ArchivedLogs:Tea Party

Tea Party
Of the tea kind, /not/ of the political kind.
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah, Melinda	3 April 2013 Everyone tries to make everyone /else's/ sad a little better. There is tea. And food. And Potential Chocolate. (Warning: There are also kisses, eventually.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Holland} - 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 bright coloured sealife has made its way into being painted on the 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. 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. Wednesday evening finds Jackson's house /full/ of light. Bright lamps flood his living room and probably raise its temperature a bit past where the heat is set. Colour swirls in erratic shifting whorls around the room, flickering bright here and there and here and gone. Jackson has had his easel set up in the living room for a little while now, freeing up space in his bedroom. He is seated there now, a painting underway; a forest dark and bare, trees lacking leaves, some of them chopped down to (apparently bleeding) stumps and some branches scattered across the ground. The trees are strangely sharp and crystalline, made perhaps of glass rather than wood. Jackson looks a little made of glass himself, at the moment, an odd hard-shiny sheen to his skin; perhaps he is reflecting some of his art, at the moment, lost in concentration. He is otherwise brightly colourful. Red t-shirt ('All my heroes have FBI files'), silvery fishnet sleeves, black jeans embroidere with red flames on their sides. His hair shifts from root to tips, red to orange to yellow, fiery-sunset-warm. Micah has managed to slip into the building with a resident. Pretty much everyone is letting him in now since he has been around often enough. Jax gets a knock at the door: three sharp raps. Micah is wearing his usual patchy jeans coupled with an olive green canvas jacket, which is unbuttoned over a similarly-coloured T-shirt depicting a Darwin-inspired sketch of finches with Technology upgrades. His messenger bag is hanging from his shoulder. It takes a little while before the door is opened. Maybe more than a little while! But eventually it /is/ opened, spilling a storm of coloured lights out to dance into the hallway. Jackson is behind, a quick smile on his glittery-red lips. "Hi! Hey /hi/ sorry I got a little, um, I was -- hi! He leans in to peck Micah on the cheek even before he actually steps back enough to let Micah inside. "How're you, honey-honey?" “HiJax!” Micah chirps his greeting as all one word. “I don’t mind. Paintin’ things happens.” He tilts his chin for ease of kisses and returns a squeezy hug before slipping through the door. “I’m okay. How are you? Borgnet’s been off the crazy-charts the past couple of days.” Micah’s shoes find themselves in a familiar spot near the door, his hands already digging into his bag to produce two prettily decorated tins. “I brought /tea/.” He seems excessively proud of this. It is, apparently, an accomplishment. "Oh -- oh, yeah, it's been, it's kinda been hectic ain't it?" Jackson's (kind of glassy-looking?) nose wrinkles up at this, but he just shakes his head slightly. "I sorta tuned it out, it was kinda, um, distracting, but you can sorta -- turn down the volume? If you -- if you try." He shrugs a shoulder, and bounces up briefly onto his toes. "You brought /tea/?" This is said with a good deal more /enthusiasm/, despite the fact his words have already been Pretty Enthusiastic. "Ohgosh can we drink /all/ the tea? At /once/?" "Yeah, I've been doin' much the same. But some stuff still sneaks through." Micah's smile stretches fit to split his face at Jax's enthusiasm. His eyes ruin the look of glee somewhat by giving the tins a concerned, pondering look. "Ohgosh, I dunno if they taste any good /together/. I didn't think to ask that." Jackson laughs, quiet, his head shaking as he takes the tins and whisks them away kitchen-wards. "I'm only jokin', honey-honey, we can have 'em one at a /time/. I mean you /can/ blend tea I /do/ blend tea but not just any tea all willy-nilly." He's examining the tins, too, not with his eyes but with his nose, opening up one and then the other to sniff at them. "-- I made a casserole," he is announcing /to/ one of the teas, "do y'want a casserole? I