Logs:Vivid Fantasies

Vivid Fantasies
Dramatis Personae Charles, Hive, Ryan, Dawson, Joshua
In Absentia Kadar, Lucien, Steve	2024-12-24 "Maybe if I find that out, I will worry about imagining it."
Location <NYC> Le Sanctuaire, Le Bonne Entente - Astoria, Queens
This café occupies what had been the sanctuary of the old cathedral, and retains some echo of its solemnity without any sense of severity. Two additional levels have been installed in the trefoil footprint, but do not extend all the way to the walls, supported instead by a sturdy steel frame. This gives the impression, as one enters, that the space is fitted with scaffolding and perpetually under renovation--but in a deliberate, beautiful way. The harsh lines of the load-bearing frame are softened by wrought iron fleur-de-lis scrollwork accented in gold. The tables and seating are also of graceful black iron relieved with cushions in red velvet. The long counter is curved along the back wall, and to either side arched doorways lead out into a colonnaded patio in the garden. In one lobe of the trefoil, a square spiral stair ascends to the upper levels, while a platform lift does the same opposite, both balancing utilitarian design with aesthetic sensibility. The most striking addition is the immense stained glass window, masterfully marrying to the neoclassical splendor of the original structure and the Parisian café ambience of the added levels. Its colors are rich yet pellucid, its lines clean and decisive, and its subject decidedly not Christian. The towering figure of Apollo gazes down serene and benevolent, three golden arrows clutched in his right hand and and a golden lyre cradled in his left arm. He's bare to the waist save for a sumptuous red mantle and gold pauldrons, and wears a white skirt overlaid with gold pteruges. He is crowned with a wreath of living green laurel, the great silver bow across his back like the arc of a crescent moon rising across the bright sunburst that halos him. A great serpent encircles the pedestal upon which he stands and lifts its sleek head toward the god in obedience if not adoration, visually recalling the legendary staff he gifted his brother Hermes. The solstice has evidently meant that winter -- which up through the very end of fall had seemed like it was planning to cede its primacy to the springtime -- has in fact woken up with a will. It's frigid outside, covered in an unpleasant grey slush, a biting sleety mix only adding to the overall dreariness. It's perfect weather, though, for enjoying some toasty warmth inside and thanking the heavens you don't have to go out. That's what Hive is doing just now, ensconced at a table looking out on the patio. He's got a large bowl of soup and a large mug of some spiced hot cocoa. He's dragged down a blanket from upstairs, soft and plushy and draped around his bony shoulders -- it does not entirely hide the fact that he's trekked down here in pajamas, fluffy slippers, his old frat sweatshirt. His scarred shaved head is hidden under a fleecey beanie and he is clutching the cocoa as if somehow despite the cozy cafe, toasty drinks, indulgently thick blanket, he's somehow desperate for more warmth. "... first time I've been kinda regretting the damn rooms are psi shielded, what the fuck." The mental picture he has composed for himself of Ryan's Retelling of the Cyan-the-Drug-Night is very baffling and very disjointed. Despite his habitual glowering, there's a strong amusement crackling its way through the everpresent pain and nausea clouding his mind. "Next time tell me so I can crack the damn door." "I'd text you but it was sort of a whole sudden insanity thing -- I told Luci I'd pay for the repairs to the lounge." Across from Hive, Ryan is looking considerably less chilly and considerably more chill, amiable smile and a faint but upbeat warmth rippling off him in easy ebb and flow. He's dressed in a button up shirt in burnished gold, no tie but nicely complemented by a red infinity scarf with just enough gold threads to sparkle in the light, black wide-leg jeans and heavy black boots, both festooned with gold-tone hardware. The hybrid chair he is in is ornamented today, too -- with glittering silver Stars of Bethlehem worked into the spokes of its large rear wheels, a green half-cape trimmed in gold hanging from the hook in back beside his crutches, which are decorated with a tasteful spiraling print of holly leaves and berries wrapped around. "And it only got wilder from there, like, by the time we woke up --" His