ArchivedLogs:Secret Code

Secret Code
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane	2013-05-15 (Part of Thunderdome.)
Location Thunderdome
It's a warehouse, or something like it; at least it's spacious, and was probably once industrial; at the moment it's largely just empty. There are tracks in the floor from long-since disused equipment and the construction of walls and high exposed-beam ceilings is sturdy. The center of the room has been excavated, since this place was in actual daily use. In the middle a pit has been gashed out of the concrete; it's not /deep/ and it serves more as a foundation than anything else; around its wide circular perimeter a cage has been erected. Nearly reaching up to ceiling-height, it is constructed of thick sturdy metal bars wrapped in a thinner wire mesh. Surrounding the cage there is a lot of empty space. Some nights, though, when fights are in session, the room is filled; with people, with cameras (though no outsiders' cameras are allowed in), with paper betting slips and folding chairs. The spotlights in the ceiling are bright-bright-bright, the better to illuminate the fighters within the centerpiece cage. The night - or morning - after the tenacious SPAR-DOWN; lights are off - save for one cage. Not the cage Shane, Peter, and Sebastian are in. It's getting close - not quite there, but maybe another hour or two - to breakfast time. When Peter decides to. /Creep/. He is very stealthy about this; slipping out of his bunk and crawling - ever so quietly, ever so /slowly/ - over the walls. The ceiling. Toward the bunks where the twins are sleeping. The black carapace helps; when there's light, it's very hard to miss Peter - but when the lights are low, the gleam of his chitin is subdued - to the point where he becomes a black splotch in the shadows, nothing more than a spider scuttling on the wall. But when he finally reaches Shane's bunk... "Shane." Whisper-soft. So low /Peter/ can barely hear /himself/. Then, creep-creep. A little closer. "Shane..." Almost on top of him; slipping into the space between bunks. He does not want to /surprise/ him. Peter is pretty certain what happens if you surprise a sleeping shark-twin in the middle of the night while they are trapped in a cage. So: "...Shane if you can hear me. Um. Scratch your... um, nose." Shane is a light sleeper, at least on land, and though he doesn't move much it is readily apparent that he has noticed Peter. A faint tensing of muscles, a quieted flattening of gills, a slowly drawn-in breath through his teeth. His head tips, slightly downwards, knuckles rubbing scratchscratchscratch against his nose. It's a moment later before his eyes open, and even then not much. Just a slit. He shifts uncomfortably in his bed, greater wakefulness leading to a greater awareness that oh yeah actually he /is/ itching. Scratchscratchscratch. This time his fingers rub against his drying gills. Closer, now. Once Peter's positive he is not going to get. Clawed. It's probably a little unusual to experience - then again, Shane spends a good chunk of time under water; he's probably /used/ to dealing with people who are not - horizontal from him. Peter - scuttles just a little, silently crawling to bring his face closer to Shane's - not moving off the wall. "..." Suddenly, Peter's head - darts forward. Quick. Bird-peck, to the side of Shane's cheek. The gesture is soon followed with another terribly soft whisper: "...teach me some Vietnamese? Just. Some words. In case." A nervous little glance toward the cameras. "...things like. Down. Up. Run. Or - anything," Peter says, a little breathless. "I don't think - I don't think they're smart enough to /care/." "{I talk to Sebastian in Vietnamese all the time,}" Shane unhelpfully answers in Vietnamese, in a soft whisper. In English: "They don't shock us /much/ for it although once in a while they do. But maybe that's if they're bored. Cuz it's definitely not consistent. Bastian was talking about eating the guards for breakfast." There was a tension in his muscles upon waking but at the peck it starts to relax. "{Up.}" His finger lifts slightly. "{Down.}" This time it points faintly downwards -- towards his mattress. "Run -- {run}. I teach you too much," he whispers this with a tiny curl of smile to his lips, "and you'll be able to crack our secret code." Hint: the secret code is Vietnamese. Peter makes a /snrkt/ sound - both at the mention of Bastian eating the guards /and/ cracking their secret code. It is. Maybe just a /hint/ louder than he would like. He muffles the sound almost immediately, and - for the next five seconds, he is just quiet, hiding even his smile. Waiting to see if - mmn. No zap. The smile returns. "{Up}," he repeats, though it is - garbled. Peter's absurd agility and muscle memory does /not/ extend to his tongue, apparently. "{Down. Run.