ArchivedLogs:A Long Summer

A Long Summer
Announcements and Altruism
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah, Dusk, Flicker	27 August 2013 Game Night wraps up and Dusk is /late/ getting home. (Mild adult themes warning.)
Location <NYC> 403 {Geekhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, though some of its occupants have left college behind. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the perpetually messy living room, a mismatched assortment of couches and chairs (and milk crates) surrounding the wide table in the center. The wall holds a range of posters; some political, some sporty, some from video games, and a string of white lights strung over the kitchen doorway might be a holdover from Christmas. The kitchen adjacent is just as cluttered, its table unfit for eating due to its perpetual covering of books, papers, cereal boxes, projects; the fridge is usually sparsely populated. Ketchup. Beer. Not a lot of food. There are two bedrooms here, split between the four people; the fold-out couch in the living room (often folded out!) suggests that at least one of them does not actually claim a room as their own. It has been a pretty typical Tuesday night. A lot of food. A lot of games. A lot of people in and out, even if one pale batwinged Geekhaus resident is all the more conspicuous by his absence. Hive is here, though. Once the games wind down as the guests clear out, he's sipping from a bottle of clear soda -- blood orange flavored -- as he clears up dishes from the table. Or, at least, moves dishes from the table to the sink -- that's almost /like/ cleaning them, right? It's a step closer, at least. He is dressed as shabbily as ever. Tattered fraying jeans, a black t-shirt with a picture of a Death Star reading 'Ceci n'est pas un lune' beneath it. Micah has that feeling that the dishes probably will start to form their own /ecosystem/ without a little help after Game Night. He sets up a sink full of soap bubbles (and miiight be playing with them more than a little, building little soap mountains on the water before slow motion crashing plate-UFOs into them) to receive the dirty dish offerings from Hive. He is in his typical evening costume of T-shirt and patched jeans, the shirt in a bright TARDIS blue with a sort of Art Nouveau Dr. Hooves decorating its front. His auburn hair, likewise, is in its usual late-in-the-day state of tousled mess. "So, did Dusk say where he was gonna be today? I kinda kept expectin' 'im t'just wander in late." "Maybe he hates games. I hear fucking nerds play those, man." Hive shakes his head sadly. "He doesn't really say where he's gonna be a lot lately. Are you doing my dishes?" He really shouldn't be surprised at this. To be honest, he doesn't sound surprised at it, sort of flat in his delivery, but he does /eye/ Micah with a frown for his sink full of suds. "S'a lot of fucking dishes, man. -- You going down to Georgia to nerd with Jax this weekend?" That's not jealousy in his voice, nope. Not at /all/. Dusk /is/ wandering in late! If 'after the party is over' counts as 'late', at least. He makes his way back home once the guests have cleared /out/ and cleanup is underway. He looks rather disgruntled as he sheds his very unseasonably warm trenchcoat, wings shuddering outwards with a small groan as they stretch -- not as far as they'd /like/ to, the apartment not quite large enough to manage it, but certainly moreso than the coat allowed. He is pale. A little fuzzy in the mind, thoughts sluggish not just with his habitual slow-brained starvation but with an impairing layer of beer. Or two. Under the coat he has jeans, faded, old vans sneakers, a green and white striped v-neck t-shirt that he is peeling off uncomfortably to work his wings out of almost as soon as he's gotten in the door. "-- Micah's here." He sounds surprised. He doesn't sound surprised by the /mess/. It's always a mess in here. "Mmn, all the nerds. Scared Dusk right out of his own house," Micah teases back, the corners of his lips twitching, but managing not to slide into a smile. "I'm doin' /dishes/. They're kinda communal mess. Can't expect y'all t'do the cleanin' every time. You already host every week. An' it's not like this is the first time by any stretch of the imagination that I've washed dishes over here." Now he does grin, as he plucks up another dish for scrubbing. "Yeah. I was kinda surprised he was goin' at first? But it makes sense, the kinda wild art he does will sell well