ArchivedLogs:Children

Children
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah, Shane	27 January 2014 (Warning: Discussion topics include abortion, some strong language.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. Eveningtime finds Lighthaus's couch occupied by a sleepy telepath. Hive is dressed down in red Cornell sweats, his blue hoodie with Grumpy Bear tummy symbol on /its/ tummy -- though that's currently obscured by the purring cat who has taken up residence on his belly. He has a copy of Guy Gavriel Kay's /Tigana/ open on his chest, but it's been a while since he's actually been reading it, instead half dozing. The sleeves of his sweatshirt are pulled down over his bony fingers, his choppy hair flopped into his eyes. Every so often there's a mental /squeeze/ against the other minds in the apartment, as uncomfortable as it is /familiar/, like Hive is sleepily reminding himself they're still /there/. Micah is scrunched into the far corner of the couch, propped into the angle formed by the couch's arm and back. His wooden knitting needles are clacking steadily over a rectangle of fabric, bright yellow and white slowly working into the beginnings of a starburst pattern. He is looking rather cozy with his mussed hair, Batsignal hoodie, brown Firefly dinosaur T-shirt, and faded old jeans. A mug of lavender rooibos tea sits half finished on the table beside him as he works. Periodically, he glances over to Hive and Sprite with a small smile. Rattlethunk, CLUNK, Shane has thumped his way all the way down the hall and now is thumping his way inside. He drops his backpack with a THUMP too. Shucks his shoes with a thump, hangs his gear in the closet. Thumpy today maaaybe not out of any bad mood, apparently, but a restless energy perhaps lent to him by the very-slightly-warmer day outside or perhaps by the earbuds tucked into the shell of his ears, blasting very loud -- Lindsey Stirling. He's bopping to it. He makes his way over to the couch, leaning up against its back and tipping his head down to moosh his face against the top of Micah's head, more silently than the rest of his thumping. Hive's mind squeezes in at Shane's, too, as he feels the boy approaching. He shifts and resettles, head tucking against Micah's thigh. A very small smile curls at his mouth. He starts to lift his hand, but then lets it fall back down, just nuzzling against Micah's thigh for a moment with a small mumbling noise and settling back in. Sprite rumbles in small protest and resettles, as well. << S'good song. >> This -- only goes to Micah and not Shane, unhelpfully. Sleepily. Micah's eyebrow arches at the prolific series of thuds from Shane as he arrives. “Could just put music /on/ 'stead of blarin' it over-loud into Shane's head.” Stabbing the knitting needles into the ball of yarn he'd been working from, he sets the lot of it aside briefly. One hand reaches up to pat at Shane's back with the face-mooshing and the other twines itself into Hive's hair as the telepath's head settles on his lap, fingers working against scalp. “How was your day, hon?” he asks of Shane. Shane's gills flare out slowly, his eyes squeezing gently shut. Then open again, to look down at Hive as the telepath adjusts his position. "You ever noticed," he asks Micah, "that he is incredibly fucking hot." He tips his cheek to the side, still looking down at Hive as he rubs his cheek against Micah's hair. He skirts around to the front of the couch, dropping down to curl up in a beanbag at the couch's base. "Strange as fuck to be back in class. I'm way the hell behind in everything. B's not behind in -- fucking anything." He does not, to be fair, sound at all surprised at this. "Mel's -- still pregnant." His thoughts prickle with deep sickened displeasure at this. He leans forward to nab a sip of Micah's tea, settles back against the couch. Only now pulls the earbuds from his ears. "You want to give me a ride back to school?" He tips a so-very-hopeful look up at Micah. Hive /snorts/ at this first statement, cracking his eyes open to thin slits. He closes them again, breathing slower he presses up into Micah's massaging touch. The mental squeeze clamps in harder. << (please) >> trickles through the uncomfortable pressure. "Yeah, that'll happen when he actually does his work." His eyes crack open again at the mention of Mel. "Don't think she has any plans to get un-pregnant, this stage in the