Logs:At Loose Ends

At Loose Ends
Dramatis Personae DJ, Hive
In Absentia Dawson	2024-10-17 "Did you eat?"
Location <NYC> DJ's House - The Refuge - Staten Island
The swath of destruction that the dimensional anomaly carved here in 2020 has been swept away and transformed into a large compound, practically a neighborhood in its own right. Much of the grounds are given over to meticulously landscaped parkland. Here are manicured gardens abutting half-wild groves, playgrounds and playing fields, a swimming pool as well as a fishing pond, and even a few acres of farmland. The residences, from the founder's house to the miniature arcologies and the slightly larger guesthouse, are styled like abstract beehives. So, for that matter, is the vertical hydroponic farm that produces far more food than the earthbound fields. In fact, there is a great deal of beehive imagery throughout, and even absent specific styling, hexagons are still more common than squares or rectangles in the construction of spaces and objects, all of which are thoughtfully designed with an eye toward community and comfort. At the heart of the Refuge is the meetinghouse that crowns the hill where the 121st Precinct once stood: architecturally distinct from most LDS houses of worship, this one looks from afar like an abstract sculpture of a conch shell in gleaming white quartzite. The floor plan is built on a Fibonacci spiral with a relatively gentle rise in elevation for the first four quarter-arcs before shooting up into a steep organic spire that can be seen for miles around. Hive has not actually been asleep for days. He's been tired enough and scarce enough that one might be forgiven for thinking so, though, largely dragging himself out of bed only long enough to tend to the most urgent of physical needs and then slipping back under the covers. Today he is properly up, though -- he's actually showered, even, actually put on fresh clean clothes (his brown shirt has a bold watercolor-styled design of a large banyan with a thick tangle of roots both in the ground and hanging) and has not gotten back into bed. He's curled up in a large papasan chair on the small balcony outside his bedroom (a guest bedroom, in some lingering respect for propriety that has felt at times a little absurd given how much of himself he's shared with DJ) under not one but two blankets despite the pleasantly warm day. There's a tablet in his lap, open to some half-finished sketches that are not technical at all, not any kind of work but absent daydreams of fantastical elaborate treehouses half-grown from the trees themselves. Presumably he was actually adding to these drawings at some point, but his stylus has slipped from his hand to bury itself in the folds of one of his blankets, his gaze drifted off to watch a group of people busy in one of the gardens with some pre-frost fall planting. Given the intermittent nod of his head and droop of his eyes, he seems to be near to losing his battle to Not Just Sleep all day again today, despite his best efforts. For the first time in quite a while, Hive doesn't feel DJ until he's fairly close by. Buried beneath a prosaic jumble of workload and chores to handle and errands to run and passing conversations on the ferry home is a muted but very noticeable anxiety. Fretting about Hive, trying not to fret about Hive, feeling a distant nagging wrongness at having nobody else in his brain for the first day in ages, feeling a more acute nagging wrongness at the thought of the life that severance takes with it each time. He is not really trying, particularly, to hide this, nor trying to hide the stronger meta-anxiety behind it that this constantly spinning fret is on the verge of cycling up into Actual Mania. He's also not rushing, though the temptation is strong to do so. The rattling in his brain quiets, somewhat, after a cold shower. Then a little more, as he prepares one hazelnut coffee and one hot hazelnut-syruped milk. He's comfortable in jeans and a plain green tee by the time he slips out onto Hive's balcony, setting the drinks on a small table by the scoop chair. "Did you eat?" sounds quiet and casual, though Hive can feel the way the jarring sense that he should already know this half-sticks the words in his throat. By the time DJ arrives out on the balcony Hive looks most of the way to Asleep again. The smell of the coffee or the other man's presence stir him, sluggish. He shifts from tipping to one side in the large cushion to tipping toward the other. There's a shift in the blankets as he attempts to wriggle his arms out from under them, and then gives up in an exaggerated helplessness and just burrows himself further. "Don't remember." A phantom twitch at DJ's shoulder sets his empty sleeve, briefly, swinging. This jars, too -- moreso, even, than the actual flesh of his missing arm is the much more acutely present nonpresence. His jaw tightens, and he swallows this discomfort as well to kneel by Hive's chair and do this the slow way, peeling back one blanket and then another so that he can extricate Hive from the coziness trap. The stylus, too, while he's at it, tucking it back into its holder at the side of the tablet. "So safe to assume no." The fact that he can't just peek across the way and check on what's for dinner nags, too, but less painful and more an irritating inconvenience. He considers, for a moment, turning his phone on to check the daily schedule, but does not bother with this. Take-out options surface in his mind. A solid standby Thai place in the East Village, Hive's favorite sushi from Tribeca, a startlingly solid Indian place in Oakwood heights. He's holding each suggestion forward in implicit question, these small practical choices simple and comforting over a far more uneasy calculation. << it's been five days >> << (should be back on his feet by now) >> << how long has it taken before? >> << 'No'. >> This thuds hard, heavy, more sledgehammer-y even than Hive's usual uncomfortable mental touch. There's no other context with it, just the one thudding protest. "-- sorry," he mumbles, "fuck. Sorry. I don't want --" His shoulders tighten, his hand turning upward to grip at DJ's. "Can we get delivery." The psionic thump seems almost to knock DJ back; he's flinched away from Hive and in almost the same instant regretted that flinch. The very brief confusion that arises in his mind about the vehemence of this no answers itself pretty immediately. "I'll stay." He draws the small table more squarely in front of the chair and then shifts the blankets aside so that he can settle in beside Hive. His arm curls around Hive's shoulders, but no sooner has he gotten himself comfortably snugly nested than there's another awkward uncertainty. << Oh, fudge, my phone >> << what I get for not having (my)/(our) more arms. >> Does he want to order food enough to move again? The jury is currently out. A hungry pressure bears down against DJ's mind. It flickers there brief when he flinches away and then longer, harder, wrapping tendrils tight and questing before withdrawing. Hive tucks himself close against DJ's side. His head rests against the other man's shoulder, eyes closing. His breathing has slowed -- he seems content enough to drift off again here, comfortable and warm, but just as he is starting once more to nod off he blinks and gives a muffled groan against DJ's shirt. He pats at one side pocket and then the other, then pulls the other man's phone out of his jeans to turn it on. "Hasn't been a fucking before. Without you a tenth of that and I'd be --" His cheek presses harder to DJ's chest. "Not. Me." DJ is expecting this, bracing for it, but his breath catches anyway with the ferocity of his desire. His mind grasps eagerly at that touch, shifting in a yielding invitation where the mental roots press. The yearning remains after the psionic touch pulls back. He squeezes at Hive's shoulder, and the soft kiss he dots light to the other man's forehead is absurdly chaste in contrast to the thoughts that have darted through his mind. The tangle of guilt -- not, particularly, over this desire but the vague apprehension that he pushed too far, asked too much of Hive -- rises and subsides as he unlocks his phone and starts thumbing through the delivery options. "You have me."