there. I'm just gonna...act as Artist to Geek translator an' /maybe/ get some wanderin' time in between. Besides! We've gotta make his parents feel all awkward that I still exist. That'll be fun." His underlying thoughts are somewhat fond, despite the gentle jab. They seemed like sweet people, after all. Dusk's entrance draws Micah's attention, then draws his brows together in worry. "Oh, Dusk, hon. You don't look so good. Are you okay? Yeah, I'm here." His fingertips flick to clear his hands of soap before he dries them on a nearby hand towel and moves over toward Dusk. The trenchcoat is gathered on the way and relocated to a hook where it can hang a bit more neatly. "S'there anythin' you need?" "Motherfucker didn't even tell us he was going," Hive grumbles. "First year I actually have a steady income and he's just like yeah I guess there's this -- sort of -- fantasy thing? I don't know, it's in Atlanta. Gorram wasted on him, Micah. You need to be /extra/ fucking -- /Yo/." His chin jerks upward when Dusk enters, his eyes narrowing. "Are you drunk." It's not accusatory, really, so much as just questioning. He goes to reach around Micah and fish a glass out of Micah's sink full of suds. "Fuck were you, man, it's Tuesday." "You should. Dress in drag." Dusk moves to drape himself down across the couch, face down with one wing drooped onto the floor limply. The other just kind of folds crinkled against his back. "Tell his parents it's okay he's got a girlfriend now. I'm sure they'd be fine with it. I'm not drunk." It's probably true, even. Tipsy, maybe. Certainly not all /that/ intoxicated. Just a little fuzzy around the edges. "Fuck Tuesday." The fuzzy edges of his thoughts are just clouding over with shadows, swirling dark around his words. Clinging in close. "Why do we still do this." "I don't think he really /gets/ it, Hive. I think he's gonna be workin', mostly, anyhow. Not t'worry, I'll be wanderin' in between helpin' 'im out, like I said. I mean, minimum? They've got two Doctors an' Barrowman on schedule. Some things are /required/." Micah bites at his lower lip as his attention returns more fully to Dusk's current...state. "I was half-expectin' 'and do the hula' t'be the end of that recommendation," serves as an attempt at levity. "Seriously, man, are you okay? When is the last time you ate?" "You could also do the hula, I think by that point, man, in for a penny in for a pound." Hive rinses suds off the glass, filling it back up with fresh water and bringing it back out to Dusk still wet on the outside. He sets it down unhelpfully on Dusk's back, nestling it between his wing joints. "I think if you took him to see Barrowman he'd get that. What's not to get? He's got eyes, doesn't he." His brows crease. He pushes the glass down further against Dusk's back, leaving a cold wet ring of condensation on his skin. "Because without a regular dose of gaming we'd all wither away and die, is why." Dusk shivers, making a halfhearted groan of complaint and wriggling down further against the couch. This doesn't really succeed in getting him away from the cold glass. "The last time I -- ate Barrowman?" He turns his head to squint at Micah. "Unfortunately never." "S'pose I could frame it as goin' t'look at some /art/," Micah answers Hive with a chuckle. "Why /wouldn't/ we still be gamin', Dusk? What's up?" The joking with Hive melts into a little frown. "I can't even tell if you're bein' coy or actually confused. So I don't know if I should be worried or /really/ worried right now." He tries to snag the glass from Hive and put it into Dusk's hand, where it might be of use. "Never eaten him. There's your problem. You know, a place like Dragon*Con, you wouldn't even seem out of place if you wandered up and asked." Hive frowns, admitting, "'course, people wouldn't believe you were for real, they'd just think you had an epic costume. Probably ask you forever how much time you spent on those wings and how can they get theirs to look as realistic." He leans against the back of the couch, chin dropping to rest against his crossed forearms and his eyes tipped down to Dusk. "Fuck else would we do with our Tuesdays?" "Being an asshole." Dusk rolls partway over as he offers this clarification, accepting the glass with a nod. "Save your worry, you need it often enough. I just -- fuck, why are we -- this was /his/ --" His eyes scrunch shut, and he takes a gulp of the water. "We should go sometime. I would. Eat the hell out of Barrowman, if he was