off when Hive breaks the kiss, his eyes widening as with a sudden shock. With the light shove at his chest, he backs away, but only slightly, body still hovering close over Hive's if not touching it. << But (you need)(I want). >> The thoughts tumble out simultaneously. His hand reaches up, fingertips sketching lightly along Hive's tight-clenching jaw. "Would it hurt you?" he asks aloud, but whisper-soft. Hive whimpers again, body pressing up against Micah's once more. His eyes close and another heavy /crush/ of mental energy pushes in at Micah's mind. << (I/you need) >> and << (I/you want) >> overlap, hard to distinguish, identities nearly blending into a simple 'we'. His mind pulls away again. He turns his head, face pressing into the touch of fingertips. "Probably," he whispers reluctantly. "I already barely know who I am most days. But I --" He squeezes his eyes shut tight, fingers pressing in harder, though this time to scrunch at the fabric of Micah's shirt. Not pulling closer, not pushing away. His face tips up, pressing against the other man's neck. His lips touch against Micah's collarbone; by the time he pulls back he leaves a trace of dampness where his eyes had pressed. "You should. I should -- go. Shower. I'll meet you. Downstairs. Dinner." The words sound like they take a great deal of effort. Micah doesn't even bother with a pretence of resistance when Hive's mind crushes against his again, the desire for that closeness finally growing too strong. << (need)(want)(please) >> blurring into the thoughts coming from Hive. "I don't mind," he whispers gently against Hive's ear. << You being (in me)(we). >> "So long as it doesn't /hurt/ you." That kiss to his collarbone draws a full-body tremble starting along Micah's spine, a soft whimper spilling from his lips. He moves--not /over/ Hive any longer but beside him, pressed in tight-close against his side, the contact greater but not in a position to prevent Hive from moving. "Fuck." It's a rough-ragged whisper; Hive's mental claws sink in hard at the desire felt from Micah. << (we) >> echoes strong in Micah's mind with this sharp grip, Hive's arms curling around the other man to hold him tight. His mouth presses to Micah's jaw, but he relaxes his hold and drops his head back against his pillow with a sharp gasp. << (want)(need)(please) >> blends inextricably with << (in you) >> His mind pulls back. His breathing comes harder, his knuckles rubbing hard against his eyes. "{I'm sorry.}" This time he actually remembers himself, and it comes in Thai. His hand drops back to the mattress, eyes shifting away from Micah towards his desk. "Dinner. You should go back down." The rough mental grip goes unimpeded, unresisted as surely as the wrapping of arms now. Micah's arms squeeze back against Hive. When the apology comes a second time, he places a gentle kiss to Hive's temple. Nodding, he unravels his arms from the other man, turning his head in a vain attempt to conceal the tears dewdrop-beading along the reddish fringe of his eyelashes from the telepath. << Sorry. >> He thinks back, rather than speaking. Not /hurt/, but hurting. << I love you. I'll go. Please...just. Come down. Later. Don't stay alone. >> His standing is stiff and mechanical, feet carrying him ponderously to the apartment door without looking back. Hive stays where he is, in the bed. His palms press to his eyes, breathing still uneven as Micah heads off. He doesn't get up again until the door closes firmly behind the other man.