floating in a tin can

So turns out when you buy up an old storefront that's sat abandoned for years in the mutant ghetto, there's kind of a mess inside. They're not... exactly surprised, except by the sheer scope of it. The windows were broken long before they got here, and they keep looking up from the task at hand to glance, worriedly, at where the glass ought to be. Those old boards nailed in place don't really look safe.

Kevin's in the back, where the storage-slash-break room is supposed to be, ostensibly cleaning the place out of dead rats and roach corpses but he's probably just hiding back there where they can't see him. Ah, well. He's a teenager. Not the most reliable.

They drop a heavy box on one of the counters, kicking up what feels like a cloud of dust in the process, and wipe their dirty hands off on their jeans. Technically they're already open to the public (they put a sign up and everything) but they're not expecting anyone to come in. They only advertise by word of mouth and it takes a while before word gets around. The first week or so is bound to be slow, which gives them time to make this place less of an embarrassing mess and keep them out of the houspartment while Michael freaks out about them being back in the Dangerous City.

February 28, 2016

Sinclair stands outside the police station, blinking tiredly at his cell phone. He has over thirty missed calls and almost 200 unread texts. No surprise there.

As guilty as he feels, this isn't the time to respond to any of them. The longer he stands here, the more he's tempting fate. It would be fantastic if he could just hail a cab on his own and go home without any fanfare, but he's not that stupid and this isn't the time to play roulette. He's always telling the kids in the District to ask for help when they need it and he tries to practice what he preaches.

Who to ask, though? Someone who's probably not working right now, or is flexible with their hours. (Also awake or could be awake. What time is it, anyway...) Someone who can travel more safely than he can. Someone trustworthy. Someone who won't give him a bunch of shit.

He goes to his contacts, hits the name ‘Samantha,’ and puts the phone to his ear.

September 4, 2015 • after these events

Lee is already in bed, sleeping again. They’ve been stuck at home for the past two weeks, unable to get back to New York without Michael’s help (or rather, his permission, since it’s not that hard to magic your way from one place to another) but having absolutely nothing to do in New Jersey. They’re bored. They’d picked New Jersey only because it was close and a lot cheaper than Manhattan, not because it’s a great place to live. Boredom and medication lead to a lot of long naps.

They stir when the door opens and raise their head briefly only to lower it again when they see who it is. They’re trying to go back to sleep, but now they’re awake, so when footsteps cross the room they roll over onto their side and pull the covers up around their nose.

“Mmmmmhi.” They reach out blindly with a hand, seeking Michael’s. Their fingers wrap around his and then they tug, pulling him down with them. “Where you have been?”

( and we're fighting for our lives to fill the corners up with light )

September 4, 2015

Karen’s office is clean but homey, with art on the walls and a mid-sized fish tank bubbling on a desk by the window. Two small blue fish currently occupy it. There is no couch, but two overstuffed arm chairs, one with a wool throw draped artfully over the back and the other with a small decorative pillow on it. Her desk is nestled in the corner, home to a desktop computer and a laptop which she opens when she sits down, the screen facing towards her though she doesn’t yet look at it. She gestures to one of the chairs. She’s wearing a blazer and grey slacks, her long dark hair pulled out of her face with a clip in the back. Her degrees and license are hung on the wall behind her in plain brown frames. A bookshelf to the left holds a copy of the DSM-IV and V amongst various workbooks on subjects like OCD and anxiety, a few titles that look like memoirs, and some binders with various labels.

“Michael, hello. I’m Dr Wu.” She inclines her head, but doesn’t hold her hand out to shake. She works with a lot of people who don’t like to be touched. His girlfriend is one of them.

( lie down on the couch. what does that mean? )

May 8, 2015

It’s nighttime. The stars are out, bright in the clear grey-blue sky and shining defiantly over the city’s harsh lights. Michael sits on his bed and looks at them through his open window, arms folded on the sill. The breeze ruffles his overgrown hair. He wants to climb out and go to space.

This isn’t his home. Where he was before wasn’t his home either. Up there, that’s where he should be. He tried to go there once but he couldn’t see it, couldn’t get high enough, and it was terrifying. He almost got lost. Morris told him never to do it again.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here: in this country, in this apartment, in this room. It seems like either ages or moments. It’s not like it matters, since he’s going to be here for the rest of his life, but it’s a weird feeling. The tenement seems empty, also; he can’t hear the small sounds of Morris’s existence through the door. Maybe he’s working late. Why can’t Michael remember?