into that. Who wouldn't?" The shadows in his mind creep wider. His wing drags against the floor, claws trailing there with light scraping sounds. "...I just don't know what I'm doing anymore," he whispers, quieter. "This used to make sense. Was terrifying as hell, but it made sense. Now I'm pretty sure we're still all going to die except I'm not sure if I'm even one of the --" His mind holds a wry note of self-consciousness for even /thinking/ 'good guys'. << Maybe the real world has no good guys, >> although this thought is almost immediately contradicted by faces, strong and clear. Jax. Ryan. Micah. Mel. Flicker. Hive (this one is thought almost apologetically.) Ian, who comes not in defined features but in a silhouette of shadow nestled into the protection of one enormous wing. Something clenches tight and raw inside him. "... think I used to be. But now --" "Hey, no. You're just...havin' a bit of an existential crisis. These things happen," Micah reassures softly. When Dusk takes the glass, he kneels beside the couch, fingertips tracing against the wing where it drapes to the floor. "You're just tryin' t'survive an' make things better for you an' the people you love. That's a good start, at the very least." Not being privy to Dusk's mental imagery in the way that Hive is, he is unable to comment on the remaining thoughts. He does walk an arm around Dusk's neck and shoulders in a sort of half-hug, considering the man's nearly prone position. "Maaan, your standard for 'good guys' has sunk pretty fucking low with that list." Hive's voice is wry. There is an irritable mental /swat/ that reaches out and /bats/ his own image out of the lineup. "Wait, hold on, please tell me this one of those fucking. Buffy -- Being Human -- /Vampire Diaries/ sort of existential crises. Cuz I think between the two of us --" His fingers flick between himself and Micah, "-- we are probably /so/ much more than equipped to explain to you how it is not /what/ you are, Dusk, it's /who/--" Right about here the wing that had been folded in against Dusk's back unfurls, flicking out to /thwack/ Hive across the chest and shoulders where he leans against the couch. THUD. "This is what I mean," he says to Micah, while his /other/ wing much more /gently/ lifts from its lazy droop to slip around Micah's shoulder. "It's all shades of /grey/ now like if I --" His wing presses back harder, pushing further back against Hive, "just /killed/ this asshole right now, who could blame --" There is a levity to his tone, entirely typical for the general caliber of teasing banter that goes on in this apartment, but here it falls apart. One wing snaps back against his back, his other squeezing Micah just slightly closer. "I don't know how to make things any better. And I don't know at what point surviving just isn't -- worth --" There /is/ blood in his thoughts, though his existential crisis has little to do with /drinking/ it. Blood spattered across his green v-neck t-shirt, blood on an incongruously cheerful Happy Cakes box, blood oozing wide and sticky-dark on a city sidewalk. Blood on his hands and the sharpened steel of a knife blade, blood swirling down the drain of a sink. "-- I didn't even think Nox was wrong, you know. Probably the first sign something in my head had snapped. Might have cheered her on if she killed every last one of them. So long as she wasn't such a goddamn moron as to do it in the middle of Central Park." "Oh man, Hive, not one of those sounds like a good idea. Buffy existential crises involve dyin' or sex with vampires, Bein' Human ones usually involve /killin'/ a lot of people, an'...I have no idea on that last one, actually. An'..." Micah just shakes his head at that last bit, then nabs a discarded napkin off of the coffee table to chuck at Hive. "You're /kind of/ awful," he adds with a half-smile at Hive before turning back to Dusk. "Pretty sure you wouldn't be convicted by a jury of your peers. For adequate definitions of peers." Micah's arm pulls tighter around Dusk's shoulders as the wing draws him closer. The half-smile dissolves. "That's the thing. S'easy t'understand where she was comin' from with that. After everythin' they'd done, not bein' able t'expect a lick of help from the 'justice system'. Yeah, there was almost certainly better ways to've handled it. But with as scrambled as all these folks that keep kindnappin' an' torturin' her had her mind?" His head falls against the couch cushion. "Guess that means I'm a little