mental picture of getting up alongside Steve now is wildly NSFW, so it is a good thing they are both nominally on vacation now. Le Sanctuaire has gotten just a little warmer -- subtly, gradually, and unrelated to physical temperature, shortly before Charles himself rolls into the cafe. He's dressed casually but not, as has usually been his non-school-day habit, in tweed. Rather, a cerulean blue flannel suit with a tiny sprig of holly for a boutonniere over a knitted white dress shirt, cinched with a blue tie embossed with snowflakes and punctuated with his ever-present Xavier's School tie pin, and camel suede derby shoes. There's a Kinross tartan blanket folded neatly in his lap, as well, and his entire look feels soft and relaxed, just like the well-cushioned powerchair he's riding -- recognizable as one of his favorites to those who pay attention to such things -- with wheels styled as large circled Xs. It seems very likely that he clocked Hive and Ryan both upon entering if not before, but whether he had intended to approach them or not he suddenly stops in the entryway. His cheeks blush and his pale blue eyes track unerringly to Ryan, as and he approaches the two men, his presence blossoms warmer and his usual faint scent of santal is joined by even fainter suggestion of frankincense and myrrh. His ripple of baffled, curious astonishment is only sensible to Hive until "Season's greetings, gentlemen" spills it freely to Ryan, as well. "Fucking hell." Hive chokes, spluttercoughing into a hastily grabbed napkin and dabbing at his eyes afterwards. Though he's surely clocked Charles there as well -- a briefer-than-usual mental root stretching out to press in reflexive-comfortable familiarity against the elder telepath's mind -- his attention has been riveted by this additional information. He's still kind of coughy, kind of teary, when Charles rolls up, and he seems to think the absent telepathic hug counts as greeting enough because he's not outwardly acknowledging the other man's presence at all. What he is saying to Ryan in a cranky tone that does not at all match the fierce warm amusement in his mind is: "Wish I'd'a known that fucker years ago, I know exactly what I woulda gotten Dawson for Christmas." Ryan is hiding his smile behind a cupped hand, but not hiding the laughter that shimmers lightly off him. He picks up his own coffee, lifts it as if in salute to Charles. Though his mind is more politely lacing an intricately layered musical shield over his more glaring surface thoughts, there's no telepathy necessary to read the shamelessly prurient up-down of his gaze as Charles draws nearer, as his nostrils flare lightly in that waft of pleasantly mixed scents. "Good afternoon," sounds as much greeting as question, his brows hitching up. Charles's mental lean into Hive's greeting is also warmer than his wont, and not out of any seasonally stronger goodwill to all men. His blush had just begun to fade, but now returned even deeper, creeping out into his psionic aura, though theres's no suggestion of shame in it. "Good afternoon," he replies, his emphasis mild but his embarrassment less so, though not strong enough to overwhelm the pleasant satiety beneath it. Hive can discern a broader spectrum of contentment -- his shields strong and bright against the strain of the city's countless minds, the constant physical pain of his old spinal injury not gone but eased and easily ignored. "I had some business to attend." This primly, not exactly an excuse though it is just a touch defensive. "And the tea here is absolutely divine." He is studiously not thinking about his recently concluded business or the absolutely divine tea he has definitely already sampled. He is also still blushing. "How is Captain Rogers doing?" "I bet there's at least a couple RPF out there that has that -- well, near enough that --" Hive has scrunched one eye shut as he takes a sip of his drink. He's squinting in this lopsided fashion over at Charles, snorting: "Oh, I bet you did." There's a faint smugness beneath his tone, here. "Whole place --" Though he's gesturing around the cafe his mind has definitely pointed farther out in the hotel. "Kinda built with an eye to indulgence." "You know," Ryan is offering this generously, rather than answering the question outright, "our friend doing the uh, body mods, works here, I bet you and Luci could ask for some --" Here his brain is hitching though, brief and stuttery -- whatever unchasteness was about to come out of his mouth it has been derailed