game." Shane's observation earns a sudden blush from Micah, perhaps more intense than would be typical with similar observations, creeping right along the back of his neck and up into his ears. There is a brief hitch to the rhythm of the scalp massage, though at the 'please' his second hand joins in and it resumes all the more attentively. "Shane...we /got/ all of your assignments while you were out for a reason," he observes in a mildly disappointed tone. "S'good you /went/ t'class, though." He chuckles at the remark about Mel. "Chances are she's like t'stay that way 'til May sometime, honey." Micah nods in answer to Shane's question of driving. "Sure. Y'need t'go now or y'wanna hang around a bit longer first?" "Yeah I know." Shane snaps this a little too sharp, a little too fast, at Micah's answering comment. "But that's her own fucking --" His teeth grind. "There's still places she could take care of that." He drops his head back against the couch with a thump, his gills starting to flare again. "I'm doing fine in Russian. Kinda want to switch to Arabic or Chinese next year though." The quiet << (please) >> echoes again, a soft sense of pleading more than a distinct word, pressing pained though the squeezing pressure as Hive nuzzles up into the touch. The mental touch recedes. "Did you even touch any of your work in the weeks you were out?" His eyebrows raise. He sounds -- kind of impressed, where Micah sounds disappointed. Maybe a little bit amused. His lips twitch, though, at the /rest/ of the conversation, pressing together a little more thinly. "Dude, not -- really. /Easily/ or -- I mean. Fff. S'her fucking choice man." << Shh, >> Micah answers the pleading silently, his tone a little bitter-remorseful as he adds, << That worked out /so well/ the last time. >> His fingers continue working in slow, firm circles. "S'always folks lookin' for people who can interpret Arabic an' Chinese these days; could be a useful change t'make." He winces at Shane's suggestion, brow furrowing deeply in disapproval. "/Shane/. That is her /child/ you're talkin' about. S'a little life that she's claimed responsibility for, an' a /part/ of her. I'd rather y'not say that kind of thing at all, but you /promise/ me y'won't ever say it t'/her/." "It is not a child," Shane answers Micah sharply, that hard spike of sickened anger flaring back up as he turns away to face towards the others, "it's a fucking irresponsible stupid mistake. It's a clump of parasitic cells right /now/ and later? Later when it /is/ a child it's going to be an even /worse/ fucking mistake, Micah. This is /wrong/. That is sick and fucking /wrong/ and there is no way in hell I am making you that promise. Half of everyone she hangs out with is a freak and the only people I /know/ she's fucked are freaks and bringing /any/ poor kid into this /fucked-up/ world is a /sick cruel/ thing to do but bringing one of us into it is /evil/. And /you/ and /her/ you get to sit and be /excited/ because oh wow new /baby/ but you haven't /been/ one of us in this world and if that thing growing in her is one of /us/? There is no /way/ I can be excited for that. If she's /inflicting/ this world on one of us --" His gills flare again, their shivering-trembling carrying over to his voice, to the entirety of his lean form. "Yeah. It's her choice. But some choices are wrong." << Just doesn't hurt so much when -- >> Though the pounding /thud/ of Hive's voice is pretty headache-inducing all on its own. He tips his head back, squeezing his eyes shut tighter as Shane speaks. He reaches his hands down. One to scratch at Sprite's head, the other to reach over and pet at Shane's gills. "I mean." There's a very, very long pause before he admits: "-- I don't disagree." And then, "But we're way the fuck past the point where any of that's even a tiny bit relevant. Kid's gonna be here. Too late for that to matter one fucking bit. All Mel needs now's love and support. All the kid's gonna need now is the same." << I just don't know if it's /safe/, honey. Even if y'could assure me it was, I'd...need t'not. Touch you. I'll call Lucien. Y'need 'im t'help out again as soon as possible, sounds like. >> Micah's teeth dig into his lower lip before he speaks again. "Shane, she is so far /beyond/ that right now. Goin' by the due date she said? That /child/ is at 25 weeks already. If she were t'deliver /today/ it would have a greater than fifty percent