head-snapped, too, if we're using that as the gauge." Hive lets out a soft 'oof' of breath, shoving back halfheartedly at Dusk's wing with a whole lot less strength to his wiry arms than his roommate's large wing holds. "Hey. Those bedrooms --" He gestures between his/Flicker's and Dusk's, and scoops the thrown napkin off the floor to chuck it right /back/ at Micah, "are /right/ next to each other, man, I /know/ you have no objections to sex with vampires." His smile fades, too, though. He moves back closer to the couch, rubbing at his chest where Dusk's bone /brutally assaulted/ him. His mind presses gently to Dusk's, not probing but questioning, a soft silent /request/ for permission as those memories surface. "Unless we're already talking about the killing-people kind of existential crisis." Dusk shifts position on the couch, turning slightly onto his side so that he can pull Micah a little bit closer -- /probably/ it's only coincidentally during the mention of sex with vampires. Sitting slightly less prone also makes it easier to take another drink of his water, long and thirsty. He lowers the glass down to the cushion beside him, and tips his head forward, resting it slowly against Micah's shoulder, tipping it slightly to brush his face against the side of the other man's neck with a slowly drawn in breath. << Yes, >> it's both answer and invitation, small and cold and unhappy; invitation, if not to /probe/, at least to stay long enough to sift through the memories Dusk finally no longer tries to block out. Fireworks drowning out the sound of gunshots, a knife opening a police officer's throat. The sharp thick hunger that blood raises mingled with the sick knifetwist of guilt. "-- He killed Ian." It's quiet, flat and heavy. "The city never even so much as fucking -- acknowledged that --" He shakes his head quickly, forehead pressing against Micah's shoulder and his eyes squeezing shut. Micah's skin shifts predictably through several shades of red, though his more voluntary response is simply to quirk his lips to one side. "S'a whole different calibre of vampire. I got /standards/. 'Sides, it's not /my/ crisis." His brows dip again at Hive's half-question about the potential /killy/ nature of the crisis. A hand reaches back to pet at Dusk's hair when the other man's head rests on his shoulder. Micah is left with puzzle pieces instead of the whole picture on the box when the conversation continues to drift in and out of telepathic mode. "He—the police officer? Did—? Oh. Honey." He twists his torso to face Dusk more squarely, cradling his head and shoulders in both arms but not finding any other words waiting on his tongue. There's not a great deal of surprise written into Hive's face at this revelation. He nods, a little tired, one hand scrubbing against his mouth slowly. Whatever /his/ thoughts might be, the telepath at first keeps them to himself. "Like the city gives two fucks. I think they're glad any time they can shoot one of us and get away with it." He leans downward, elbows propped on the back of the couch, his eyes fixed on the others. "July. All this time -- the fuck did you think we were going to do, march you down to the station and hand you over to the fucking cops?" He shakes his head, looking away towards the window and muttering something in Thai but with the distinctly sharp-toned quality of profanity. His brows crease deeply. "I read the story, man. Giant fucking vampire bat stabs a cop in TriBeCa, that'd get noticed. There were witnesses. Barfight -- two dudes -- descriptions -- I would've fucking /remembered/ if one of those descriptions fit you, wings or no wings. No fucking offense but we were /all/ pretty sure you were on the edge of snapping." His eyes narrow very abruptly. "/Jax/ didn't --?" Dusk is just quiet, here, wing still curled around Micah and his posture coiling tighter. "/No/." This is very emphatic, very /quick/, at this last half-question; in some other situation such a knee-jerk answer might be a lie but it's hard to lie to a telepath you've just invited into your head -- Jax definitively did /not/ have anything to do with it. "No, he'd never -- I mean he didn't -- he doesn't even know. I don't -- think. I mean he might've -- might suspect as much as -- any of --" He shakes his head. "-- I didn't think you'd turn me in. I thought you'd --" He swallows, a faint tremor shuddering through him, and his wing slackens its grip to drop away from Micah and droop downwards once more. "-- Hate me. This