ArchivedLogs:Doses of Happy

Doses of Happy
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Micah	8 July 2013 Checking in with sugar. And maybe also kisses. >_>
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. Dusk is working, tonight! He has on a massive pair of headphones plugged into his laptop (though one side has been pushed back off his ear to leave one ear open) and has stolen one of Hive's monitors, a terminal open on one screen and a text editor on the other, which currently holds a screenful of neatly colour-coordinated Perl. He has the sort of glassy-eyed look of someone who has been staring at lines of code for Way Too Long; his posture has devolved into slump and then straightened back into restless fidget. His wings fidget restlessly, too, a constant resettling that seems less uncomfortable and more antsy. He's shirtless, as he almost always is at home, wings /free/ to fidget as they wish, but has on a rather tattered old pair of camoflauge cargo shorts. Micah is...mostly knocking on the door right now! Three smart raps. His attire is nothing unusual, in the form of patched jeans and his chocolate brown T-shirt with the stegosaurus cursing its T-Rex neighbour for its 'sudden but inevitable betrayal'. He is rocking back and forth on his feet, weight shifting from heels to balls of feet, balls of feet to heels, rhythmically. He holds a pitcher in one hand, in which tea is sloshing around merrily with his movement, ice cubes making pleasant tinkling sounds against one another and the glass container. The speed at which Dusk has shed his headphones and is at the door is a testament, really, to his growing levels of /fidget/ with work. There's a delay while he peers out the door, but when he opens it it is with a quick fangy smile. "Hey! Micah!" There's a small hyper edge to his voice, a /bounce/ on his toes, a restless shift of wings. "-- You brought tea. /Sweet/." He pulls the door open further, stepping back to gesture Micah inside with a quick-flick uncurling of wing. Micah giggles at the Dusk-bounciness! “Hi, Dusk. An' yes, I see you are acquainted with my tea,” he says with a wink at the 'sweet'. “Though maybe you been in the sugar already?” He makes his way inside and straight for the kitchen to retrieve a pair of tall glasses, filling them both with tea. The pitcher with the remaining liquid finds its way into the refrigerator to prevent its ice from melting too quickly in the ever-present summer heat. "What I -- no, I just -- well, Jax and Hive /did/ bring back some cupcakes -- uh. I think there's still some if you want." Dusk points to a Happy Cakes box on the counter with a wingtip, the smile fading from his face as he gestures to the box. He follows Micah towards the kitchen to claim one of the glasses. "Not sugar, I just --" For a moment his brow creases, faintly. "-- You surviving?" he asks instead, and, "thanks!" for the tea. Which he lifts in salute. "-- Do you do anything /not/ sweet?" “Ohgosh, cupcakes!” Micah doesn't mind if he /does/, apparently. As if he is not constantly inundated with baked goods by Jax. “Thanks!” he adds as he goes digging into the box, picking out a cupcake that is /particularly/ icing-covered. For licking at icing. “Survivn' well enough. I handle heat pretty well until it's just /ridiculously/ hot. It's cold that gets me.” His tongue darts out for more icing. “Occasionally,” he replies to the 'sweet' question with a smirk, despite being hands-full of sweet tea and cupcake, for goodness sake. “I tend to cook more savoury or spicy. Don't bake, myself, so not as much sweetness to be had there.” "I guess it's really hard /not/ to get your sugar-quota when you live with Jax." There are both a blueberry and a strawberry cupcake HEAPED with lemon buttercream frosting. Well, vegan buttercream. "S'cool," Dusk says, "the twins looked about ready to die when I saw them Saturday. I think the water -- well. OK, the water /always/ does them good but especially now." Dusk props his elbows against the countertop, glancing at the box as Micah fishes out a cupcake but looking quickly away. "I like spicy. Once in a while we'll --" He hesitates, wings shifting again. "Well, OK, nobody here does, uh, much cooking but on the times that we -- did. Usually spicy. I think Hive eats foods that are pretty much just ninety percent /fire/ by volume." It takes a minute to get Micah back from his frosting. "It's so /lemon/ I'm not sure I can handle it," he comments with his eyes closed, in a tone that suggests it is good not-handling, at least. "Somebody's actually gotta do spicy /right/. Word hardly holds meanin' on packagin' an' menus anymore. All kindsa spicy warnin's, hardly a tingle half the time. It's just teasin', really." He shifts both glass and cupcake to one hand, guiding Dusk toward the couch with the other. Maybe to move him away from the box, or perhaps Micah just really wants to sit? Who knows! "I can take you sometime to our favourite Korean place," Dusk suggests, quietly watching Micah lick lemonfrosting off his cupcake. His wing brushes against Micah's arm as he is steered; he sits on the couch sideways, wings taking a moment longer to settle comfortably. "They have spice levels listed on their menu like -- Very