mean not like a /whole/ casserole just a -- or there's pie." Buzz Buzz Buzzzzzz. Buzz Buzz goes the intercom. Micah goes a bit wide-eyed, because he /knows/ things. “I know! The one of them is a blend /already/. Assam and Darjeeling.” Someone has learned new words! “Seriously, though. Lucien had to help me pick things. And this poor, nice boy at the shop let me question his /ear/ off.” Micah has /no/ mystery. “I actually know how to /make/ it now, though!” He’s kind of triumphant, like a kid showing a parent a new trick. “Oh, can there be pie? I like pie. Also food. Food is good.” "/Woah/ ohmygosh I love -- woahbuzzer. Can you -- buzzer that?" Jackson is frowning, puzzled, at the buzzer. Around the room the dancing light-colours slow, stop. Then immediately resume their skittering. "-- Lucien?" This makes him wince, for some reason. "Wait do /you/ want to make the tea then? Because you could totally make the tea. You can have /all/ the pie. D'you want it before or after a casserole?" Melinda waits down stairs, does not buzz again yet. It's polite to wait. “I can definitely buzz a thing,” Micah replies, putting words into actions as he does so. Button-buzzing! “Yes! I can do /that/, too. I studied.” Micah nods solemnly at this. “Um…should prob’ly regular food first. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? We can do the blendy tea with regular food and save the strawberry rosy stuff for pie /later/.” He does spare a glance at Jax to see if any of these plans are prompting a ‘bad idea’ sort of reception. Jackson only seems to have one setting for reception at the moment and that is /excite/; he answers these plans with a wide grin, setting the tins down on the counter. "OK OK, casserole first. It's, um, it's chickpea-broccoli? I don't know if that's a good casserole. I usually put hot sauce in. Or okonomiyaki sauce. Or both?" He busies himself getting plates, getting cups. "How've you, how're you, um, are you, gosh you know I feel like I should /know/ with this Hive thing but I'm tryin' not to eavesdrop. How's your -- week been?" When the door just unlocks, Melinda blinks and shrugs, pulling the door open and stepping inside. She has a grocery bag over one shoulder and heads for the stairs, hands stuffed into her coat pockets, unfortunately bundled up for winter again. Traump, traump, traump, and she's up the stairs and knocking on the door next. Mystery Guest! Come on down! Knock, Knock, Knock! Micah is doing /tea/ things. Putting water in a teakettle and setting it to warm on the stove. Measuring out tea leaves in a way that might be a shade too reminiscent of a student in a chemistry lab. Precision! "Jaxfood is all goodfood as far as I've noticed. Hot sauce is good. I like spicy..." He pauses at Jax's question. "I'm good, too... Things have been pretty normal work-things. I got beat up by a six-year-old yesterday!" This last statement warrants a giggle. "You /what/?" Jackson turns for a moment en route to the door, squinting uncertainly at Micah. Though the giggle relaxes his expression again into a smile. "-- uh, you what?" he repeats, but easier this time. He heads towards the door, trailing a swirling cloud of colour behind him. He's still pretty oddly-glassy when he peeks through the viewhole and opens the door, like maybe someone /made/ a Jax out of stained-glass and then animated it. "Was it a /tough/ six-year-old? /Hi/, Mel!" He offers Melinda a bright smile. Melinda smiles back and opens up her arms. "Hug?" She might put this offer on hold as she sidles into the apartment and allows the door to be closed behind her. She then takes off her shoes and then looks up at Jackson inquisitively. And then over toward the kitchen. "Hi Micah!" Micah is still giggling at himself, though his attention is very much caught up in timing and strainers and measurements and /not overheating things/ because that, apparently, is a /crime/. “It /was/ a tough six-year-old. And I /armed/ him. With castfoot.” Mel’s greeting does manage to tear Micah away from the tea process long enough to flash her a warm smile. “Mel! Hello! I am making /tea/ things happen.” He is a magician, really. "Hug," Jackson agrees easily, although when he offers it, one-armed, he's just a little stiff-tense and releases it quickly. "We're havin' tea and casserole, 'kay? Micah's handling the tea like a wizard." He