isn't what we. How we. … fuck." Micah remains silent, processing, during the back and forth between the other two. His shoulders tense a moment at the implication of Jax's involvement, his head shaking slightly as if to negate the very thought. It isn't until Dusk trembles and droops that Micah seems entirely present again. "Hey, no. Dusk, nobody /hates/ you. It's a lot like...with Nox. How there was a horrible thing an' nobody was gonna help with it an' you bein' /sick/ with grief an'... At least. You or whoever worked with you had the sense t'keep it from splashin' back on everyone else. Like it did when she..." Micah's hand continues to stroke Dusk's hair. "It's another one of those...maybe not the /best/ answer, but an understandable one. Maybe there just ain't any good answers /left/ anymore. I honestly don't know what else...anybody could've done." "Bad example," Hive advises Micah with a /thin/ smile, "lots of people hate Nox." His hand still rubs against the side of his face, cheeks puffing out for a moment before he exhales sharply. "Just -- remember that thing where being in lots of pain doesn't actually justify turning into a psycho murderface? I thought we were pretty much on the same page about that. I'm -- /hoping/ we're pretty much on the same page about that cuz I thought it was an alright page to fucking be on, man." He moves away from the couch, back towards the opposite wall to slump against it instead. "Fucking right, though, Micah. I don't know if there are any good answers left. They'd kill every single one of us, if they could get away with it. I don't even begin to know where to sort out the goddamn fucking ethics of /that/." Dusk's muscles clench, when Micah says it's a lot like with Nox, but then he relaxes again. Nods, slowly, and presses his face against the juncture between Micah's neck and shoulder. Just for a moment, and then he straightens. "Sorry. I -- sorry. I didn't -- mean to -- tell -- you didn't need to --" He sits up, his wings curling in tightly at his back. His shoulders just hunch tighter at Hive's words, head sinking. "I know." His words are heavy. "I /know/, I don't -- think that --" He hesitates, for a moment. "It's not okay, I know that it -- that I'm not -- I just don't know /how/ to be fucking -- okay when everything keeps -- what the hell do you do when there aren't any good choices left? There's days I just don't want to even keep --" << living >> kind of overlaps with << /making/ choices, >>; in the end the two even out to about the same thing, mentally. He stands, abruptly enough that the motion leaves him scrunching his eyes shut for a moment with a sudden surge of dizziness. "Shit. I didn't mean to dump this on you guys." "It's not like a have a whole pack of friends who've killed cops under really complicated circumstances," Micah retorts, the sentence terminating in a sigh. "What I mean t'say is that the people as are pissed at her are mostly upset over /how/ she did it, not /that/ she did it. Hers was messy." He looks down at Dusk. "An' I still don't hate her, either. Or /you/. Or anybody's been forced t'deal with this." He bites down on his lip, nodding and tightening his hold on Dusk once more. "I think I like the idea of 'psycho murderface' never bein' Plan A, though, okay? An' we're your /friends/, Dusk. You gotta...talk to /somebody/ sometimes. I can't even imagine how on edge you've been if even Hive didn't hear about this for so long. Gonna drive yourself crazy just from keepin' secrets that way." Micah settles back on his heels when Dusk stands abruptly, to avoid losing his own balance. "Hon, you might wanna sit down. You look like you're gonna pass out." He comes up on his knees again to take Dusk's hand, gently suggesting movement back toward the couch cushions. "You're either dehydrated or.../dehydrated/. So you need t'sit until somethin' can be done about that." The tip of his tongue brushes over his lips, might be from all the talk of lacking fluids. "An' you do what you can. Try t'make the good choices when they're there. Help when you can. Muddle through when it's messy. It sucks but it's life, an' life is the better choice here, right?" "Starting to collect a pack, though, aren't you. We could start making trading cards, this keeps up." Hive lifts his hands, both palms pressing to his temples as if that could shut /out/ the thoughts that swirl around him. "If I had a dollar," he says through his teeth, "for every morning I hear someone in this