Logs:Close to Home
| Close to Home | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2021-12-29 "My emotions are still recovering from the last present you got me, thanks." |
| 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. Polaris's thoughts are jangled as she ascends the stairs, not nearly as rapid or disorganized as they've been of late, but underlaid with a somewhat more immediate anxiety than her usual set of unfortunately reasonable existential worries. She has gotten adept enough at steering her surface thoughts to avoid fixating on its source, and is instead mentally reviewing her grocery list as she unlocks the door to let herself in. She's just come from work and really not dressed quite warmly enough for the damp and chilly day in a black canvas motorcycle jacket over a black fitted tee with a silver Tree of Gondor emblazoned on the chest, black jeans. There is considerably less steel on her once she's shed jacket and boots with all their steel buckles and studs and spikes, leaving just a pair of intricate braided wire cuffs, a matching choker, and her usual complement of wirework rings. "Brought you some lunch." << Kinda late for lunch I guess (he probably didn't eat lunch) >> She produces a series of boxes from a colorful Chimaera Arts folding tote, naming each. "Got banh mi, some like tomato-y tortilla soup, cupcakes--I forget what flavor but they got snowflakes on 'em." << Only snow we're gonna get this month. >> She does not even bother naming the coffee she has also brought. Hive isn't immediately visible in the apartment, bedroom door pushed near closed, but Cat does come out to greet Polaris, or something like a greeting, meandering over nearby only to yawn and stretch in exaggerated disaffectation. He hops up to the middle levels of a tall climbing tower, blinking over at her as she unloads the boxes. It takes a bit before there's a reply from Hive, unfurling slower and more ponderous than the feline in a soft rustle of voices across Polaris's mind: << thanks. >> The long tendrils of his mind start to unfurl into hers, pull back just as quickly. << did you eat lunch? >> Polaris gives serious thought to pouring herself a coffee while waiting for Hive to rouse, and ultimately decides against it less for Mormon reasons and more for not wanting to feel (more) jittery. At the question she frowns, straining back through the hours of her slowish workday (one actively hostile heckler, zero runaway powers), her lunch break a haze of doomscrolling and a hastily sucked down bowl of soup. << Yeah. Soup's good (did he even eat breakfast) >> She drifts over and gives Cat a proper greeting of idle scritches. << How you holding up? (wow, stupid fucking question how do you think...) >> Her eyes slide shut and the unhelpful internal narration fades with a long exhale and a wordless prayer for serenity. Not the Serenity Prayer, though. There's a shuffling from inside Hive's room. The door opens; Hive is in pajama pants still, his oversized Theta Tau sweatshirt. He hasn't shaved, his eyes puffy and red, his hair tied back in a short nub of ponytail. "I ate," he says, trudging toward the counter, "some advil a few hours ago. That's like a breakfast, right?" He's gotten as far as eying the food that's been set out, but ultimately just slouches down with his elbows propped on the countertop. "Y'know. Still alive." He doesn't sound altogether thrilled about this. "You?" Polaris leaves off petting Cat, something clenching tight in her chest when she catches sight of Hive, little though she's surprised to see him in such a state. She chews on her bottom lip, hesitating though not actually considering the merits of ibuprofen as breakfast before she replies, firmly, "No. Breakfast should be made of food. I can cook a thing if you're not feeling soup and sandwich." << I mean ok you're probably not feeling any food I know how that go >> She returns to the kitchen and leans back on the counter next to Hive, the heels of her hands propped on its edge. "I'm uh. Also alive. Feel like carp, but more or less stable." She glances at her jacket where she'd hung it up by the door, her thoughts bending toward a small box in one of its pockets. << Whatever it can wait >> She's vaguely contemplating alcohol, now. "Had a couple cigarettes, too. That's -- plant matter." Hive settles further against the counter, picking at one ragged end of a sleeve. "Not feeling like soup and sandwich. Not feeling like you cooking, either. Sorry. Do appreciate the --" He waves his hand, balled up in a sleeve, toward the assortment of lunch. His eyes flick kind of involuntarily toward the jacket when Polaris's thoughts stray there. "S'that?" Polaris wrinkles her nose. "I hope you didn't eat the cigarettes." Not, in fact, all that concerned about the possibility, she's drawing