locks the door behind Melinda, slipping back off kitchen-wards to turn the oven on. "How was /your/ week, did any small children beat you up?" Melinda returns the hug as best she can, curling in toward him, but lets him pull away when he feels the need to. She instead slips off the bag from her shoulder, then takes off her coat and hangs it up. "No, no small children, but I swear teenagers are destroying my brain meats." She smiles and walks toward the kitchen and hands Jackson the bag. Inside is garlic, basil, tomatoes, ciabatta, olive oil, cilantro and walnuts. "I... come bearing spring." Micah spares a moment to shed his jacket and hang it with Mel's, because all the stove and oven in the kitchen, on top of Jax's light-heat, has made it warm enough not to want layers anymore. His right forearm is impressively decked out in crosshatching of blue cast tape dye and green-purple-yellow bruising. The combination makes his skin look almost reptilian. He sneaks a Mel-hug on his way back to tending the tea. "Oh, Spring Faery Mel! I want to cover you in flowers and glitter now." Micah finds three tea cups and fills them appropriately, setting one in front of Jax and one in front of Mel. Tea seems to be compulsory this evening. "I was told not to put anythin' in this one. So...if you want to put somethin' in it, that's totally up to you lawbreakers." His nose crinkles in amusement. "Woah! Woah. That /is/ a dose'a spring, wow. I feel like I kinda gotta make everyone pesto now." Jax's teeth sink down into his lip, and he turns from pep to /fret/ in nothing flat. "-- do I gotta make pesto now, is this a suggestion cuz I -- I mean there's casserole but I -- we could pesto all the pesto /things/ is right here --" He holds the bag close to his chest, rocking from heel to toe and back. "No -- no," he recalibrates on /tea/, his smile tentatively returning. "Nothin' in it's fine. Um there's pie /too/," he tells Mel, and then, a little brighter: "Oh! /Oh/ flowers and glitter, I can /do/ that." Which he -- /does/; a host of flowers (bright-bright-bright coloured, patterned in ways that are not actually reminiscent of much plantlife you would find on earth) blossoms to sprout from Mel's clothing. The petals glitter. "Jax, feel free to save spring for when you need a cheer up," Melinda reassures the young artist with a smile, eyes glancing down to see how he is hugging the bag. "The wind is whipping around terribly now, and I just felt that you could have some company now, and some spring when you needed it." She takes up her cup and inhales deeply. "Thank you, Micah. This smells delicious." She just inhales for now, or, well, inhales and then puts down her cup again, wanting her hands free as she pokes at her new glittery petals. Of course they don't feel like anything, but she still feels the need to pretend to touch them. "Jax, you already /made/ food. You can make this into new food at a time when you have not already made other food. Settle down and drink tea," Micah squeezes Jax's shoulder with the order. "Y'know, when it's cooled enough for you to want to do that." Mel's flowery transformation earns a delighted hand-fluttering of silent applause. "That is /perfect/, Jax!" "For -- when I need a cheer up?" Jackson echoes this slow, blinking as if thinking something over. His head shakes abruptly, and beneath Micah's hand his shoulder stiffens even as his smile quirks wider-brighter. "Right, yessir, okay, tea. Settlin' down. I'm /on/ it. Lemme just -- fridge this -- and put the --" For a moment he just stands, staying by Micah even with the tension tightening his posture. But then he moves away quickly, to put the basil, tomatoes, and cilantro in the fridge. The rest he does not put away yet. Leaves in the bag, on the counter. "Think I'm gonna talk to Hive tomorrow. Now he's /back/ I don't think he needs the -- needs the -- /us/ no more." "Wait..." Melinda's mood, as tentatively cheerful as it was a second ago is starting to evaporate. "Jax, I'm sorry if you think I'm presuming or if you think I've been reading your mind or emotions through Hive. I... I actually met with Micah yesterday and we talked about how I could do better ignoring some of that stuff." She leans against the counter and picks up her cup again. "I came by to cheer myself up. I know from /knowing/ you that cold, gray days make