Logs:From the end of the earth I call to you, when my heart is faint. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I

From the end of the earth I call to you, when my heart is faint. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I
Dramatis Personae Hive, Leo, Lucien, Matt	2020-10-13 "{He's gone.}" (Follow-up to losing Dawson.)
Location Mount Sinai Hospital, Rang Phueng Design, Tessier Residence
<NYC> Mount Sinai Hospital - Upper East Side At some point in the last while Leo has shed his outer layer, folded neatly in his lap to leave him in just cheery pastel-plaid button down and jeans. His fingers smooth restless, back and forth, back and forth over one seam in the jacket now folded in his lap, his other hand clutching tight to a cellphone. Many of the other people in this small lobby-esque area have given him many a scrutinizing look -- not least of all the police officers who have been tromping through. He's returning exactly zero of the wary glances, curious gawking, excited peeking, hostile glares. His brown eyes have been wide and fixed downward until he catches a glimpse of familiar figure in his peripheral vision. His slow back-and-forth rocking, repetitive tracing, doesn't stop as he drags his eyes slowly upward, a small choked sound hitching involuntarily in his throat. It's a plain enough tell of where he's just come from, the simple but well-tailored grey suit Lucien wears, crisp and elegantly out of place among scrubs and gowns and clothes gone rumpled from hours of fretting in small uncomfortable chairs. He skims the room with a cursory glance, his gaze like so many others lighting on Leo -- though in his case it remains, fixed and purposeful as he skirts past haggard expressions and stony-faced police to stop by Leo's seat. He sinks down to a crouch, hand reaching to rest fingers light against the other man's knuckles, a quiet whisper of power flickering out in gentle assessment. Whatever question is rising to his lips dies there stillborn as wide brown eyes meet his, and his hand folds slowly tighter around Leo's. --- <PRV> Rang Phueng Design - Soho There's been a meeting ongoing in the conference room for a while, but Matt interrupts it quite brazenly. His power precedes him and seizes hold of Hive's, followed shortly by the man himself in his wheelchair adorned with bones, sharply dressed for work still in a gray three-piece suit, orchid dress shirt, and black oxfords. His dark brown wig mussed, his face exceptionally pale and his bright green eyes haunting where they gaze out from shadowed sockets. "Pardon me, ladies and gentlemen," he says, firm yet polite, before anyone can question his intrusion, "but I have urgent need of Mr. Suphamongkhon." As he speaks, he uses Hive's telepathy to enfold himself--the pressure and pain, sharp in his haste, hardly ruffling the near-preternatural placidity of his mind. Only when his eyes settle on Hive does any hint of disquiet pass through him, grief and apprehension commingled. << {Oh, darling...} >> Hive is dressed crisply for work as well, neat button-down and grey slacks and even a neatly-tied tie. At first he looks through the faintly glowing holographic projection that hovers on the table between him and his clients, eyes slightly narrowed when they light on Matt. "Ah -- excuse me, I --" He's starting to say, but this breaks off as Matt folds their minds together. His hand drops to rest on the conference table, weight suddenly sagging against it. If his clients had any questions about this interruption, they don't get a chance to surface. The flare of power that ripples out wide from him sinks into their minds -- and keeps going, and going, and going, claws gripping at every mind in reach. For the space of just one precarious breath the city is seized tight, held still and unified in its now-shared grief before Hive crumples back down against the table with a sudden exhalation. A twitch of Matt's power starts to prevent their outward expansion, but then firmly reins in his own urge for control and lets it go. His breath hitches with the sheer intensity of Hive's grief, but he puts up no defenses--only accepts it into his own vast, wounded calm. He reaches Hive's side just as he collapses, gathering his friend close as if he could with his feeble arms fold them together in body as well as mind. Only now do his tears come, with agony and relief both, spilling down his cheeks. Only now does he say aloud, "{He's gone.}" --- <PRV> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village The smell of coffee fills the house, warm and rich. Aside from the quiet burbling of the aquariums and the traffic sounds that drift in through the windows, it's quiet in here. The dog has curled up beneath the table, and Lucien is just bringing a steaming mug to set it down on a green glass coaster, nudging both nearer his guest as he sinks down into a seat. Hive's eyes have fixed downward, shoulders hunched, fingers clenched tight together. He unclenches them gradually, one shaky hand lifting as Lucien sits beside him. He doesn't reach for the coffee, though. Just rests his hand beside it, calloused fingers slowly tracing against the grain of the sturdy dining table.