Logs:Downlow

Downlow
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Hive, Steve	2019-07-14 "Do you pray?"
Location Village Lofts 403 - 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. Steve is dressed for Art today, in a black t-shirt and blue jeans liberally splashed with many-colored paint spots, and black combat boots. He also carries a great round shield with a silver star in a blue field surrounded by red and silver concentric bands -- newly cleaned and polished -- by a new set of straps and harness, slung over his left shoulder. He hesitates in the fourth story hallway, but only for a moment before he forges ahead to knock on Geekhaus's door. His mind is a chaos of doubt and worry, difficult to tease out any individual stream at the moment, but a nameless determination overshadows all of this. Dusk's mind is a haze of hunger and exhaustion, but for all the barely-contained fury and ravenous gnawing he has been oddly focused. Intent on his computer for some time -- though at the moment he's just waiting for a seemingly interminable task to finish processing. Sitting in his room in faded brown corduroys and no shirt, his beard fuller than usual, hair unkempt, he sips at a bottle of Bawls while Alanna wrestles one wingclaw. The knock on the door draws his sharp attention -- equal part annoyance and intense relief at being pulled away from the computer. With no alarm pangs coming from the other bedroom, he is unhurried as he goes to the door, peeks out, opens it. "Huh," comes his greeting, "you got it back." "Hey! Dusk. How are you doing?" Steve's smile is friendly but a little forced. << Gosh, he's certainly very -- wait, got what back? >> But he realizes as soon as he thinks this what Dusk must have meant. "Oh -- yes, it seemed to have gotten passed around a bit, but Jax -- brought it to me." << I shouldn't have come. What if he doesn't want to see me, and -- dammit, Rogers, just -- >> "So ah...I hope I'm not disturbing anyone's Sunday afternoon, but is Flicker home?" << Does he still /live/ here? Or does Hive? >> "Good. I mean, it suits you." Dusk straightens, a brief twitch tightening his jaw, tightening the lean muscles in his arm. There's a creak of protest from the -- already kind of warped and dented doorknob where his hand clenches. "Flicker's not here. Sorry. Did you need --" His brows pull inward. "Something." Steve's eyes flick down here Dusk's hand is crushing the door handle. << I know he's /strong/, but that's...maybe that just happens sometimes? >> There's no fear in him, though. "Does he -- still live here? I just --" His head gives a quick shake. "I've just been worried -- haven't seen him at all since his ah, break-up." Dusk blinks. Stares blankly at Steve for a long moment, turning this sentence over in his head as if it will make more sense on a second -- or third -- viewing. When this fails to produce any results in his mind he gives up and just asks with open confusion: "Since his /what/ now?" Steve also blinks. << Oh, maybe they use a different word for that these days? >> "Sorry, I meant since he and Hive, ah...separated?" He raises his eyebrows slightly. "I don't know the circumstances, but it's often a difficult experience, and I..." He trails off, searching Dusk's face for cues, suddenly uncertain. The door to the other bedroom opens. Hive's eyes are bloodshot, his face pale, jeans hanging low on his hips, his brown hedgehog tee sitting too loose on his too-skinny frame, a very patchy scraggle of stubble dotting his face. "We weren't dating." His voice is gruff. He doesn't look directly at Steve, just shuffling through the living room towards the kitchen to go fill himself a glass of water. "Separated?" Dusk is now trying to connect this, somehow, to being cut /off/ from Hive, disconnected from the familiar mental network. It's only when Hive actually replies that he actually makes proper sense of the current line of conversation. He looks no /less/ confused, though, taking a step back from the door to look between Hive and Steve. << Why would he think you -- >> It doesn't /concretely/ finish, but in his mind there's no surprise that someone would think Hive and Flicker were a couple. Only an utter bemusement at how someone would come to think they /stopped/. "They're not -- they were never -- they're not even queer," he fumbles, hand lifting to rub against his beard. Steve's mouth drops open. Then closes