Logs:Confluence

Confluence
Dramatis Personae Flicker, Hive	2019-06-08 Just breathe. (Set just after Flicker goes to see Steve.)
Location Apt 403 - 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. A widescreen television stands against the wall opposite the couch, shelving beside it holding a host of video games from different consoles. More shelving beside the windows on the far wall carries stacks of board games, as well as sourcebooks from various RPGs. 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 and one bathroom situated between them, split between the three people who live here. It's quiet in the nerds' house, tonight. Actually cleaned up in here, the living room spotless, Hive and Flicker's bedroom straightened up as well. It isn't all that late, but Hive is ready for bed regardless, propped up in bed in black pajama pants, no shirt, a Kindle resting against one crooked knee, the other leg stretched out in front of him, bedsheet draped in a bit of a tangle over him. Cat curls up somewhere in the tangle, purring at a steady rumble against his belly. One of his hands is occupied rubbing a finger at Cat's chin, the other, at long intervals, tapping at the screen of his reader. Flicker can be felt long before he appears. The rapid in and out flash of his mind grows closer to the apartment in disjointed fits and starts, his thoughts spinning in chaotic whirl about each other. A stark spatial awareness that threads him through the park and towards the apartment window. A haze of fear that has by now just become regular background static, steadfastly Not Thinking about what's about to happen tomorrow. A loud hammering guilt that picks up snapshots of memory -- Steve's concerned face, the fierce heat of attraction, the warm smells of grilled cheese and tomato soup, a hand resting on Flicker's shoulder -- and suffuses these with a sickening regret. Over all of it, louder, screaming, a gnawing /incompleteness/ that is currently desperately grasping with inexpert unpsionic hunger in Hive's direction. The quiet stirring of Hive's minds flexes outward with an almost languid ease that belies the care with which it wraps around Flicker's. Before he's made it back to the building, the caress of Hive's mind is enfolding the other man's with a touch soft and immense all at once. Sliding slow and deep to answer that hunger with a gentle press that fills that emptiness with a familiar rush of commingled identity. Twining Flicker's mind seamlessly in with his own, taking over from the other man's erratic blinking path to draw him in to the apartment, into the /room/, closed doors be damned. Flicker's mind unfurls against Hive's, into Hive's, with a sense of relief, a sense of surrender. Easing down into the enveloping touch with a keen gratitude when Hive's control takes over, the overtaxed chaos in his mind only too glad to give this over as well. In the joined realm of their mind, now, the fragmented images of Flicker's evening resolve into greater clarity. Waffling on the street nearby Steve's apartment for far longer than he /ought/. Spending a good portion of that time in prayer -- partially about the upcoming raid but moreso (to his mind, absurdly, incongruously) about the guilty tangle of feelings he can't shake. Actually texting Steve, going up to the apartment. Stumbling, scared and awkward, over his words. Steve's polite rebuffing of -- something he wasn't sure he was even asking. The fumbling half-explanation of Prometheus. The heavy looming feeling that that will be the only guy he ever tells. The lingering sense of absurdity that this bothers him more than that they may die tomorrow. When Hive draws him into the bedroom he melts into this, too. Curling in against Hive's side (with a small disgruntled protest from Cat as he fits himself onto the bed), nestling into this physical space with the same reflexive familiarity. His cheek presses to Hive's shoulder, his breathing short and ragged. Hive has set his Kindle aside, is lifting his bony arm to wrap it around Flicker's shoulders just as Flicker fetches up against him. He bows his head, burying his face against Flicker's hair and for a long while just holding his friend there. He takes in the jumble of stress and guilt and worry without comment. Only a quiet watchfulness that touches upon each thought as it comes up, acknowledges it, continues holding Flicker through to the next. At length he does move. Tips Cat off their lap, despite his complaints. With no real disconnect in where his mind ends and Flicker's begin, it's a seamless process to have Flicker lift his head -- his arms -- to use his own hands to strip the polo shirt and undershirt from him. Use Flicker's power to drop both in the hamper. Shift the other man enough