hot, hot, medium hot, mild, and then 'white people'." His teeth flash in a quick grin. "Took us a /while/ to convince them we actually /meant/ it when we said very hot. S'a good Thai place that /still/ won't give it to us properly unless Hive actually talks to them himself. But when they /do/ do it -- maaan." The shiver of his wings is possibly pleasurable at the thought of Properly Spicy Food. Possibly in fear. Possibly /both/. “Can't even remember the last time I /had/ Korean food, actually,” Micah comments idly, pausing for another little nip of icing before settling on the couch, opposite Dusks's wings. He chuckles at the spice level descriptions. “I know! I feel like half the time I order things spicy, I have to add a few 'no, really's' before it gets through. If even then.” With the better part of the icing gone, he peels back the wrapper to nibble at the fruity cake, interspersing sips of tea here and there. “What've you been up to?” "It's not quite as veg-friendly as most other East Asian foods," Dusk muses, "If you eat with Jax a lot these days." He looks down at his knee, crooked sideways up onto the couch, and drops a hand to rest against it. His fingers pick at a thin scab lingering against his shin. "I --" His wings tighten at his back, eyes fixing downward. "-- work, mostly. A lot of -- work. It's been --" He glances away, not towards his abandoned laptop but towards his slightly-ajar bedroom door. There is a tiny pointy ferretnose poking out of it; Alanna is slumped bonelessly on the wood floor, /eying/ them like /contemplating/ coming out to play but then deciding movement is Too Hot. Slump. "-- Been -- busy. Um. Weird. How -- about you?" “Good point...prob'ly explains it,” Micah concedes with a nod before finishing off the last of the cupcake and depositing its wrapper on a table for temporary storage purposes. Trashcans mean getting up, and meh to that. After another sip of tea, the cup goes to the table as well. So that Micah can paw at Dusk's hand to stop him from /picking/. Pawpaw. “Busy can be good. Gives your brain things to do, if nothin' else. Much the same for me, today, at least. With work.” He giggles at Alanna's flop. “Can ferrets melt?” "They sure can make it look like they're melting. You watch her pout around sometimes, you'd think she's dying," Dusk answers with a quick curl of a smile. It fades soon; kind of /ornery/ he continues to pick at the scab, but only for a brief moment more. His hand turns upward, fingers curling loosely against Micah's. "I -- think I've needed brain things," he says, his smile skewing crookedly, "Sometimes it's --" He flushes, slightly, like he feels guilty for saying: "... kind of hell living with a telepath." “Does she swim? Could let her have a jaunt in the tub,” Micah suggests. “Just t'keep her from lookin' like a discarded sock with a face, poor little mope-monster.” His own smile appears at Dusk's touch, and is not so quick to fade. He curls his fingers back around the other man's with a little squeeze. “I can imagine... Sometimes y'just need t'keep your head t'yourself for a little bit. Nothin' t'feel bad about. Most people take it for granted that there's privacy inside their own skulls, at least.” "I don't take much for granted, anymore." Dusk sounds wry. His fingers walk against Micah's skin, tracing a path upwards against Micah's wrist as he does. "He's been trying to -- he stays out more. Closes himself off when he's home.Trying to mitigate it? Give me some -- well. As much privacy as --" He tilts his head slightly to one side; his fingers spread against Micah's skin, eventually curling in a gentle hold at Micah's wrist. He sips his tea slowly. "Does it bother you? When certain people are around. Not having privacy. In your head?" Micah releases a quick breath of almost-laughter about not taking things for granted. His hand falls loose as Dusk's fingers sketch along his arm, not moving away from that grip. “Some things are...more than others,” he answers, almost unnecessary in words because a ruddy blush answered /first/. “But...in the long run, not /really/. I think I got the telepathy trial by fire when I started hangin' around here? I've got amazin' timing.” This comes with a strange sort of grin. "Oh, shit, yeah, that's right, you were just starting to come around when --" Dusk shakes his head. His fingers squeeze down against Micah's arm, "Some things more than others," he agrees, more softly. His wing curls forward, one of its tips brushing against Micah's cheek. "Some things more than others," he agrees again, this time with a faint echoing blush of his own. "Maybe not the same some things. I kinda, mmm -- I think a lot of us sort of gave up a little bit on modesty after too long living on top of each other." A nod confirms Dusk's summary. Micah still doesn't move away, instead flexing his fingers in turn, tendons pulling taut and releasing beneath pressing fingertips. “S'pose everybody's got their own ideas of...what should be off-limits,” he observes quietly, cheek leaning toward the soft touch in a feline fashion. “Hm. Guess livin' together tends t'do that t'folks. Only so much more if the times you /do/ have doors don't really mean all that much.” "I feel bad, sometimes," Dusk