by something uncertain and less comfortable swirling in obscurity beneath the intricate violin music in his mind. His brows knit together deeply. "... actually, kind of got the impression you could ask for pretty much the world in terms of. Body -- work." Somehow, Hive's smug suggestiveness seems to put Charles more at ease about the particular patronage that has brought him here today. << You did tell me so, >> comes to Hive alone with a riffle of mostly unabashed humor. This is attended by a flash of the steel wedding ring he no longer wears around his neck and has only half-deliberately not asked Lucien about. His brows lift up fractionally. "Do you mean to say that was -- " There's an uncharacteristically salacious interest in his voice, but it's really more with a thought to privacy that he hesitates, then resumes silently, << -- not just a particularly vivid fantasy? >> There's a wordless apology beneath this for his carelessness, only the image was quite conspicuous against the background din of the patrons' thoughts. He does not think that Lucien would be amenable to such creativity, and in any event he's quite proficient with -- handling his business. "Body work, you say?" "New guy down in the spa," Hive is replying, and his mental annotation colors this in further -- Bodyworker On Paper, in reality -- well, also a bodyworker, down in the hotel's nether regions where those with the right reputation and plenty of disposable income can get a wider range of services than the more public-facing hotel offers. "Apparently molds people like goddamn clay for profit and a hell of a lot of fun." "For fun and a hell of a lot of profit, his services here do not come cheap." Not that it would be much obstacle to his current company, though. A smile slips across Ryan's face, pleased as a cat with a bowl of cream. "Oh, I was definitely hallucinating a lot that night but I wasn't hallucinating that." He's shifting in his chair, a small uncomfortable adjustment through which he's very self-conscious of the twinges of pain in his back, the clunky un-responsiveness in his legs. "-- but yeah. In need of a new face, arm, functioning legs, order one up off his wild-ass menu." There's a far tighter than usual leash here on his empathic spillover, withdrawn somewhat abruptly from the other men and held hard in check. He glances towards Hive, shifts again. "Dunno about brain. You'd have to ask." << I wouldn't have pegged him for that kind of adventurousness. >> Charles hums quietly along to Ryan's music under his breath, articulating his mildly scandalized delight the way his telepathic speech cannot. << But I suppose if you were hallucinating... >> Well. The heat of his embarrassment is receding, and Hive at least can feel some complex analysis happening behind his shields. "Somatokinesis," is what he concludes aloud, appended with the off-handed admission such naming schemes are rather arbitrary in the taxonomy of powers. "He can repair injuries too well mended to register to biokinetic healing powers, then." There's a self-consciousness in his voice, and his mind, and the reflex that curls his fingers into the edge of the blanket on his lap, knuckles pressing gently into one of the dividing lines between the sensate and insensate skin on the side of his thigh. "Neurons are neurons, even if the brain is a fiendishly complex mess of them." He knew the pain was coming and was ready to stop it bleeding through his shields, but he cannot stop it bleeding through his voice. "Hang around this freak and shit starts getting wild. Date him, I can only imagine how contagious the fuckery becomes." Hive is gesturing to Ryan with a waggle of his spoon as he picks it up to start back in on his soup. "You remember me for me wholesale, at what point is that just some other person puppeting my body?" Hive is intensely curious, though, despite the existential quandary involved. He's rubbing uncomfortably at his temple, not for the first time wishing he could just reach in and pull the damn tumor out. << Can't be that fucking easy -- >> clashes thoughtful and hopeful and, oddly, too, despairing, against an idle mental check of allll the strange and powerful mutants he's known. Maybe it can. He takes a slow mouthful of soup, knuckles digging now against his eyes. "He legit, though? Can't say your trippy-ass makeover inspires a lot of confidence." Ryan shrugs. His hand has dropped to his leg in fully unconscious echo of Charles, slowly kneading against one thigh with a shiver at the dulled and