April 18, 2015

Saturday. Shabbat. One is commanded to rest.

Despite the increased trouble he’s been having with sleep recently, Michael obeys. When he has access to a bed during daytime hours his body forces him down no matter how valiantly his mind tries to fight. Today is no different; he’s out cold until after seven PM. It’s a late start for him, and it will make Sunday and Monday even more difficult. Wolfgang will have to help.

At the moment, though, tomorrow and the next day are far from his mind. He’s just begun to wake up, pressing his face against whatever warmth is wrapped up all around him as his eyes squeeze more tightly shut against the small amount of light in the room. He breathes in deep and sighs it out. Already a tiny amount of listless energy is collecting inside him, but he can ignore it for maybe five minutes. There’s nowhere to be. He’s in Wolfgang’s arms. Good.

Except when he wakes up a bit more he realizes Wolfgang is also in his arms, and one of his legs is between theirs, and his face is right against their chest, and it’s not good at all. Michael’s not sure what to do. Should he roll over? Get up? Pretend he fell back asleep and wait for them to leave? In the end he does nothing but lie there silently, worrying and trying not to move a muscle.

April 16, 2015

Funny the difference a few months can make. A few months ago, no one in the District wanted to speak to Wolfgang, an outsider and a flatscan; now, they can't go out without being barraged by people who just have a quick question that ultimately ends in a request for (free) help, or by grateful friendly people who hold them up at the bodega. Often going out is more trouble than it's worth. It's not that they're unsocial — okay, no, they're unsocial. Wolfgang is introverted; dealing with other people is draining for them. Not relaxing.

Still, even they need human interaction sometimes. And not just with their boyfriend. Much as they like spending time with him, even Wolfgang knows he can't be their only source of socialization. So sometimes, they go out.

They try to stay local — support local businesses, they tend to support you right back, and it helps your reputation in the community if you make a habit of spreading your money within that community. Also, who wants to take the train just to go to a fancy bar? There's a perfectly good dive bar a block from their shop, and Michael's working late tonight (he does that a lot), so instead of going back to their apartment, they go out to have a few beers. They've dressed down, not wanting to draw attention to themself, but they're a 6' 4" androgynous beauty queen with magic powers, it's a little difficult.

They sit at the bar and order something bottled — at least then you can be mostly sure it's not watered down — and put their head in their arms on the counter, and sigh heavily. Rough week.

March 13th, 2015

It’s around 8:30 PM on a Friday night, and Michael and Wolfgang are sitting in a booth at a Lower East Side deli. It’s quiet and slow for a Friday—Shem’s place is always slow—and it would be nice if that could help Michael feel any calmer, but it doesn’t. Nothing could do that right now. He doesn’t want to be here, he wants to run. Out the door, through the wall, anything, as fast as he can and as far away as he can get. He’ll take Wolfgang with him. They don’t understand why neither of them should be doing this.

The two of them have been looking for somewhere to live together, and although they haven’t yet found a place they can both agree on, it’s only a matter of time. That’s not the problem; that decision they’d sat on for three months (three whole months!) before making and although it scares the shit out of him, it’s something he’s grown to desire deeply. Wolfgang eventually mentioned, though, that they didn’t understand how Michael could make such a commitment when they hadn’t even introduced them to his father, who lives in town—who currently lives with Michael.

He’d been hoping they wouldn’t bring that up, that they wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t care or that they’d get the hint that it wasn’t a good idea. He’d tried to tell them, then, that they really shouldn’t bother meeting Morris, it wasn’t important, but Wolfgang seemed hurt by that, and then he felt horrible. The more the two of them talked about it, the more his lack of choice became obvious. Morris had been getting suspicious anyway, and Michael had to give him a reason for moving out. Something he’d believe. Michael is a terrible liar and Morris knows it.

So now they’re sitting here waiting for Morris to arrive, and Michael feels anxious enough to be sick. He can’t stop shifting around in his seat, looking out the window and then at the door and then back out the window and then around the restaurant. He adjusts and readjusts his stretched-out shirt collar like it’s choking him. It feels like ants are running all over his skin.

“I can’t take this,” he mutters. “This is terrible.”

[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.”