breath to raise a more rational objection, but then lets it back out. "You don't have to apologize, I just--" She doesn't actually have an end to that sentence, and only shrugs. "Oh um. It's a present. For DJ." An image of the object in question floats across the words she's assembling; it looks a lot like a pocket watch. The distant anxiety flares brighter, though still not clearly defined. "I didn't really know where to take it..." << ...or if he'd even want it maybe it would just be weird ugh. >> "Don't remember." Hive sounds a little distant. He's still picking at the fraying end of his sleeve, eyes fixed on the counter and not on it. "You tried texting him? Man's shit at answering but sometimes he's -- summonable." "No." Polaris looks up at the ceiling, though her eyes aren't really focused on it. Her anxiety grows sharper and her contemplation of alcohol steadily less vague. "I mean not yet. I was at work and I wanted to be in a position to do more than just hand him a box cuz..." << ...today probably sucks a lot for him and he doesn't need "Happy birthday sorry about your whole life but here's a present and a complementary cocoa 💖" (what the fuck does he need) (us) (who's even 'usthem' right now) (theyhe sounds like a lot) >> She takes another slow breath and lets it back out slow, too, her mind calming again. "Obviously I wouldn't have said it like that. Just...no matter what I said it woulda been super awkward." Slipping her phone from a pocket, she unlocks it and starts to swipe out a message, then stops. "But like, today sucks a lot for you, too." A deep, deep ache beneath those words. "I think he'd want to see you, but I'm not gonna summon him here unless you're okay with it." << Fuck, is there anywhere non-awkward I could summon him? (not in this universe) >> "Okay with it," Hive echoes, softly. He laces his fingers together, hands kind of lost as his sweatshirt sleeves overlap into each other. "Shit, I don't know. I keep thinking this all has to get easier. Some time. Some time, right?" His words come out a little rough, eyes drifting not toward Polaris but a painting on the wall near the large gaming shelf, a flicker in flight with pink purple and blue coloring under its wings as it darts beneath the roots of a sprawling banyan tree. "I don't want him to be alone. That would suck more." He unclasps his hands to reach for the coffee, at least, dragging that in toward himself. "You should text him." "Maybe it gets easier." Polaris looks over her shoulder, following Hive's sightline to the painting. The hurt this brings is familiar enough, but not the same as the ache that remains beneath it. "I'm not sure what that looks like..." << ...but we can work toward things we cannot see. >> There's a fervor roiling behind the unspoken words, intense and luminous in a way that only really makes sense through *her* senses. Against this her low murmured "I shoulda picked up more food" sounds incongruously level and mundane. Her eyes drop back to the phone in her hand, and she taps the screen before her ludicrously short time-out setting blanks it, then finishes her half-composed message.
Hive's mouth twists down, his brows furrowing uncertainly. He sinks lower against the counter, starting to speak but then, quieting. He pushes himself up from the counter ponderously, giving a brief glance to the window. "We can order more food." Though he's not touching any of the food that there is, just bringing his coffee with him as he retreats to the couch. "You talked to Lily at all?" Not expecting to receive a reply, Polaris returns the phone to her pocket. The anger that flares in her at the question and the quick flash of her last encounter with Lily is, if not muted, certainly quieter than she expected. That tired anger fades rapidly into something harder to define, wistful and forlorn. "No. Frak, I should have tried again." << Well okay maybe not while manic but still... >> She groans, digging her knuckles hard into her temples as if she would excavate the headache beneath them. "Have y--" She abruptly straightens up, manages to keep her mind from slamming all the way back to the source of her anxiety, but cannot stop it slipping << (the footage) >> "Have you?" "Little while ago. Going over -- Blackburn footage. I just --" Hive looks down at his cup, his fingers tight around it. "Today's probably hard for her, too. Bet she'd appreciate..." He trails off, though, looking a little lost as he shrinks down further against the couch, the oversized sweatshirt half swallowing him. "Fuck," is very soft. He takes a swallow of the coffee. Curls his knees in against his chest. Into this scene there's an incongruous brightness to the strobelight flash of DJ's thoughts, a brittle teeth-clenched cheer scraped in garish veneer over the fractured mess below. The