Logs:(Steps)/(Siblings)

(Steps)/(Siblings)
Dramatis Personae DJ, Hive, Kieow
In Absentia Dawson	2023-02-06 "It was ... dumb to think we could just... go back to how it was when I was back home."
Location <PRV> VL 403 {Geekhaus} - East Village
This is a small, two-bedroom apartment, the living room semi-open to the kitchen and dining area, a single bathroom situated between the doors to the bedrooms. The common areas are beautifully appointed with solid, matching handmade wooden furniture in intricate geometric mosaics. The kitchen table is ringed with coordinated but not identical chairs, two of them modular with low scooped backs, designed with winged bodies in mind. The wide, low coffee table fits neatly into the corner of a modular sectional couch, and the immense television is enthroned in an entertainment center that also houses various consoles and video games. The walls are lined with bookshelves laden with comics, roleplaying supplements, board games, speculative fiction, and a grab-bag of technical texts. The walls in between are adorned with some framed posters of classical science fiction and fantasy media along with a few pieces of gorgeous if unusual original art. Geekhaus smells bright and tangy this evening. Hive has kind of half changed since work, nice crisp slacks but his old soft Theta Tau sweatshirt over top, sleeves pushed up above his bony elbows. He's been at the stove for a bit now already, judging by the progress on his curry, lemongrass and galangal and a host of vegetables starting to simmer now. On a second burner he is searing tofu, pressed and marinaded and breaded. Simon and Garfunkel's Bookends album is playing, and Hive sings along softly, "-- sounds of the city sifting through trees, settle like dust on the shoulders of the old friends." Growing quietly in the background as proximity is incrementally reduced, a small vine of nervous discomfort winds its way through the ether to a sibling mind. Doubt and self-recrimination give way to stronger courses of concern and dread and ... confusion that guide young food steps back to a path not tread in far too long. << {Is he okay} >> whispers in the curious currents of << lover girlfriend wife husband 'dad?!?'>> wash over her in waves. A key slips into a lock and turns the tumblers, opening the door to a flood of aching loneliness and embarrassed stomach twangs. Kieow remains quiet as she slips off her coat and removes her shoes, gaze turned down as she simply listens to her brother sing. Hive has no doubt noticed Kieow's approach considerably before the key actually gets to the lock, but he hasn't broken his unhurried routine. He's flipping the large squares of tofu in the pan as one long root of his mind reaches out -- stopping shy where he once might have simply pulled his sister in to instead settle in a tentative gentle squeeze before pulling back. "Food's almost up," comes in his habitual gruff tone, bland as if Kieow couldn't feel the worry-curiosity-uncertainty-hurt flickering across that brief mental touch, as if he were expecting her, as if this face-to-face visit is not long-delayed. Kieow feels frozen cold, but burning wells of unmanifested tears spike painfully behind her eyes. She steps out of the entryway and crosses the distance between them, her steps stiff as a school child sent to the principal's office. She wets her lips, light tongue moistening the rough bark of her winter cedar, hands clenched at her side. "Bua," she states, lifting up a hand to cling to the loose fabric around his arms. Her mind begins to search, parasitic roots scraping the edges of her own mind, looking for more of Hive's touch after the initial squeeze fades. Another gentle flutter of touch brushes up against Kieow's mind, and then carefully pulls away. Hive is turning aside -- moving briefly to the dining nook where he switches on a small sunlamp perched by the window -- and then back to his cooking. "I'm fine," he tells her. "{Was a weird fucking week. Have you -- do you --}" His brows knit. He scrapes at the pan with the edge of his spatula, though nothing is sticking that necessitates him doing so. "{... how. Are classes.}" This is probably not what he was going to say first, but it is what comes out. Kieow follows Hive to the nook and then settles into the seat most bathed in warm light. "{Classes are fine, Bua. I already told you about my last test.