you down, so I thought maybe some fake spring would help us both. But there's no point if you've already cooked, so why not save something nice for later? There. No super powers. No mind reading. Just... me and my thoughts." She picks up her cup and starts to sip quietly, trying to drink some of the hot liquid down. Micah’s brow furrows a bit at Jax’s mixed jumble of body language, but this is as far as he gets toward questioning it. “Hive is back! That’s great news!” Fingers of one hand snake their way through his hair briefly. “I guess it’s Intervention time, then… I get the feelin’ it’s not gonna go easy.” "He ain't never -- well, /I/ ain't never seen him have this many people this long." Jackson shrugs a shoulder, removing a glass casserole dish from the fridge and transferring it to the oven. Only then does he turn back to the counter, curling his fingers around his teacup with a warm smile. "No, sorry, I -- sorry. It wasn't that -- I didn't think that --" Slowly the odd-glassy look starts to fade from his skin, leaving it more just -- skinlike. And sort of blushing. "You need cheerin' up?" The petals on Melinda's clothes brighten, a little bit. "Yeah." Mel responds, quiet. She glances at Micah and then down to the ground. "Romantic - or lack of romantic issues. It's not really worth going over, but it's definitely dragging me down. Nothing to be done yet... but, I guess, well, maybe if Hive is back..." There is a slight blush in her cheeks, her attention still very much locked on the ground. "Let me know if you need back-up... I'm assumin' maybe havin' some of the folks what are in his head bein' there in /person/ would be helpful? Maybe that's completely off base." Micah frowns a little. Really, he doesn't know how any of this works. "Oh no. Do we need more chocolate?" Micah offers Mel a reassuring smile as he picks up his own teacup, holding it close enough to appreciate its aroma. "Might be helpful. Though you might be workin'? Maybe? I mean it'll probably hafta be morning we talk to him, in the evening I got a-- /I/ got work, Dr. Saavedro is --" Jackson might not even have /told/ Micah about his new clinic-guard position so this might not make a lot of sense. "I guess we'll see." He shrugs, but is watching Melinda over the rim of his teacup. "Oh, gosh. Was there someone -- is there -- I mean only if you want to talk about it but even if you don't I can just -- give you pie an' hugs?" His head tilts, slightly, though, and he asks uncertainly, "-- Hive?" "Maybe." Melinda admits, still quiet. She takes a long sip and then sets down her cup. "I don't know what to say. There was a kiss. There were three people involved. No one wants to talk about it but me. How does one even deal with a situation like this?" She shakes her head dismissively. "So that's the long and the short of it." She inhales. "I actually am looking forward to the casserole." "Oh...mornin'. Prob'ly." Micah scrunches up his nose again. "Mornin's aren't usually so good for me. But. If it ends up takin' more than one talkin', I'm your guy." Fortunately, the twins sort of explained what Jax was doing? Micah is assembling a clearer picture on that, at least. He hrms thoughtfully at Mel's predicament. "Yeah, it's kind of rough when y'can't get someone to talk about somethin'." "Yeah, mm, well, morning if we can /get/ Ryan an' Hive even /awake/ before noon," Jackson admits with a slight wrinkle of his nose. It evens out as he sips, slowly, at his tea. His expression relaxes into something more appreciative. "Three -- oh. /Oh/. But do you -- Jim -- Hive -- do you --" His teeth drag against his lip. "Yeah, that's -- complicated. I mean it sure /sounds/ like the kinda thing you should talk about. Do you want -- I mean, what /do/ you want?" "I don't know what I want." Melinda admits honestly. "I want them to talk about it, but I don't know. Jim's not happy, kind of quiet around me. It's weird. Hive's been gone, so I can't get a feel for him." She purses her lips and turns her tea cup slowly. "I'm free in the morning, you know. I don't have work until it's time for Open Mic, or, well, set up before that." She reaches back with one hand and scrubs at the back of her hair. "Look, I'm sorry to show up here and be all very strange at you. I just figured, being around people is better than not, right?" Micah sips at his tea