Logs:On Edge

On Edge
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Matt	2019-05-31 "{--but our lives are /full/ of awful things.}"
Location Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. At a few minutes shy of four in the morning--which somehow feels later than four in the morning /proper/--even the heart of Manhattan lies beneath a kind of hush. It's been raining on and off all night, thunder rumbling occasional and ominous through the sky. The house has been quiet for the most part these last couple of hours, even if only the dog has actually been sleeping--and fitfully, at that. Matt's powers have stretched downward periodically to check on Lucien, with more than the usual share of fretful tucking and smoothing and bolstering. Finally, there's a scramble of paws on the stairs, followed by much slower and much, /much/ softer footfalls. The back door opens, closes, and opens again a few minutes later. Flèche is whimpering low and mournful at Lucien's door well before Matt's quiet knock comes. It has been easy to tell, throughout the night, that Lucien has done no sleeping. The vigilant mechanisms of his mind have been working tirelessly, a ceaseless and extremely wakeful tidying and recalibrating and shifting to keep itself running smooth and alert even with a dearth of rest. Lucien has cracked the door open promptly by the time Flèche arrives, letting the dog nudge it open, nose her way in. He is still dressed as he was after work, neatly-tailored jeans and a soft short-sleeved grey henley. He returns to his desk, seating himself once more at his computer and only giving the partly-ajar door a cursory glance at Matt's knock. Matt follows the dog in, carrying two celadon mugs with just a bit of steam curling slowly up from their contents. He's actually dressed for bed, though he doesn't look as though he's gotten any sleep, either, between checking up on his brother. His hair is touseled, his face pale, and his eyes sunken. One of the mugs he sets down beside Lucien, the creamy scent of the Dragon Well green slowly suffusing the air. He settles his free hand on his brother's shoulder as he lean down to kiss the other man on the temple. He does not bother suppressing what Lucien's power can detect through that brief contact--his anger, his worry, his affection, his own sleepless weariness. Flèche, after snuffling at Lucien's hand, simply hops up onto the futon and stares at the brothers, head slightly cocked. "Merci." Lucien is just minimizing his email as Matt approaches. He curls a hand around the tea instead, lifting it but not drinking. Just tracing his fingertips against the side of the mug. "{I can help you sleep. You ought -- at least a little.}" "{It's no problem.}" Matt's voice is softer than usual--soothing, even if it's born of exhaustion. "{Probably, I ought,}" he agrees easily, sipping experimentally at his tea. "{And you, also. Not necessarily for your body's sake, but that of your mind. Come.}" He trails his hand down Lucien's arm and gives it a small tug as he sinks down to sit on the side of the futon nearest the workstation. Lucien tugs his arm back sharply away from Matt's touch, his jaw tense. There's a very brief spillover that leaks through the contact -- a pounding headache, a rattling nerve-jangling cacophony of too-bright too-raw overstimulation, somewhere beneath it a gnawing vein-deep craving he is trying to /ignore/ rather than quench -- in the moment before it breaks. Lucien shifts his chair /just/ a little farther, his hand set firmly in his lap and his other tighter around his mug. "{I would rather work.}" Matt sucks in a sharp breath, manages to keep his feet, but spill not a little of his tea onto his arm--it is fortunately at a rather low temperature, as freshly brewed tea goes--when he settles none-too-gently down onto the futon beside Flèche. "{Oh, darling.}" He closes his eyes and breathes, slow and deep, tucking his arm against his side, fingers curling tight into the soft fabric of his ancient green t-shirt--and into his flesh beneath. "{Work or no, you ought not to cope with that alone.}" There's no admonishment in this. His eyes open again, study Lucien placidly, "{Please, Luci. Talk to me--and let me ease that.}" He takes another sip of his tea, notwithstanding its earlier betrayal. "{At least a little.}" "{I do not require assistance. You ought to sleep. /I/ will function fine without sleep. /You/ will be a perfect mess tomorrow.}" Lucien's fingers continue to rub in small circles at the side of his mug. Though his computer screen is currently just showing his blank desktop, his eyes fix on it intently. "{What is there to talk about?}" "{I shall be a perfect mess tomorrow regardless,}" Matt replies with a small shrug, uncurling his arm to scratch under the dog's chin. "{That you are strained to the breaking point and suffering terribly?}" The lift of his eyebrows is minute, and somehow his question does not sound rhetorical. "{You may not /require/ assistance, but you will almost certainly /benefit/ from it. And I should like to give it, if you would permit me.}" "{I am strained. I will continue to be strained. There is nothing to be done about it.}" Lucien's voice is clipped. He finally does lift the mug, drink from it long and slow. He lowers it back to his knee, looking once more to the computer screen "{Desi is in jail. Ryan is --}" His lips compress, a noticeable tightening clamping down -- shifting -- sectioning off something in his mind. "{I would rather work. /You/ might get sleep, still.}" "{You know that I can take the edge off of it--for a time, at least. While you work, if you like.}" Matt turns to watch Flèche's eyes drift slowly shut. The languidness of his carriage belies the fierceness with which he clamps down on his /own/ power, stopping it from sinking more deeply into Lucien's. "{That does not remove the sources of the strain, but I would not call it /nothing/, either.}" He takes a long pull from his tea. "{These things are awful--}" There's a faint but audible quaver in this voice, here. "{--but our lives are /full/ of awful things.}" He pauses, his voice growing softer. "{It is also that /you feel helpless/, no?}" "{I know perfectly well that you /can/.}" Lucien's forefinger flicks rapidly against the handle of his mug. He lowers his eyes, lifting it to watch the steam. Breathe it in. "{I also know that it is four in the morning, and you ought to sleep. In the morning I will still be stressed. In the morning Desi still might be spending her birthday in jail. In the morning Ryan still might be facing the end of his career. In the morning there will still be little enough I can /do/ about any of it, but at the very least if you are still set on helping take the edge off, you might have had /some/ rest to be working off of.}" The twitch at the corner of his jaw is very slight, and very brief. He takes another small sip of his tea. "{I've a feeling there will be edge enough to last.}" A small, unhappy noise escapes Matt, and he does not reply at once. "{In my own fashion, I'm not much good at helpless, either,}" he murmurs at length. "{I really ought to have gotten the knack, by now.}" He levers himself himself up out of the seat. "{I /am/ sorry for fussing about it, my dear, but I beg you will come to me if you can bear it no longer.}" He lays the tips of his fingers on Lucien's shoulder, well away from exposed skin. "{I shall see you safely through--rest or no rest.}" He leans down again, presses a kiss--carefully--to the top of his brother's head. "{/And/ them. Good night.}"