fucking building alone waking up and thinking how much better it'd be if they hadn't woken up at all, I'd --" His teeth grind, slow. "-- Not be living in this fucking building anymore, probably. Jax helps keep the average down." He says this almost more cheerfully, though he promptly ruins it by following this up with: "Motherfucker doesn't /sleep/ enough to wake up more than once or twice a week. You know the shitty thing, Dusk? Even there I can't really tell you what's the good fucking choice. Only which one /I/ hope to fucking God you keep making." "I think we're all pretty much already crazy." Dusk's hand runs against his jaw, scratchy-rough with dark stubble. His other curls tightly around Micah's, fingers stretching out to press against Micah's wrist. "Life's -- /a/ choice. I -- can't really see these days what's -- better. -- Christ, Hive." This time, the scrunch of his face is a definite wince. "You can't -- how do you -- we need to get that crap from Oscorp and psi-proof your frakking /room/, man, /you/ need a break. You know. /Ever/." His fingers squeeze harder against Micah's wrist, and he glances down towards his abandoned glass of water. "-- I just drank." A soft snort serves as Micah's answer to the trading card idea. "It's one thing t'think about it. It's another thing t' /really/ think about it... An' he's sleepin' at least three days a week now. We got an agreement," he assures about Jax. "S'better, Dusk. If nothin' else, it's a punch in the nose t'all those bastards that would love t'see you dead. So. Even if you're not sure you're livin' t'do good, y'can just...live t'be ornery." A little smirk betrays this line of thinking to be at least half in jest. "Also, we'd really miss you. An' you didn't answer about when the last time you ate was." His eyes follow to where Dusk's fingers have tightened around his wrist. "S'living out of spite a really good reason for living, though? I'd rather --" But Hive comes up blank on an ending to this. His head drops back to thunk heavily against the wall. "I would do that in a fucking heartbeat if we could afford it, man. Go --" His eyes, too, travel down to Micah's wrist. "Fucking eat, you look like a goddamn corpse. And if you're going to fucking kill yourself at least just /do/ it and don't -- make us watch you waste away. Asshole." He pulls away from the wall, turning to head into the bathroom, his palms still rubbing heavily at his temples. He emerges with Dusk's first aid kit, dumping it unceremoniously on the couch and then disappearing into his bedroom. The door shuts behind him -- not quite slams, though it's somewhat heavier than it needs to be. "I don't -- Friday. Thursday. I've had a couple of -- pretty bloody steaks since then." Dusk tenses again at Hive's words; there's apology in his mind, but it's vague and nondirected. Not so much sorry for what he is feeling as sorry that Hive has to put up with hearing it. "I'm not /going/ to -- I'm just tired. I'm not -- going anywhere, though. I mean. Not until /they/ kill me." His hand is shaking, slightly, as it loosens its grip on Micah, sliding up along the inside of Micah's forearm to curl around his back, resting between his shoulderblades to pull the other man closer. He tips his head forward, lips brushing against the strong pulse in Micah's throat. "S'been a long frakking summer." "No...I was just bein' ridiculous. It's a thing I do," Micah explains with a dismissive flutter of his free hand. He nods in agreement with Hive. "What happened t'that schedule you were s'posed t'be havin' about when t'bite people?" A gentle nudge of his elbow meets with Dusk's ribs, but then he is pulled closer. His blush returns, deeper at the lips against his skin. Then he is smirking at the other man's choice of curses. "Mmn. Yeah, long summer. Almost as long as the ending of BSG." Which is, apparently, pretty long. "Sorry I -- have been kind of bad at schedules lately just -- a lot on my --" Dusk draws in a slow breath. The next touch of lips is more deliberate, pressing and lingering against Micah's throat. "-- almost -- pfff," for a moment his former levity returns to his tone, "c'mon, you're just being ridiculous again." His other arm slips around Micah now, too, this time beneath his t-shirt to trace fingers up along his spine. His body presses closer, turning to guide Micah down towards the couch, arms still curled around him and his lips closing in a light nip to the skin, this time. "-- I'm sorry," though this apology sounds