Happy Birthday tune is crowing in raucous myna birdsong; there's flashes of memories (curled up on a rug together reading brand-new books-outside flushed and exhilarated in the snow-pushing tiny infant girls on a pair of baby sleds) that are jamming up freely between worlds (the workshop at Chimaera comfortable together in the loud-quiet as the planer smooths their boards down-a corner of a Riverdale home snow drying in their clothes and hot cocoa in hand.) Below that, only ache, raw and bloodied and screaming under the lighter cast of thoughts. Nevermind that. Paint another coat of pleasant memories (a farm that looks almost but not quite just like Jax's, out late watching the stars) over top as he stops politely just-outside the fire escape window to knock. A little self-consciously he's remembering he should say something to Hive whose house this is: << ... I got a text. >> Polaris squeezes her eyes shut, breathing slow and concentrating hard and more or less not thinking about Blackburn. << Keep it together, >> she's telling herself levelly. << You can keep it together (for him) >> She pushes off of the counter she isn't actually leaning against anymore and circles around to the other end of the couch to drape herself 3/4 backwards on it, legs folded primly and chin propped on arms crossed over the plush back cushion. "Probably, yeah. I mean--she doesn't have a lot of friends here, but like..." Her shoulders slump, a low, dull anger and a sharper anxiety still stubbornly hanging on but not strong enough to overwhelm her concern. "She thinks I'm a mindless Church drone and also we kinda parted on screaming-in-each-other's-faces terms?" The wire rings snake over her fingers, giving a berth to the index finger where she used to wear her CTR ring. "I'm not being petty ( << am I being petty? >> ) but I don't think she'd appreciate having to work shit out now or just pretend we didn't have a knock-down drag-out--" She looks up just a moment before DJ appears at the window, accustomed by now to the twinge of pain that always accompanies the first bright strobing of his movement at the crowded edge of her awareness. She waves--only a bit awkwardly, though her internal monologue has started to spin out in her distraction. << Oh God what am I doing does he even want a present why didn't I just buy him a normal fucking present like a normal fucking friend (there's nothing normal about any of this) >> "Guess not. Don't know her well enough to know. Just -- it's rough. Being alone. Especially -- " Hive's breath catches, his eyes flicking toward the window almost at the same moment that DJ appears there. There's a flutter of his mind up against the other man's, pressing in for a brief moment and then pulling back. << Yeah -- yeah. C'mon. >> He makes some semblance of effort to sit up a little straighter. It doesn't do much for his overall disheveled appearance. "There's food," is what he says, instead of hello. DJ's inside the next moment, casual in these surroundings like he belongs here; the other two can take care of Stressed and Anxious for the moment. "Hey. Thanks." The jangling in his thoughts skews with that brush of Hive's mind to his -- some of the brittle softening even as that raw nerve gapes redder. "Feel like I should have brought some presents. You all look terrible." << -- his birthday too it's his birthday of course they do -- >> He's clamping down hard on the urge to flee. Instead leans back against the wall to take off his boots before moving further into the apartment, stopping to drape himself up against the counter, hands folding loosely together. Polaris says nothing further on the subject of Lily, though she's still spinning about it quietly. << He's right I should check on her later she can decide her own damn self what she appreciates but what if I get mad better smoke up Jesus I wish I'd done that already... >> Her eyes dart between DJ and Hive, her brows slightly furrowed as she struggles to shove her own anxiety and sorrow and rage aside again. << Keep it together for them (he looks fine) (he's not fine dumbass) (wait do I look terrible) >> "I'll forgive you this time." This doesn't come out as breezy as she had intended, but doesn't sound too forced, either. "We can order something, if that isn't enough or isn't. Appealing." She gestures at the takeout boxes. "Oh and I uh, got you a thing. Not the food, I mean a present." The rings on her free hand unwind themselves and race each other across the apartment to ferret a small box from a pocket of her jacket delivering it to her hand before sliding back into their accustomed places, though not in the same precise curlicues as before. << Fuck I coulda just left this for him in Riverdale... >> "You don't have to--if you don't feel up to Doing Gifts today that's totally legit." Though