tentatively. Hey, it’s kind of nice! And perhaps successful? “Agreed…maybe somebody will be willin’ to talk more once the mindmeldin’ thing is done? It can be a little intimidatin’ to talk serious things when you’re not sure what you’re puttin’ out there.” He fidgets with his teacup. “I wouldn’t say you’re bein’ strange. You’re in a spot of confusion. Perfectly understandable confusion. And people are a nice distraction while you’re waitin’ to get confusion sorted.” "It might help to get out of -- out of, well, each other's heads," Jax agrees, quietly. "An' you don't gotta be sorry, I mean, we're friends. I am happy to be stranged at. An' springed at. And --" He shrugs a shoulder. "I know I -- I know s'harder sometimes for me to talk when I ain't sure what -- how much is just /spilling/ over, y'know? So hopefully afterwards y'all can sit down and maybe it'll be less weird." "Yeah. Maybe that's it. Hopefully." Melinda nods and keeps sipping at her tea, finally getting a good mouthful of the delicious liquid after a while. She just absorbs enjoyment from it, then swallows. "Thanks. Sometimes it's hard reaching out for people's help. I really appreciate being able to come to you guys." Micah looks /excessively/ pleased that Mel seems to like the tea. She’s a tea person! Tea people know when tea tastes right, right? “Think nothin’ of it, hon. That’s one of those Friend Jobs. That friends do. In addition to supplyin’ chocolate.” He happy-grins over the rim of his teacup. "Hopefully. But, I mean, even if they stay stubborn forever we'll /still/ be here for pie and hugs and sparkling." Jackson sips at his tea, eye closing for a moment. He, also, seems to be rather focused for a moment on just /enjoying/ the tea. "Yeah," he murmurs, half into his cup, "s'hard to -- reach out for -- sometimes." He opens his eye, glancing over at the oven. His mouth curls back into a quick smile. "Casserole soon. Wait do you /really/ have chocolate because I will eat /all/ the chocolate. Basically ever. Well, okay, not all of it cuz /lots/ of it has milk but -- I'd eat /lots/ of the chocolate. My pie has no chocolate. Just um peaches and ginger." "You know what? I'll go get some." Melinda stretches a little and heads out of the kitchen, bumping purposefully close to Micah and Jackson on her way out, wishing for closeness. "Micah treated me last night and you guys listened through all my problems, so I'll go get some chocolate and I'll be back in a little bit, okay?" She is pretty much on her way to the closet now. “Ooo, can we do the pie and hugs and sparklin’ thing forever instead of the stubborn forever thing? That sounds nice.” Micah makes an exaggeratedly sad face when Jax requests chocolate. “Ohno! I don’t actually have any right now! D’you need chocolate? I can get you /so much/ chocolate. How d’you know if chocolate is vegan? Ohgosh, I /love/ ginger. Have you had the chocolate with the candied ginger in?” But then /Mel/ is offering to go on a chocolate run. “Mel, you don’t have to do that, really…” Hopefully he’s not inducing any hypocrisy whiplash! "You read the ingredients? Some dark chocolates are. And /yes/ oh my gosh Chocolove makes /delicious/ ginger dark chocolate Meeeeel." Jax is maybe turning puppy eyes on her, and answering the close-bumping with a brief SQUEEZE of hug that -- sends a brief twinge of pain through the mental link but is warm nevertheless. "-- If you find ginger dark chocolate can you get /so/ /much/ of it?" Jax is at least not about this shameless begging because it is /chocolate/ on the line. "Because yes I have a /desperate/ need," he answers Micah's sadface, "for /all/ the chocolate. In the /world/." Melinda hugs Jackson back very tightly and rubs his back a little as she smiles down at him. "Yes, Jax. I will find all the chocolove ginger chocolate and bring you as much as I can carry. Micah will be your substitute chocolate until I get back, okay? He's got a great affect on the soul. Kind of soothing, don't you think?" She smiles and him and gives Jax one last squeeze before breaking free. "I shouldn't be more than a half hour or so. Don't eat all of the casserole." Micah /was/ sipping tea all dignified-like before Mel offered him up as a stand-in for /candy/. Now he is kind of choke-sputtering and blushing furiously. But still waving politely! Since Mel is leaving. Jackson