chance of survivin'. That's a /person/, honey. Tellin' her t'kill that baby now s'just /cruel/. Won't help /nothin'/." Micah shakes his head hard enough for his hair to tousle further with the movement. "It ain't like this is somethin' she /planned/, Shane. From the sound of it...weren't somethin' she even wanted. She just didn't know 'til the choice was pretty much made /for/ her already. An' y'don't know. Y'don't even /know/ if that child carries the gene or not. If it'll express it or not. An' even if it does...it's still a /person/, Shane." "That fetus," Shane snips crankily, when Micah says child, "is not going to be a person until it can think for itself. And just because she was too much of a /coward/ to make the choice until it was too late doesn't mean the choice was made for her. /She/ is /going/ to force a person into a sick cruel world and that /is/ a sick cruel thing and I don't know why you're all /pretending/ otherwise. It's not like we live in a world where we don't have /access/ to shit -- she's goddamn /surrounded/ by doctors. And people who -- fuck. She has no excuse you're just coddling her bullshit." He scrubs his hand into his eyes, frustrated. "And /yeah/, I don't know if the kid's a freak or not, but even if it's /not/ she'll be raising it around /us/ which is a sick choice /too/. She should move /far/ the fuck away, somewhere safe and /sane/. This is /no/ fucking place to raise a family. Not if you're not forced into it. I mean, it's different for us. It's not like there's a better option." Hive grimaces, hand resting against the side of Shane's gills. His teeth grind audibly, a sudden fiercer /painful/ hard dig of mental pressure squeezing in at Shane and Micah both. "Fuck." Sprite yowls in protest as Hive sits up very abruptly, cat and book both spilling off to the floor, though Sprite attempts to slow this process by digging her claws in to Hive's sweatshirt. "Here's the thing dude. Doesn't fucking matter. The hell's anyone gonna do now. Kid needs a home." "Stop arguin' semantics at me, Shane, I'm not havin' an abortion debate with you. This is already a /viable/ child. S'past the point where that's even a /question/ anymore. Ain't a question of whether or not t'end the pregnancy anymore. An' either way that question ain't for /you/. S'a baby an' it needs a place in this world an' Mel is gonna give it that." Micah's frown deepens the more Shane talks. "Y'really expect her t'pick up an' move right now? When she's pregnant an' has t'support herself? T'leave her job an' her home an' everyone she knows t'go off on her own, with no resources an' no help? T'ask her t'take the child away from its father?" Micah is interrupted by Hive's cursing and moving away, his expression softening in concern. "Oh...honey, are you okay?" He begins to reach for Hive's shoulder, but quickly thinks better of this and rests his hands in his lap. "The father whose name she won't even say because he's that fucking important to her and this goddamn clump of cells she didn't even want? Fuck. I don't expect fucking anything, dude, but no. I'm not going to fucking coo like this is exciting and she's so /brave/ and oo a baby when this is bullshit and she's a stupid shitty coward and this whole situation is dumb and trashy and there wasn't even an excuse given that in our particular group you can't fucking throw a stone without tripping over a doctor /and/ a handful of fucking mutants who can /tell/ you you're pregnant, end it for you and then kill the pain all before lunch. And /with/ all that I'm /still/ supposed to act like --" Shane /shudders/, getting back to his feet and shoving his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt. "It doesn't need a fucking place in this world. This world's fucking hell, Micah, last thing it needs in it is people /breeding/ when there's so /many/ kids already /out/ there who need homes." Head shaking, he scoots back around the couch to head for the door. "No, I'm fine, it wasn't you," Hive insists to Micah immediately, at the concern. "Sor -- ff. M'fine." His lips twitch again at Shane, and he slumps back against the couch. He lifts a foot to rest it at the coffee table, tipping his head back against the back of the sofa cushions. His teeth grind slowly, fingers clenching at his knees. "You do have a way with words, kid." "Father as might be important t'the /kid/ an' who the kid might be important to. Y'don't /know/, Shane. This ain't your life. It's hers an' the father's an' the baby's an'... None of this is ideal. I'm sure /she'll/ tell you none of this is ideal an' she's dealt with a great deal of pain gettin' t'this point already. Sure there's plenty of people as would've told /my/ parents the same kinda things you're sayin' now. You go ahead an' judge her all you want /in your head/, growl all y'want here an' run off. Just /do not/ put her through listenin' to it." Micah settles back into his corner of the couch, just squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. "/Fine/," Shane snaps, sharply, "nobody has to fucking listen to it." He scoops his backpack up from the floor, stomping his shoes back onto his feet as he grabs his coat from the closet. He doesn't bother to take the time to put either coat or backpack on, a frustrated growl in his throat as he thumps his way back out the door. "Well, then." Hive keeps his head thunked back against the sofa, teeth grinding again. "-- You don't think he'll say something to Mel, do you?" And then, with a deeper frown: "You don't think he'll run off again, do you?" Micah rubs his fingertips into his temples, not opening his eyes. "Oh/gosh/, I hope not. She's had more'n enough t'deal with without all /that/ gettin' dumped on her." The second question does lift his eyelids, his gaze slipping sidewise to Hive. "You really think he'd run away over that? More...of our conversations have been endin' kinda like that lately. Usually he just storms off into his room. I'm guessin' he just went back t'school this time since he has t'be there before curfew anyhow." "Nah. I mean, he wasn't feeling like -- I think I'd have. Felt it if he was planning." Hive shakes his head, scooting towards Micah to slide his fingers beneath Micah's, rubbing at the other man's temples. "I mean, I see where he's coming from, it just. There's no point right now." His hands press in, gently at first but slowly firmer. "And I think his emotions have been running a little – high." "Good. That's good, at least." Micah's hands slip away from his head as Hive's take over, his eyelids drifting closed once more with a pleased sigh. "Mmn. Yeah, he's been...kinda volatile. There's been...a lot. But it's not like there's a /debate/ t'be had here. It's one thing t'maybe...try an' talk someone out of the /decision/ t'get pregnant. It's another t'tell 'em their /child/ is better off dead. That ain't no kinda okay." Hive doesn't answer this. His hands shake, trembling faintly in their press at Micah's temple, the pressure lightening as his head tips in to rest against Micah's. He straightens, returning to the slow massage. "It's not helpful, anyway." Micah's breath catches, just for a second, as Hive presses his forehead in against his own. But he settles, leaning gently into the rubbing of the other man's fingers. “Not remotely.” "/You/ alright?" The pressure of Hive's fingers deepens slowly; they work back against Micah's skull. His sleepily half-lidded eyes open just a little wider, though he doesn't scrutinize Micah's face so much as he scrutinizes the other man with a squeezing press of mind to mind. "... the fuck do you even put in a /play/ room anyway." "I'm fine. S'just. The things that some parents have t'put up with people tellin' 'em. 'Cause /they/ don't think that their kids should...be here. It's just so hard on 'em. There's a lotta guilt about your kids' situations. Don't help when people go...really blamin' you. An'... It's just no kinda okay." Micah blushes, succeeding only partially in covering the memory of kissing Hive that had come with that lean in against him. "S'fine. Um... Mostly open space with soft floorin' an' no sharp corners. Get...play sets an' chalk boards an' toy chests an' ...it depends on the ages. Can have sand tables or lego tables. Indoor playhouses. Craftin' supplies. Kid sized table an' chairs, beanbag chairs, an' cushions. Oh...those little...cloth cube storage organisers are incredibly useful an' versatile." Hive's fingers tremble again, briefly dropping from Micah's head. His mind squeezes in against Micah's once more, sharp and hard, and then releases. "Where's the line, though? Some parents fucking shouldn't have kids. And there's no good way to /stop/ it but." He stops, with a snort, giving his head a hard shake. "Nevermind." His hands are shaking in his lap; he presses them hard down against his knees. They're