}" she fidgets, all of this covered in their many text messages and video calls, but she still struggles to say what she wants to say... a great blank stumbling block between her active thoughts and that nagging feeling swelling inside her. "I'm sorry!" she all but shouts, her gaze following him as he returns to his work. "I'm... sorry. I shouldn't have. I didn't mean to. I just don't know how to feel anymore. I miss you... so much." "You don't have shit to apologize for." Hive switches off the burners under his dishes and braces his hands against the edge of the counter. His shoulders hunch, palms pressing hard to the surface. "{Shit was hard. You shouldn't -- have to have me poking through your head when you just --}" For just a second his teeth grind, then ease. "{I just worry, you know? I know I'm not the only one going through it and I want to be there for you.} Bad enough you have to put up with the hordes of white people up at that fucking school and the snow and the food without..." His skinny shoulders hitch within the baggy sweatshirt, an uneasy jangle of guilt and worry in his mind. Kieow's heart aches as she listens to Hive, wanting to say something to assuage his guilt. Her countenance darkens and her eyes grow misty. She wants to say something about how he was finally starting to move on, maybe, was going to be friends with him again and he didn't need her dragging him back and away from that -- but he starts talking about white people and food and ... the only thing that comes to mind is bland, white bread bologna sandwiches with mayonnaise and yellow mustard. A wet laugh catches in her throat as she shakes her head and tries to refocus. She pushes away her gratefulness for the mustard at least and swallows hard around the emotions. "It was ... dumb to think we could just... go back to how it was when I was back home." "Really fucking rude how time just keeps going forward, huh? It'd be nice --" There's a pause, just for a moment, here, Hive's words halting as he turns to collect dishes from the cabinet. The complicated tumult in his mind is obscure to Kieow, though audible enough in his shared mental space -- a deep stab of ache, a familiar looping guilt that runs over (and over) (and over) That Final Morning, the too-brittle song playing in Dawson's mind, the smell of campfire and pain of rejection and a promise of rest. When he does speak it's just with a crooked smile. "{I've actually been coming around to the value of mayonnaise. In moderation. Drizzle of sriracha aioli on a fish taco?} Sometimes you just gotta adapt to new shit." It might be the grief, it might be the fierce strong thought of (not) him, it may verrrry likely be the fact that food is ready, but there's a flutter-bright flash skimming closer to Geekhaus as if drawn in by some pull of gravity. DJ has shaved his beard, for a change; he's in warm lined chore jacket over his flannel, heavy jeans, sturdy workboots, the jacket sleeve dangling empty at his side but the flannel beneath pinned neat. There is a definite hunger in the feel of him as he blinks through the fire escape window and alights beside the dining table -- but immediate upon arriving he stops. Freezes. There's something guilty and awkward in his mind, a quick and quickly dismissed thought of simply vanishing again, before he settles instead into a small nod, an uncertain: "-- Hi." << {Are we really going to talk about mayonnaise??} >> bubbles to the surface of Kieow's mind as Hive seems to change the subject... her thoughts quieting when it turns to some type of metaphor. Fingers spread over her skirt covered lap, the brightly colored woven and embroidered fabric providing plenty of little nubs and lines to trace and worry. Layers of shirts, the top most with bell sleeves keep the small cedar tree warm, while stocking feet peaking out from jean covered legs curl up under the chair. When a breeze (draft) heralds the sudden arrival of another person ruffles her green hair, she casts her eyes downward instead of toward the source, hands rising, palms pressed together as she gives DJ a wai and a formal greeting. Her mind falls back to habits as she tries to scramble for anything that helps her figure out where do they go from here... and what happens next. << {shit} >> is Hive's first thought at DJ's arrival -- his actual planned dinner guest forgotten entirely after Kieow's surprise appearance. << this is awkward >> butts up against << already awkward >> against << should've warned her >> against << (white people) >>, this last with a vague and amused mental image of nearly colliding with Magneto's outstretched hand during his greeting bow. He loads the two bowls he had already retrieved with rice, going to set them down on the table before transferring the curry and tofu to serving bowls to be moved to the dining table as well. "What happens next kind of been The Question the past couple years, huh?" << {and still no fucking answers for it.} >> "But maybe what we start with is dinner."