she's already getting up, leaning against the side of the couch now and turning the box between her hands restlessly. "Just. It's not gonna offend me if you don't like it." "Hell no. My emotions are still recovering from the last present you got me, thanks." Hive leans forward, setting his cup down on the coffee table. "What do you like to do for your birthday? Hypothetically, in a reality where everything isn't constantly fucked." His brows furrow. "What would you have been doing if you weren't here?" DJ straightens with a curious glance at the floating box, watching as it makes its way to Polaris's hands. "I'm not going to have a breakdown over getting a birthday present. Promise." Though the question of what he likes to do for his birthday does draw a twinge of ache. He has little success in pulling his mind away from the rapid cascade of thoughts that follow. Another Hive's sharp smile illuminated by the light of a campfire. Making waffles with his sister. His wife's skin pressed slick and warm against his. He doesn't quite manage to keep down his flush as the memories well up, but all he says aloud, lightly: "-- man, those are two very different questions." His smile is slightly askew, with this answer. "I'm here now, though." He's taking a step toward Polaris, hand outstretched for the small box. "I'm pretty sure neither of these worlds really qualify for non-frakked up status." Polaris closes the rest of the distance and places the box in DJ's hand. << Oh fuck it kind of matches the pen I made Hive--I'm not trying to get symbolic on you man, I just have a really limited range in the machining department. >> "It's not like I thought you were going to have a breakdown, I'm just overthinking. But also, I made that, and I'm not super sure if my skills are gift-worthy." The box is wrapped in deep blue gift wrap covered with bright silver Stars of Bethlehem. Inside is a polished silver disc with curved edges that looks like nothing so much as a pocket watch, attached to a half-Persian maille watch chain. But clicking it open reveals a compass mounted on the background of a compass rose styled as a star, the needle pointing steadfastly to--Polaris. Tucked beneath it is a note written in small but clear block letters on thick recycled cardstock: I think you've already got a guiding light, but it's nice to know where you're headed, too. Probably goes without saying, it's kind of useless around me. ~ Polaris "Everything you make kind of matches," Hive points out. "Might not be on purpose but I still kind of..." This just trails off, though, his eyes flicking to DJ -- to the box -- and then down to his lap. His hands fold together again, one sleeve mooshing into the other. "World's only getting more fucked up," he allows. "Just -- you haven't really seemed to settle into this one. Dunno if you've figured out what you -- like to do here, yet. Seemed like a --" His brows furrow. "Loaded question." The thought of more fucked up just pulls DJ's mind to Sentinels blasting him out of the air -- to the frightened faces of refugees arriving at their farm -- to the disorienting agony as Hive was ripped from his mind. His grip on the box gets tighter, for a moment, cheeks sucking inward. "Still hard to think of this as the real world," he admits, just a little self-consciously. "It makes it hard to figure that kind of thing out. If I had to choose, though, I think I'd still be here." There's a slightly darker flush to his cheeks as he gives this answer. He teases the wrapping paper open carefully, opening the box inside. His breath catches when he clicks the case open; the memory that it summons up is more feeling than image, another Polaris's presence in his mind, a comforting sense -- always find home -- that makes him grip the compass tight. He barely even looks down at the needle, swung around to point toward Polaris. "I think it works just fine." "Guess I just gotta practice until I can make things match on purpose, then," Polaris resolves, leaning back against the couch. She's trying not to think about Prometheus again, nor runaway climate change, or endless war, or Leo struggling to keep up with the pandemic. "I'm sorry this world is such a mess, and--always getting messier, like he says. But still, you don't have to figure things out on your own." She blinks up at DJ, eyes just a touch wide, caught somewhere between admiration, wonder, and affection. << Could I be that strong, in his place? >> She's blushing fiercely soon after--though the embarrassment does not dim her pride or relief as her gaze drops to the compass in DJ's hand. "Well. I did magnetize it myself, and the government can't track it." << where's home >> knifes back through DJ's mind. Hive's teeth grind slowly at the overheard thoughts, his eyes squeezing shut while the others