quickly again. << What? How did I get it /so/ wrong? >> He's rifling through his memory frantically now, but very deliberately stops again. << Not important right now. >> "I'm sorry, I -- misunderstood. Something." His blush creeps up slow but hot. << /Several/ things. But then, why has he been so scarce? Was I /that/ awkward? >> His pale blue eyes focus on Dusk suddenly. << Oh. /Oh,/ do they not /know/? But surely /Hive/ knows, and he certainly /looks/ like a man who just -- oh gosh, he can hear me. >> His cheeks burn even hotter, but he's distracted from his mortification by the memory of Flicker at his apartment, how upset he'd been. And how haggard so many others in his life have looked over the past month. And all the cancelled classes at Chimera that weekend. << I should talk to him. I'll track him down some other way. >> "Thank you for setting me str -- right." He just barely manages to keep his cringe internal. Hive's eyes flit very briefly to Dusk at this last statement, his shoulders tightening and a small shiver running through him. His teeth grind as he slumps down against the counter, resting his elbows there and staring at his glass a long moment before tossing some pills from his palm into his mouth and swallowing them with a quick gulp. "He still --" There's a crackling unsteadiness in his voice; his head bows and he takes a longer swallow of water before trying again. More steadily. "-- He still lives here. He's just not here now." His back mostly to Hive, Dusk does not notice the glance or the tension. His wings twitch uncomfortably against his back, though, his own shoulders tightening at Hive's reply. His eyes have narrowed on Steve curiously. "Why did you think they broke up?" Hive's reaction to Dusk's statement is not lost on /Steve/, though. << /Ah./ Well, I've certainly made a hash of this. >> Rueful, worried. "He came to me a while ago in some distress, and I took something he said in the -- mistaken, as it turns out -- context of him and Hive being...a couple. I'm afraid I upset him and --" << -- if I'd known he wasn't looking for a rebound neither of us was ready for, I might have handled it a /bit/ better. >> He vacillates. Runs a hand through his hair. Notes the two other men's odd behavior. << Still, something is /very/ wrong here, and I doubt it's anything to do with me. Probably none of my business... >> "Anyhow, I'll call another time, then. Sorry to bother you, and I hope you have a lovely day." He hasn't actually even started to turn to go before he changes his mind, though. << What if I could have helped and didn't ask? >> "Look. I'm pretty sure he's in trouble. I don't know what, and you don't have to tell me, but if I can help, be it with time or money --" << or violence or...publicity, I guess? Seems unlikely. >> "-- I will. No questions asked." Hive is still staring at his water glass, his eyes unblinking, now. "He's more like my brother." His voice is rough when he does speak up. His teeth grind again, and he's slow to drag his gaze up toward Steve. "Was that night the last time you talked to him?" "I think they get that a lot." Dusk sounds a little wry. "They're just -- close." The sting of grief that hits him this time is muted, a buried ache somewhere beneath the everpresent sheen of hunger. "Yeah. You too." He's just tipping his head up in a nod to Steve, the tip of his wing flexing in a small wave, when the other man continues. He glances back to Hive. Then over to Steve again. His own fingers curl through his messy hair, the exhaustion in his mind palpable. << don't even know what resources he has >> Overlaps with a mental image of Captain America, polished and patriotic beside several military top brass at a Memorial Day commemoration, overlaps with a small glimmering shred of hope. He takes a step back, door opening wider as his wings slump behind him. "He's missing. We're -- trying to find him." The explanation -- that they're like brothers, that they're /just close/, finds the echo of a raw, rending agony in Steve. The memory that surfaces unbidden, though, isn't dramatic -- a scruffy dark-haired man in tattered gray and olive drab, rolling his eyes as he bandages a bloody gash on Steve's forearm. He is quick to shove this back down, and outwardly he only swallows. "Yeah. I...understand." To Hive's question Steve only nods. << I should have talked to him anyway, rebound or no. >> Dusk's revelation