blushes, too. Furiously. His head dips, the glance he flicks between Melinda and Micah shy. "He does have a -- great effect on my --" More blushing. He drinks his tea. "Thanks, Mel." And Melinda is be-coated, be-shoed, and out the door before the happy blushing can end. She'll be back, but not on camera. Micah manages to get his fluids-going-wrong-places under control. “Oh…oh goodness. Now my /sinuses/ are delightfully fragrant, as well…” He fans at his face with his non-teacup bearing hand. Jackson's nose crinkles up. "Oh, honey-honey --" He crinkles his nose, moving to the kitchen table to grab a napkin and offer it to Micah. "-- I mean at /least/ it smells delicious? It's a good -- it's good tea. Just not supposed to be drunk with your nose." Micah accepts the napkin to dab at his lips, perhaps obscuring his impish smirk. "Oh, I knew there was /somethin'/ I'd forget to ask. Figured out the types and the amounts and the temperatures and the preparations...forgot to ask /how/ to drink it. Leave it to me to get it all cockeyed." Jackson's lips quirk up, a quiet laugh accompanying this; his knuckles press to his lips a moment later, stifling any further sound as, for a moment, the light around the room shivers. "Mouth," he advises seriously. "Y'want I should write it down?" Micah tries quite hard to maintain an equally solemn affect. “I think I might be able to remember that part. I was payin’ /very/ close attention.” If his eyes were closely observing Jax’s lips, it was a purely /studious/ observation, of course. Jackson blushes, deep, his eyes dropping. There's another ripple of lights, and then he steps closer to Micah. To -- reach around the other man to open a drawer so that he can retrieve potholders. "Should dinner," he says quietly, and then, "y'do that with your mouth, too." Micah finally breaks into a tittering giggle. He is /not good/ at Serious Face. Even Pretend Serious Face. He has, however, managed no worse blush than a muted shell pink, just dusting his cheekbones. "See, I'm /fairly/ sure I've got food figured out by now. It's just the tea that's new." He is back to smiling at Jax, and even politely gives him space to get to the potholders. "Pretty good at eatin' things already," he reiterates unnecessarily. Jackson's lips curl upward again, at Micah's giggle. But his cheeks are flushing darker. "Pretty good at -- yeah. You -- are." He isn't potholding anything, with his potholders. He's just wringing them in his hands. “Those potholders start hurlin’ insults at you all quiet-like? ‘Cause I didn’t hear ‘em myself.” Micah sets his teacup down on the countertop to better gesture at Jax’s cloth-strangling. He clears his throat softly. “Should…probably get things out of the oven. Before they get…too hot. That would be bad. Since Mel’s comin’ back soon.” "You might not'a heard 'em, they ain't Borged," Jackson says, wryly. "But - yeah. Mel's -- coming back and we wouldn't want --" << want >> is the strongest sentiment that echoes through, here, as he trails off. He -- puts the potholders back in the drawer! Sort of a distracted-absent motion to stop /wringing/ at them. And shuts the door to glance at the clock and then open the oven instead. << Don’t need telepathy to hear some things… >> “Don’t you…um…need those?” Micah arches a questioning brow as Jax puts the potholders back in the drawer, abused but unused. “I mean, unless you just wanted to take ‘em out and give ‘em what-for as an example to the others. I don’t mean to question your methods.” "Oh. /Oh/, right." Jackson blushes, sheepish, and retrieves the potholders /again/. This time he puts them /on/ his hands. "-- I don't actually um need them exactly but it's much /easier/ --" His cheeks are still flushing. His head dips, at the overheard thought, and he is probably slower about taking out the casserole and putting it on the stove than he needs to be. He switches the oven off. His own mental stream is mostly very determinedly telling himself, << don't do it don't do it don't do it -- >> in steady repetition. "Hey look," he says, tossing a crooked-bright grin over his shoulder to Micah, "You drink tea with your nose, I occasionally put potholders in their place. No judging." Micah watches this process silently for some time. "Oh, no judging at all. I just...like to be helpful." He pulls the drawer open yet again, reaching