talk. "Getting messier," he agrees, "maybe not quite as messy as his -- yet --" One of his eyes cracks back open, peering uncertainly toward DJ. "Did it start with registration, back there? Might not be at mutant hunting robots just yet but how worried should I be if they're about to start drawing up lists." DJ has no real answer to this, his thoughts of his Hive and his Polaris, his sister and his children all shattering into uncerainty. A vague and not very committed thought of heading to Salt Lake City. Ophelia out in a yard at Riverdale. The Tessiers' newly renovated basement apartment (far too nice, now, for a goat.) "Nowhere, I guess," he murmurs, though now he is looking down at the compass, at its needle pointing true toward the couch. His fingers close firmly around it. The sinking feeling in him at Hive's question is remarkably faint, after this. He holds the compass a little bit tighter. "-- Registration? Are they -- yeah. S'how it started. That's -- not a thing here, yeah?" There's a momentary delay as Polaris flails inwardly. << Nowhere oh my God I thought he was staying in Riverdale?! >> Straightening back up, she struggles hard to keep the worry out of her voice, which still comes out earnest and intense. "Do you want help? Apartment hunting or job hunting or I dunno...asking around if anyone's looking for a housemate?" With a shake of her head she takes a deep breath and lets it back out, her tension palpable all the same. "I mean...Congress passed a registration law like, two years ago?" Her memory of the timing is hazy, but the scene is vivid enough, huddled under a blanket on the futon in their new apartment, cursing at the C-SPAN stream on her laptop. "Haven't heard sh--anything about it since, but..." Her wide, earnest eyes track back to Hive. "They're bound to get around to it sooner or later but. Is it sooner?" "February. They'll be putting that shit into practice," Hive replies, dryly: "See, this place'll be feeling more like home before you know it. Maybe you can give us some tips. See that it doesn't go the same way as --" His hand waves vaguely towards DJ. There's a hesitation after this; he shifts, slightly awkward, in his seat, before leaning forward to flick his computer's holo-display to life. "I can't exactly send you back, but I have been working on trying to make this place -- more homey." His brows pull together. "... I don't mean registration. I didn't have shit to do with that." He's pulling up a set of blueprints; a house, still in progress. The slight sinking feeling grows just a little heavier. Disappointed, not surprised. DJ exhales, a quiet chuff that's almost a laugh. "Of all the things I'd want to bring over from home that -- would not make the list. Uh. Our war really took off when Jax -- exploded Captain America so maybe. No high-profile killings of beloved folk heroes. I don't know." << Suspect they'll find an excuse no matter what -- not like it was his fault -- not like it was any of our fault -- >> He's gravitating toward the coffee table, looking down at the blueprints with a mingled sense of wonder and dismay. "You're building me a house?" << (not a home) >> << (who will I share it with?) >> He's gone back to concertedly not looking down at the compass. "February." Polaris goes very still and very, very tense. "Shit." Hive's question earlier overlaps with a a video clip of Magneto she'd seen years ago. << "Identification: that's how it starts..." >> Somewhere between her fear and rage, she deftly gathers her powers in just before they start to slip her control, turning her own magnetic field inward. << We'll fight it. We have to fight it. (How do we fight it?!) >> There's no ominous rattling around the apartment, but the compass needle quivers in DJ's hand. The blueprints wrench her attention away from spinning about registration, at least. << I know you make a lot but holy shit! Though, let's be real here, I don't even know what houses cost. >> "His imagination kicks the carp out of mine, which was def stuck in 'curtained-off breakfast nook' or 'studio that's actually just someone's walk-in closet' territory." She pushes off of the couch and circles around for a better look, though she's studying DJ sidelong as much as the blueprints themselves. "Meanwhile, that looks like a great living room for Battlestar Galactica marathons." The twinge of pain here she fully anticipates, but she presses firmly on. "Or--whatever you want to binge. I was just picking one I want to binge with you." "Haven't started building it yet," Hive replies with a small shake of his head, "Seemed presumptuous if you hadn't even laid eyes on it. But I figured --" He shrugs, looking not to Polaris or DJ but to the compass DJ holds. "It may not be home, but I thought it might be good to have a refuge while you make one." | |