admits quietly, "I think it's actually harder for them -- mmnh. For him than for the rest of us. I think he knows half this building's secrets." The flush in his cheeks deepens, his eyes dropping. "They're not always good secrets to know. Do you think," his wing rises a little further, gently cradling the side of Micah's face against a wide stretch of fuzz-covered membrane, now, "you'd still like your friends? If you -- really knew everything about them?" His hand is sliding up further; he's forced to adjust position to shift just a little closer to Micah, as his fingers trace up away from the long vein in Micah's wrist, now just skimming towards elbow and then bicep. And then a tiny twitch-curl of smile: "... Do you think most of them would still like you?" Micah nods again, in agreement. “Yeah, it's gotta get real /noisy/, not really bein' able t'turn it off. An' stuck knowin' things about /people/ y'don't even know. Then havin' t'remember /how/ y'know things so as not t'pull random brain-knowledge out with the regular kind? Ugh.” Apparently Micah has /not/ spent a lot of time wishing for telepathy. “Hard t'say. Since I don't know what I don't know. Gotta give people leeway t'be people, though. Don't expect folks t'be perfect all the time. Or any of the time, really.” He sighs softly, but seems to forget he was doing so halfway, distracted by brushing against the wing with his cheek. His arm twitches faintly, skin quivering along the path Dusk's fingertips trace. “I kind of...don't have a great filter on what /I'm/ thinkin' most of the time, anyhow.” His blush tinges slightly deeper. “Think it's people being people that keeps Hive so cranky all the time," Dusk says wryly. "-- But I think it's people being people that makes him love them, too." Cranky-love. His wing slides back, curled loose against the outside of Micah's other arm to wrap around his shoulder. His hand creeps up Micah's other shoulder, fingers tracing against his neck, now. It's brought him closer still, though when he leans in it's only to rest his head at Micah's shoulder, briefly nuzzling against his neck as his arm drops to curl around the other man's waist. "-- Nobody's perfect," he agrees, "but -- sometimes people are. Really. /Really/ not perfect." He exhales a soft brief chuff of laughter. "Thaaat must be fun for them to be around. Micah Unfiltered. He's complained before you and Jax give him cavities." "Dunno. Feel like Hive would find a way t'be cranky about pretty much anythin'," Micah says with a fond sort of smile. "S'part of his charm." The continuing trail of fingertips coaxes out a muted sort of purr, likely felt more than it is heard. He snugs an arm around Dusk's shoulders when the other man leans in close, the other hand combing fingers through his dark hair. "If he can't handle it, he can go listen in on another brain radio station, then," Micah teases (though Hive isn't even there to tease!) with a little nose-crinkle of amusement. Dusk shakes his head, slightly. "-- He wasn't always -- /isn't/ always --" But this just trails off into a quiet sigh at the purr. His fingers rest at the small of Micah's back, kneading their way gently up his spine. His wing curls further, wrapping over his fingers as he holds Micah closer. His eyes close, and his soft hum at the fingers through his hair is almost a purr itself. His head turns, lips pressing to the base of Micah's neck. His wing loosens its grip so that he can stretch his other arm out to set his iced tea on the table. His forehead rests back against Micah's collarbone. "What do you do when all the stations are horrible?" Micah nods just slightly, but easy enough to tell from so close a vantage point. "I know...sometimes some of it is for show, anyhow." The arm around Dusk's shoulders pulls him in at the trace of spine, muscles not tensing so much as vertebrae stacking themselves more neatly along the path of those wandering fingers' touch. He plies nails delicately to Dusk's scalp as his own fingers pull through the thick hair. Micah manages to keep up conversation despite kisses!, though his voice is of a duskier quality. "Then you go back t'puttin' up with the cavities, I s'pose. Can't be too long that all the stations are horrible /simultaneously/. Seems like there should at least be a glimmer of happy...or a big dose of /boring/ at any given time. Prob'ly mostly the boring most of the time, actually." Dusk nuzzles against Micah's neck again, with another soft kiss. His fingers continue upwards, softly kneading he muscles of Micah's back, fingers tracing just alongside his spine. Another kiss lightly to the neck, and then his next finds Micah's lips instead. His wing wraps more closely against Micah's back. "I think," he says, soft, "sometimes there's maybe big doses of happy." His wing holds Micah close as he kisses again, deeper. Micah's fingers claw against Dusk's shoulder with the series of kisses, as if he needs them to hold on. His eyes press closed as his lips seek out the other man's, pressing against them, returning and deepening kisses. He lets himself sink into the combined embrace of arms and wings. “Sometimes definitely--” any further words are cut off by kisses, but there is not a hint of protest against it.