to remove the potholders from Jax's hands for him. "Helpfully helping potholders escape fabric abuse," is his declared intention in the action. The << don't do it don't do it >> chorus in Jackson's mind gets louder at Micah's proximity, but his smile is easy as Micah un-potholders his hands. His hands lift, towards Micah, but then drop back to his side. His nose crinkles up with a slightly wider smile. "People for the Ethical Treatment of Fabric don't make a snappy acronym, though." If Micah's hands brush slowly along Jax's during the process of potholder retrieval, that's surely because of the care needed in such a delicate process. Liberating traumatized potholders. They are tucked away in their drawer like children into their beds. "I thought we weren't judging? The nice people at PET-F worked /so hard/ on the logo. I believe they hired a /weaver/." Jackson's head bows, at this brush, his breath catching. There's another shiver that ripples through the light around them, and he turns a small amused smile up at Micah. "No judgment. I bet the -- bet the people at --" But this attempt at continuing the levity just sort of falters, drops off. "There's, um, there's sriracha in the fridge. For the -- casserole. Hot. To make it hot." There’s no particular reason that Micah’s teeth have caught hold of his lower lip right now… “You did mention that earlier…puttin’ hot sauce in. I should get that.” He busies himself with digging through the refrigerator, fetching the bottle off a shelf, depositing it on the counter next to his nearly empty teacup. “There, all ready. For if it’s needed.” Jackson's eye is focused rather intently on Micah's lip as it catches in his teeth. But then the other man is turning for the fridge, and Jax occupies /himself/ with getting two glasses of water to put on the table. And a spatula for serving the casserole. He rests the spatula on top of the casserole, staring at it afterwards like it might decide to serve itself. One hand rests against the edge of the range, his other lifting to rub fingers against the back of his neck. "-- wonder how far Mel's gone to search for chocolate." He sounds a little distracted. Micah’s brow creases in little worry lines with Jax’s rub at his neck. By itself, it wouldn’t have been cause for concern, but. “You okay?” He inclines his chin in Jax’s direction, to indicate that the movement is what has caused him to ask. “You kinda…pained at Mel before. And tensed at me before that. You hurt?” Side effects of analysing how people move for a living, this would be one. "N-no. I mean -- I mean no. Ain't hurt" << physically >> "just real sore," Jackson admits with a sheepish duck of his head. "I mighta kinda overdid it in training, um, yesterday I was -- there were direwolves and wights and grindylows and I pretty much spent myself." This all makes perfect sense, right? He turns away from the stove, back towards Micah, slipping his hand into the other man's. To tug, towards the kitchen table -- well, in theory. In practice he doesn't actually move that way /himself/ so mostly it's just a tug towards /him/. << Not pokin'. But you can say. If you want. >> "You been LARPin'...or just get /really into/ your computer games?" Micah only looks about half-confused. Despite the concerned and the confused and the everything else...Jax's hand wins out in his expression, blooming into a smile. He lets himself be tugged close, but uses this as a pretence to gain leverage with which steer Jax toward a chair. "I don't -- really have any computer games. What's -- what's LARPing?" Jackson is easily steered. He sinks into a chair and leans forward to pull a red-and-black trivet from a small stack of them, and then turns to frown at the casserole left on the stove. /Willing/ it closer. Sadly he is not telekinetic. Inside he is a muddled /mix/ of wants. Want to talk. Want /not/ to talk and just to /be/ with Micah. Want food. Want to /stop/ feeling the need he is currently feeling. This last one is hammering away at the others. "Tell me something," is what he ends up saying, his fingers fidgeting at the embroidery on his jeans. "Live Action Role Playin'. Actin' out games. Some people just point index cards at each other. Others wail on each other with Styrofoam equipment. It can, apparently, get pretty intense. It just...would make sense for...Dire Wolves 