more reflexive than regretful, Dusk's tone a little breathless, "I'm sometimes -- easily distracted." "We're gonna make you a spreadsheet an' have people responsible for checkin' up that you follow it, if y'can't be trusted t'feed yourself, Mister," Micah half-teases. His tone is playful, but his expression suggests that he thinks this might be a good plan. His arms circle the other man's waist when he is pulled close again. "Yep, ridiculousness. That's part of my job description, pretty sure." Dusk's wandering fingers finally manage to shut Micah up, shivers coming faintly at the touch and becoming nearly a tremble at the press of teeth. His own hands slide along the other man's back, beneath his wings, as his slight frame is easily directed to the couch. "Sounds like we just need t'be a better distraction around here, then." Flicker's return home -- he's been out ferrying some of the teenagers back school-wards -- does not come with a helpful /warning/ of keys or doorknobs or anything that generally precedes the entrances of other people. Just a quiet flutter of air, a soft whump of feet, and, "-- uh, dude," Flicker's voice travels oddly when he moves, door to one side of the pair to the other side of the pair to the kitchen, "Your bedroom is -- ten feet that way, you know?" There's not genuinely much censure in his voice; past the furious /blushing/ his quiet voice sounds somewhat amused. He opens the fridge to get himself a juice. "... though I'm glad you're -- he /is/ eating, right?" "There was a spreadsheet once. Well, a schedule anyway. Jax is crazy good at keeping that kind of thing /organized/ -- not so good at, uh, being all that commanding when it came time to make me follow it." Nips blend with kisses, now, both delivered with an increasing hunger to Micah's throat as Dusk pushes him back to lie against the couch, one hand pushing his shirt up higher. "-- You're /always/ a good distract -- ohgod." This is probably a startled 'oh god'; Dusk tenses against Micah when Flicker arrives, but past this he -- has very /little/ by way of shame, staying where he is and even throwing in another heated kiss. "Ten feet feels really far right now." "Hm...I s'pose I could help with /enforcin'/ the schedule, if there's already one we can use. I already have t'keep Jax on a sleep schedule. Startin' t'feel like an' ol' railway timekeeper." Not that Micah sounds at all put out by this task, nor does his returning of kisses seem to betray any annoyance. A low, soft sound comes from the back of his throat as Dusk pushes him down, continuing into almost a purr at the other man's weight over him. Oh, hey...that was another voice in the room, wasn't it? Micah's skin reacts faster than his brain, it seems, deepening to an impressive crimson long before his eyes dart to the side to regard Flicker. He continues to trace fingernails idly along Dusk's back while he speaks. "Oh, hi, Flicker. Yes, I am bein' food. For the starvin' person. So, not t'worry. This is just an act of altruism in progress." The redhead is all set to giggle at his own assertion, then is silenced by that sudden kiss. "Wouldn't want to stand in the way of charity." The fridge closes again. Flicker doesn't look back towards the living room; his blush doesn't fade at all as he disappears. Low voices from his and Hive's room mark his reappearance, but then quiet down, too. There's a shift of drawer in /Dusk's/ room a moment later, another quiet rush of air in the living room. Flicker is barely there long enough to note, in and out almost too fast to catch. Left in his wake on the edge of the living room table by their couch, a small bottle of lube and a pair of condoms. "Are still good people in the world after all." Dusk sounds so heartwarmed. -- Alright, mostly he sounds a little husky, in the moment before his mouth meets Micah's again. This is distraction enough until that quiet shift of air. His eyes flick sideways, and for a brief moment his lips pull back into a sharp-fanged smile. "-- I have pretty great roommates." "S'hard t'keep up with all the /needs/ out there, but I do my best!" Micah /does/ dissolve into giggles by the end of that statement. Keeping a straight face is difficult enough when there are not kisses going on, okay? His gaze follows Dusk's to the table, sparking an even deeper blush. "Oh/gosh/." He hides his face against the other man's shoulder, even though the room is now empty save for them. "Slightly awful. Mostly great," he finally agrees.