steady again when he presses them back to Micah's head to start rubbing once more, slow. "Fuck it. I'll take care of the outside parts. You can take care of all the actually outfitting it inside." "Before the kids are already here. S'usually a better time t'have that conversation. An'...don't wish the kids /dead/ once they /are/ here, certainly," Micah replies softly. His eyes open again to regard Hive, his cheeks colouring deeper as he realises the thought managed to slip through. "Apologies, I...didn't mean. T'think that at you." He shakes his head, then settles into Hive's hands when they begin to rub again. "Yeah, that'll be fine. An', I mean, doesn't hurt t'ask the /kids/ what they want, either. Though Spence'll tell you a space station." "It's not you," Hive says again, quiet but very firm in this insistence. "It wasn't that I --" His eyes close, palms resting against Micah's temples and his fingers rubbing into the other man's hair. Pressing slow and firm to his scalp. "I --" His teeth grind again. "We can build him a fucking space station then." “Okay. Okay, I b'lieve you. You...what, honey?” Micah reaches up to brush a hand along Hive's jaw when that grinding comes again, voice once more softened with concern. “I was thinkin' maybe for the outdoor playspace. Could have some space themed equipment, maybe.” Hive turns his head into the brush; there are tears glistening bright-wet in his eyes when they open again. "Nothing. Fuck. I don't really know shit about building playground equipment. Guess I could learn." He turns his head, nuzzling into Micah's hand with a small curl of smile. His own hands keep pressing at Micah's scalp. "You all mind if I crash here tonight? Think Jax'll mind? Flicker and Dusk are both – out." "Honey...it ain't /nothin'/. You're cryin'. I'm not gonna push, but...y'can talk t'me if y'want, okay?" Micah reaches up his other hand to mirror the stroke on the opposite side of Hive's face. "Don't think he'd mind at all. Can claim a beanbag out here or... Well, I guess y'see Jax's dreams whether he's projectin' or not, so you're welcome t'stay in with us, too." << (please) >> comes in heavy squeezing push again, Hive's fingers pressing at Micah's head as his cheeks nuzzle in at Micah's hands, damp once his eyes slip shut again. "I see all your dreams a lot." << It's nothing. S'loud. I just need. >> "-- Fucking sleep," he finishes with a quick rough laugh. "Oh my god. I think I've been running on caffeine and fumes and -- goddamn Lucien." << Shh, >> Micah's thoughts are whisper-soft in return once more as his fingers brush the tear trails from Hive's cheeks. "I know. Y'should sleep. An' /also/ I'll talk t'Lucien about tendin' you again. 'Cause clearly he needs to. Maybe /less/ caffeine's also in order." Micah's hands slip down to Hive's back, arms wrapping around in a reassuring hug. "Can make you some lavender-mint tea. Got some massage crème with lavender an' chamomile in it, too, if y'want. Just gotta...wind yourself down some so y'/can/ sleep." "He's been tending. Just. He's had -- a hard." Hive's head-massage stops, hands dropping shakily to just wrap around Micah's back in return. He drops his head, face burying against the other man's neck. "Lavender chamomile sounds. Sleepy. Yeah. That'd be good, I need to -- My brain just won't shut -- the fuck. Up, you know." These words are slow, sluggish and a little muffled against Micah's neck. He turns his head inward, forehead pressing lightly against collarbone as he breathes out a shaky laugh. "Good loud, though. It's been a /good/ fucking loud all week. I just can't shut it the fuck up." Micah keeps one arm curled supportively around Hive while the other hand moves to pet his hair in a slow, soothing rhythm. "Okay. We can try t'quiet things at least on /your/ end, if not from outside sources... Y'wanna have a quick hot shower while I put the tea on? Might help y'relax. Then sleepy massage. Then warm blankets for snugglin' up in. If /that/ doesn't get you t'sleep, I'm not sure what will." "That sounds so goddamn perfect, man. Maybe I'll see if Lucien can swing by tomorrow again sometime." Hive squeezes Micah tighter, gently nuzzling into his neck. He lingers in the hug a bit longer, then pushes to his feet. "Like. So perfect you don't even fucking know." He presses a /firm/ kiss to Micah's forehead, and moves to the linen closet to snag himself a towel, for the showering.