'n' stuff." Micah scrunches one eye closed for a moment. Not that Jax could see this, because Micah has slipped behind his chair. Fingers trace over the other man's neck and shoulders with a superficial level of pressure, quietly assessing the muscles beneath. "Somethin' is an awful broad topic. Y'want me to pick, or y'got somethin' in mind?" "I lit trees on fire. I guess s'a kinda roleplaying." Jackson's head tips slowly forward at the trace of fingers against his skin. Beneath pale skin and vivid ink his muscles are knotty-tense. He rests his elbows on the table, dropping his head to rest in his hands. "Anything. Somethin' on your mind. Somethin' important to you. I just --" << -- don't want to just /dump/ all my problems -- >> << don't want to think about -->> << -- don't want to /think/ -- >> His palm digs in against his eye. "I want to hear about you," he says, softer. "Well /that's/ a funny way t'be a tree-hugger," Micah jokes lightly. His hands slip easily to a more moderate pressure, kneading globally with full hand contact along the upper traps and working into little circles with fingertips only at points of increased tension. "I've spent a lot of time around physical therapists," he offers first, as it is apropos of the current situation. "Learned a few tricks." He pauses again, hands working steadily in silence. It is hard to think of things to say that are both important and not causing someone to think. And something on his mind... "You're important to me," is what comes out, finally. In reassurance? Or just as what was /there/. It's hard to tell. Jackson blushes, deeper, at this answer. Beneath Micah's hands his skin is, in its normal state, quite a bit warmer than most people's; today it burns hotter still. For a while Jax just rests his head in his palms, relaxing fractionally as Micah kneads at his muscles. "I just -- just feel like I done nothin' but /lean/ on you. Just keep dumpin' all my baggage on /your/ shoulders and it ain't -- I don't want to --" << feels good, >> he acknowledges despite himself. "We should --" << feel good. >> "eat. 'Fore Mel gets back." Micah is busy sliding the pad of his thumb along the belly of a muscle, running diagonally from neck to shoulder blade. “Ain’t been but a bit of leanin’ here and there. It’s okay. I think everybody else is used to leanin’ on you all the time.” His thumb continues to follow that same path at a sedate pace, neck to shoulder blade, shoulder blade to neck. Coaxing ease by sheer repetition. “We could wait’n’ eat with her. Should be back soon.” "But they ain't," comes out in a rush, Jax's head bowing again. "They ain't leaning on me I /want/ them to lean and they --" What he does not say in words is filled in mentally, memories of the three boys flickering rapidly through his mind. It comes with a sharp heavy dose of ache. "Sorry," he mumbles, "I don't -- yes. We could wait. You was supposed to be like my psuedo chocolate in the meantime. To tide me over. I don't think chocolate'd ever touch me so nice, though." Micah's hand has moved to mirror the stroking of thumb over muscle on the opposite side, the same slow repetition. "It might take some time. I think they're too worried about someone else pullin' the chair out from under 'em to let it take their full weight like before, just as of yet." He is intuiting and extrapolating more than a little. But. This is exactly what Jax claimed he did /not/ want to talk about. "Hmm... I think chocolate tryin' to do this would just end up all messy an' melty an' there just isn't much else to do but..." The hand stops pressing at muscles to instead slip around, tracing Jax's jawbone to the angle of his chin. Tilting it gently so that Micah can find Jax's lips with his own. Sweet, forgetful kisses are apparently what chocolate would be offering. There is a host of worry, here, a host of nagging pain, but Jackson is trying determinedly not to just /dwell/. Micah is making that a good bit easier. His mouth presses gently back to Micah's, his hand lifting to wrap around the other man's. There's still a muddled chaos of feeling trying hard /not/ to surface in his mind, but what /does/ surface, quiet but firm, is, << I love you. >> Telepathy is extremely handy for freeing up mouths to continue kisses until the buzzer sounds again, and Micah takes full advantage. << I love you, too. >>