wipes the hindsight from his mind entirely. His eyes go wide, and his mental landscape snaps into hyperfocus, tense and ready. He steps inside, finally. "Missing? For how long?" His mind starts flashing through possibilities -- hospitals, jails, the East River -- but he stops himself short. << Don't get ahead of yourself. >> "Do we canvas? Put up flyers? I'm sure there's more -- high-tech ways, now." "Sorry." It's just a quiet whisper, from Hive, his weight sinking further onto his elbows. He takes another gulp of water, leaves the glass half-empty on the counter before going over to slump down onto a side of the couch. "Wednesday. S'complicated. We know where he is, we just. Don't know. Where he is. Dusk and some friends are searching." His teeth grind again. "In high tech ways." << don't actually /know/ if he's still there, >> Dusk is trying to stop himself thinking, but it comes up all the same. He closes the door behind Steve and moves to perch on the arm of the couch, curling a wing around Hive's shoulders. His sharp teeth drag lightly against his lower lip, and he is slow to speak, turning over various possible replies carefully in his mind. "There's people out there who," he starts, but ends this only with a soft unhappy growl. "We know who has him. We just have to figure out where. I don't know that there's much to do until we find that out but --" His other wing hitches up. "Do you pray?" Steve isn't startled by Hive's apology, isn't upset by it, though there's still a lingering ache where the memory had been. "Thank you." But then he gives a perplexed frown. << Well, that. /Does/ sounds complicated. >> "I pray. Every day and night." He scrubs a hand over his chin, five-o-clock shadow rasping quietly against his palm. "Who /has/ him," he echoes. The adrenaline-sharpened clarity of his mind plucks out a very different memory: recent, Flicker sitting at the counter beside him, his voice doubled in Steve's mind with Hive's just now: << It's complicated. >> Then, continuing alone, << They have these labs. Do these experiments on us, I -- I was in for a while, and I just. They're always /after/ us, I don't want to end up... end up... >> Steve pushes /that/ memory down, too, pulse racing now. << Maybe that's not what they mean, but... >> "Look. If..." He licks his lips. Lowers his voice. "If 'they' are the government -- I may have ways to get information." << And I have a bargaining chip, now. >> Hive leans into Dusk's side, his shoulders trembling faintly beneath the large wing. His breath catches sharp and ragged at the memory that surfaces for Steve. At the sound of Flicker's voice there's a /push/ up against Steve's mind, heavy and very noticeable, a desperation-tinged mental weight coiling in against Steve with a briefly painful pressure. He reins it back in with a swallow, with a tightening of shoulders, with his cheek pressing hard against Dusk's ribs. "It's what we meant. Do you --" His fingers curl hard against his knees. "Do you really think you. That you could find out. Something? I don't -- the labs are --" This only ends in another shaky breath. Dusk's wing rubs slowly against Hive's shoulder, wrapping the other man closer. "We're doing what we can," he tells Steve quietly, "but we're a little desperate. These people have -- I'm just not sure how long they'll keep --" His lips compress. "If you can find anything out, we'd appreciate it." Steve's breath hitches at the push of Hive's telepathy, though he doesn't seem to know how to interpret it. "I don't know. The agency that brought me back -- they have no obligation to me, and maybe they don't even have any way to find out about these labs, but I can ask." His jaw tightens at the flare of anger and fear in him. << How long they'll /keep/ him? >> He just nods, once, firmly. "Not going to stop me praying, though." "Sorry," Hive says again, gruffly. He rubs fingertips against his temple, kneading there hard. "There's every chance they'll kill him. If they haven't already. We have history." He is slow to sit up from under the shelter of Dusk's wing, slow, too, to look over at Steve. "Please. Just -- let us know." Dusk squeezes one last time. He leans over to kiss the top of Hive's shaggy hair, standing with a slow roll of shoulders to start trudging back towards his room. "Forgetting the other possibility. Maybe they already know about this shit and they just don't give a fuck."