miswired pressure there. "Came outta Mendeleev, could probably ask around," is his first, uncertain answer, but given with a deal more confidence: "Luci hired him." There's still a tightness in his voice, not audible but felt in its glaring lack of empathic register. His eyes flick to Charles, some question nakedly written there that he is pushing back down. "Strange loop of Theseus," Charles murmurs abstractedly, curious and hopeful and afraid. "It can be argued there is no ship at all, only skandhas." << Or parts, though that feels reductionist. >> A very subtle shift of focus, and his next thought is only to Hive. << Even if it isn't easy, it may be worth investigating synergy between this person an a more conventional healer. >> At the name of the lab Charles instantly -- well, probably retrieved a lot of information, but what Hive sees most readily is Joshua and Eli, a deep remorse twined around and through them and so many other Prometheans. He slows his breathing -- it hadn't sped much, but calming it quiets the firestorm behind his shields, too. "Frankly, I'm surprised he didn't offer outright, considering..." << "...your trippy-ass makeover..." >> may not be directed at Hive, per se, but is an echo of words that have not even made it into his labyrinth yet. "He did offer." There's no question in his tone, but he does not sound entirely certain. "Either way, if you are considering it, I can go with you to talk to him." He does sound concerned, and protective, and conflicted. But hopeful, too. "Boy ended up with a whole-ass extra pair --" There's an instinct, there, to visually amend this notation for Charles in mental space, but the older man can feel Hive determinedly wresting this thought back down before it can properly surface. Steve's privacy, pfft, but there's a strong inward sense that Ryan himself would be deeply unappreciative of this particular recollecting. "Was like something out of one of Jax's paintings," is what he will allow, borrowed-memory-references kept tamped well down. "Magnússon," he adds. "If you want to ask at the spa for him." He's kind of absently glancing to his own cane, propped up against the wall beside him. "You considering it?" He's not, actually, trying to imagine Charles out of his chair, but he is trying to imagine Charles imagining himself out of his chair, and frowning a little uncertainly at the dissonance. "He was also very high." This is not entirely defensive, just a kind of addendum. "Came back and fixed it sober and he seems to know what he's doing." Ryan is rubbing slow and tired at the scruff on the side of his face. "Be insane not to consider it --" But this doesn't sound extremely confident, and he's looking again to Charles with a vague wish that he, too, was a mind reader. "-- wouldn't we?" Charles politely averts his psionic attention from Hive's heroic effort to resist ironic processing, or maybe he's just too busy trying to not conjure up any images of his own on what Ryan's quadruped misadventure might have looked like. "I don't know that it would be insane not to consider it," he says after a moment's consideration, his tone gentle, calm, even the conflict Ryan reads in it, "but I think it's exceedingly reasonable to consider it. I..." His lips compress, his shields shift, and his psionic halo intensifies, its warmth almost visible as dappled sunlight. Charles is considering it, but he can't really imagine it. He remembers walking, can summon up a million and one memories of doing so, but those images do not fit his body now. Neither -- and this is the root of at least one of his misgivings -- would a fully functioning spine. "There is so much to consider." Aloud again, he's calm and weary, the grief of his disabling and the other losses that day distant and manageable. "It may not be possible for me even if it is for Ryan. Maybe if I find that out, I will worry about imagining it." Hive is gripping his spoon unnecessarily hard, his eyes fixed down on the soup. Eventually he blows out a slow breath. Sinks a little slower in his chair. His knuckles grind again at his eye, and though he's not quite let up on his efforts to keep his thoughts quiet, there's a spill of sympathetic uncertainty bleeding through the edges of his mental presence. His teeth grind, and then stop. He doesn't look towards any of the workers here, but there's a faint mental flex just a moment before one of them is untucking from behind the bar to head over. "You had the soup here?" he finally says, gruff and heavy. "S'solid."