to strip his shoes, socks, khakis, next. The arm and its complex harness take longer, and more care; they're both practiced at it, at least. Hive flicks the light off before he returns to bed. Wraps Flicker back into his arms, pulling the other man in against him as he tugs the sheet up over them both. Flicker is still and quiet, the chaotic rapids of his thoughts slowly relaxing into the soothing stream of Hive's. He closes his eyes, the riot quieting to something less defined. A deep swell of ache, a gnawing yearning, a yawning terror, a heavy exhaustion that he has not been able to shake, lately. When Hive moves he barely thinks about it, completing the impulses Hive begins, undressing for bed (being undressed for bed?) in silence. None of these other feelings recede, but they do grow, at least, more manageable as he tucks himself at Hive's side. His head rests on the other man's chest, arm curling around Hive's waist to cling there tight. There's a slow relaxation of boundaries in the mental web that weaves them together. The thoughts and feelings, the sense experiences of their team and support network, can be felt muted and murmuring in soft background cadence, a many layered presence that ripples just beneath the more acute pulse of Flicker's own distress. Hive's eyes have closed, his chest rising and falling slow and steady under Flicker's head. As he breathes in deep, one aspect of their shared network comes into sharper focus. Somewhere distant, the scent of salt-spray and the rhythm of the ocean; a near-manic crackle of thought that has been lulled into greater tranquility by the steady rote of prayers, rosary beads trailing through calloused fingers. A slow exhale, the spark dissipating back into the others. Breathe in -- on a fierce rush of heat and passion. Copper on the tongue, a tangle of wings and claws and low rumbling growl. No room, here, for the tide of worries that await tomorrow -- tonight only a deep pulse of love that pounds heavy in their veins. A slow exhale, their heartbeat syncing again to the rest. Breathe in -- on a wisp-curl of incense, a quiet splash of herbal tea filling enameled cast-iron cups. A warm solid weight in cool webbed fingers. A quiet determination that is, currently, taking a backseat to the soothing warmth of tea pulled in in long savoured swallows. A slow exhale, releasing this into the cool dark depths of their collective mental pool. Breathe in -- on senses alight with blinding pleasure. The whisper of buttery-soft sheets against skin. The grounding of uncompromising control -- of a lover's yielding adoration -- of a braid of green and black cord where it cinches around their left wrist. Of the cup of tea on the nightstand, waiting in readiness. A slow exhale, the spell dispersed to do its work. Breathe in -- on the rich warm scent of spices and simmering beans, the meditative stirring of the large pot. Concentrated focus on vegetables growing up out of the earth, clay oven built together with family, roasted chilies stuffed and filling. The calming thoughts of home, the echoes of it found in the slow-cooking stew in front of them. A slow exhale, returning this as well to the earth. Breathe in -- on a dance of candlelight, the fruit scent that rises mingling with the hot sweet smells of sex in the room. Soft quick gasps, the tingling feel of hands and lips on skin, the crooning of Solange singing 'Borderline' behind it all. These things take second place to the deep and fevered intensity of joy, the sublime certainty of /knowing/ they are loved and desired and returning it in kind. A slow exhale, clear harmony pulsing electric across their nerves. Breathe in -- on the acrid smells of turpentine and oil pants, a canvas with half-finished painting: Flicker, in a partitioned-off workspace at Chimaera, crouched to a piece of furniture he has been working. The ornate chair he is constructing is in the process of transforming itself into a huge wooden alicorn. Here in the riotously-bright mental landscape is an intent determination, an intent /love/, an intent prayer to join it. Quietly -- fervently -- pleading for the teleporter's safety. Slow exhale. Hive's knuckles knead gently against Flicker's back as he lets their world fade back into darkness. Flicker's breaths fall in time with Hive's, unconsciously steadying from their ragged gasps as they shift into synchrony. As each different facet of their network comes briefly into clearer view he holds Hive tighter. Buries himself in each of these in turn, the shared experiences -- feelings -- rising up to blend with his own. He presses his face harder to his friend's chest, a steady but silent trickle of tears falling to pool against Hive's skin as he lets himself be carried, slowly, off to sleep.