floating in a tin can

[sms] I need your help with something
[sms] Do you have time tonight?

Wolfgang hasn't slept in 36 hours. Their place was starting to look like a home, not a homeless person's squat, but now the front room looks like an arts and crafts supply truck rammed into it. Miscellaneous crap litters the floor — ribbons and cardboard, bits of grass, feathers, small charms, strips of rawhide, cotton balls, herbs and bags of spices, flowers, bits of candy, stickers...

Not to mention the tornado of books, everything from picture books to enormously fat tomes. Most are fiction; a majority are fantasy or sci-fi. Many are illustrated. There's paper, too, mostly cheap lined paper, and coloured pencils, and sketches scribbled all over them.

Wolfgang is muttering to themself as they wrap a bit of twine around a small lidded box. They're seated on the floor, the eye in this craftsy storm, hair disheveled and dark circles dragging under their eyes. Their head jerks up when they feel another presence in the room, blinking rapidly, slightly unfocused. “Oh, hi. I was just working.”

... yes, that much is obvious.

December 25th, 2014

It's Christmas, 3 PM. Michael's up early.

Normally he doesn’t spend any time in bed once he’s awake, but he feels cozy and calm like he’s had a good dream for once, and there are a couple texts waiting on his phone from Wolfgang. That’s a good present. He peruses them lazily under the covers and writes back with a bearable level of shyness, trying for the billionth time not to think about kissing and touching. He’s been distracted at work all week. Stan is starting to ask questions about his ‘cell-phone girlfriend.’

There’s only so long Michael can feel peaceful as he is, though, because his dad is blasting the TV in the other room. It’s hard to fight past the reflex to call to him through the door, Turn it down, Pop, come on!—but he regrets now all the other times he fought with Morris about the volume, in the months and years before he knew his own ears were the problem. So he says nothing, opting instead to cut his own comfort short and head outside. Being free on Christmas in New York City isn’t something everyone gets to experience, and this year he’s freer than usual.

The texts from Wolfgang said that the shop is going to remain open today in case anyone has ‘holiday emergencies,’ and they're going to work the normal sort of hours, no arbitrary breaks. Michael had replied saying that was fine and he understood, but he’s learning how Wolfgang is—if you leave them alone, they’ll get so absorbed in whatever they’re doing that they won’t eat or drink or breathe until something interrupts them and reminds them they’re alive. God knows what they’ve been doing all day, because there can’t be that many mutants rushing in and out of there. They probably haven’t had lunch yet, so Michael decides to surprise them with some.

A lot of places he checks are closed, but it’s not as much of a pain in the ass to look around as it used to be—staying in the dark and feeling out the city is a lot faster than making a bunch of annoying calls. Eventually he finds one of the good burrito joints has kept its doors open, and rewards them with some business and a few compliments (“Nothing even smells weird in here!”) before heading over to the District.

The shop is the easiest place to travel to now, even simpler than Madison Avenue. The minute he steps through to the in-between, he wants to reach for it, look for it—and much of the time he does, just a brief check to make sure Wolfgang is okay. It’s almost harder not to. He only looks in the front of the shop, because looking in the back would feel wrong, but the front is where they are most of the time anyway. Sometimes he steps over so quickly he doesn’t really watch what’s happening on the other side before he gets there.

That’s what happens now.

December 20th, 2014

It's snowing outside but it's warm in the bar, where there's low light and a low level of noise this evening. Much more pleasant than the skating rink which had been Michael's first idea; Bryant Park was overwhelmingly crowded, and he and Wolfgang made up their minds to leave after taking a single look at it. Michael is fairly sure Wolfgang isn't disappointed—they'd been skeptical of the whole idea of skating, saying that ‘strapping knives to your feet and trying to move around’ was insane—and going to a bar afterward had been their idea, specifically somewhere quiet.

The atmosphere in here is something different than he's used to, but it's interesting, he thinks he likes it. He'd heard about it at some point, that it was famous as a literary bar, and that seemed like a Wolfgang-ish thing. A clever thing. As for drinking, it isn't something Michael does much, but it's a holiday, and a date, and it's winter, so he'll let himself relax a little.

Officially it's their third date, but they've seen a good amount of each other since going to the beach. Michael's been stopping by the shop every so often after work, hanging around to chat or showing off some new trick he's learned. Texting is alright (they do that a lot), but it's not as good as the real thing. He's found himself getting more acutely lonely than he used to, and it's bothersome and strange and makes him feel needy. He's not sure what to do about it.

But it's not a problem tonight, because right now they're sitting next to each other at a small, narrow table near one of the exits. It faces the wall, built into it like a mini-bar, and hung right in front of them are various pieces of art. Michael has a tumbler of rum. It's his second one and he's sipping slow, face feeling fuzzy. He's very aware of Wolfgang close beside him, their shoulders nearly pressed together.

November 25th 2014

[picture message] http://31.media.tumblr.com/de3b8291e1870605896917825de14475/tumblr_n7r4837RYc1tu0z5no1_500.jpg
[text] Oops sorry. Ignore that.
[text] How are you?

October 31, 2014

It’s Halloween. Michael hates Halloween.

A lot of mutants have grudges against it. Others love it. Michael used to be bitter, especially as a child, because he felt it was hokey and juvenile and tried to make it seem like there was no such thing as real monsters in the darkness that could hide in your closet or appear out of nowhere. Now he’s just irritated because he’d be the best at scaring the shit out of anyone in New York, and instead of being the life of the party he’d probably get put in prison.

So he’s not celebrating. In lieu of that, he’s doing what he’s been doing most nights since May: practicing. He’d been put off of it for a couple weeks in August after seeing Wolfgang again (and the subsequent disastrous not-talk with Morris), but had eventually decided that being insane wasn’t going to make his abilities any less real. Since then, it’s only made him more determined to gain as much control over them as he can. If he’s crazy, he has to be twice as careful.

For the past week or so, he’s been experimenting with distance. How long can he make a shadow? How far can he travel from one to another? He has a goal for the second one tonight: his room to District X. Much farther than he’s tried before. Nerve-wracking. He still doesn't know what happens if he fucks it up.

Don’t overthink it, Ginsberg. Taking a short breath, he puts his hand on a shadow on the wall next to his dresser, and slips into another place.

May 23, 2014

It’s 1:42 AM when Michael Ginsberg ducks into a 24-hour McDonald’s. He’s familiar with most of the all-night fast food places within (what he considers) walking distance of home, and some of them (like this one) are familiar with him. He hangs around certain areas more than others, and tonight he’d wanted something friendlier, at least on the surface.

He’s not surprised when he sees someone else in line. It’s New York, there are always people awake. A couple others are hanging around in corner booths, staring at their smartphones or wearing earbuds like they’ve got nowhere else to be. The person at the counter—the very, very tall person, over half a foot taller than Michael—is taking their time too, spreading out small change everywhere, counting it again and again.

Michael’s not the best at reading people, but the cashier might possibly be getting impatient. It’s enough to make him curious. He wanders up to check things out because his nosiness is irrepressible, and what are social boundaries anyway?

“Hey, what’s—um.” He blinks a couple times. Not what he was expecting. His fingers twitch. “Wow, your hair is pretty.”