} I always wonder what you two are talking about. It's cool to have -- Iv..." His voice drops lower; the smile cracks, briefly. But then, something /severe/ seems to settle over his face. And he goes on: "nnnn... Neville Longbottom was teaching me Russian." After stating this, something thoughtful seems to flicker over Peter's face. "He teach you magic, too?" Shane's eyes are still mostly-closed, but there's a slim gleaming sliver of black that indicates he's still watching. And a slim sliver of white that indicates his small thin smile. "Guards. {Guards}. Danger -- {danger}." His eyes close, his voice even quieter still with his tiny whisper: "Home -- {home}. School -- {school}. Friends -- {friends}." But louder: "Mostly I talk about sex and he talks about how I'm going to embarrass him to death." "No. Just bugs. And Russian," Peter laments, but soon adds: "Who would your pa be? We should -- we could talk about them. Out loud. I don't think it would be dangerous if we - just talked about them like they're from fiction." And then: "{Guards}. Guards. {Danger}. Danger." A little more slower; more carefully: "...{Home}. Home. {School}. School. {Friends}. Friends." He makes a tiny swallowing noise. "...we'll have to go over -- I won't remember them all just... yet. But." Again, his head dips forward; this time, it isn't a peck. His lips just - press against Shane's cheek, staying there. "Fred," Shane decides after a pause for thought, "or George," since they're interchangeable anyway right? Hopefully Jax is the one who doesn't die. "The one who keeps people smiling no matter how dark it gets." He is still, beneath Peter. The cheek Peter kisses is sandpapery-dry, though a short while later it grows a touch of salty damp. "We'll practice," he tells Peter, and then again, "{We'll practice.}" Slowly, his hand creeps upwards, fingers lifting to brush softly against Peter's cheek. "You could be Harry. I think you're the hero of this story." "George," Peter agrees, whispering against Shane's cheek. Though he doesn't elaborate on the why. He probably remembers which one dies. "{We'll practice.}" Peter repeats, though it's clumsy and crude; when he senses that dampness against his mouth - and feels Shane's hand brushing across his cheek - he wedges closer. Almost on the bed, now; his narrow chest touching Shane's shoulder. Mouth flattening to the shape of his skin. "Nnngh," Peter responds to the mention of Harry. "Nnno. I don't -- want to be the hero, Shane. I just want--" The pressure of his mouth begins to shift; he's kissing at the dampness, now. Trying to get rid of it. "You," he says, and for a moment, he lingers on that word, as if there's no more to it - but he soon follows: "Sebastian. Anole. Others. Alive. I -- I think I'd do anything for that. Even terrible things." His next kiss is almost on top of Shane's eye. Shane's eyes slip closed. His fingers stay, though, resting with a light touch against Peter's smooth black skin. "You might have to. Do terrible things. I think we all might have to if we're going to live through this." His hand slides back, curling around the back of Peter's neck. "-- I mean, I've -- we've -- I've already /done/ --" He swallows. His fingertips brush through Peter's hair. "But, fuck, I don't want you to have to. Maybe none of us should be the hero. I think I'd kind of like it if you all could just be background characters who don't get into wars and live happily ever after." Peter's head drifts closer, now; it's a risk, with the cameras watching - but only a slight one - the silhouette of Peter's head eclipsing Shane's cheek and throat. His head and nape bump up into Shane's hand; he kisses just to the side of Shane's eye - and then just... nuzzles. Smooth chitin against sandpapery roughness. Scraping. "Whatever you did, I don't care," Peter says, and it has the sound of a /confession/ to it; as if Peter were - admitting some terrible, selfish thing. "Whatever we have to do to stay alive here, it... doesn't count. It doesn't go on your permanent record." Peter sighs, and - his hand and arm creep. Trying to scoop underneath Shane's head, and pull him toward the wall - better hidden. And nuzzle. "But even if it did I -- still don't -- care. Nnngh. I'd like to be a side character," Peter agrees, "maybe somebody uninteresting. I think -- when we get out of here -- I will try to be uninteresting for a while." Shane exhales slowly, and his hand tightens, holding Peter closer. He doesn't resist the scooping, either, happy to be pulled; his head tips back slightly, allowing more room for nuzzling. "Yeah," he agrees, "I could really go for some boring." His head tilts a little more, and this time it's his lips pressing, light kisses dotted against Peter's jaw. "You think that's true? I mean. I feel like everything kind of -- always /counts/ it's who we are, isn't it? This isn't the first time I've -- we've --" Shane shrugs. "Bastian and I, we kinda --" But just another shrug. "I like living, though. And I like you living. I like /everyone/ living who I -- {love}," he offers this last in Vietnamese. No translation. Just context, and a soft-gentle tone as he curls his other arm around Peter's back to squeeze him close. "We can, do some boring things," Peter murmurs; he sucks in a little breath at the attention to his jaw, head tilting to press - even as his face and mouth trace along the ridges of Shane's hairless brow. At the question - Peter gives a tiny bristle, before - relenting. "No," he confesses, sounding like a guilty boy caught in a white lie. "I... I think everything counts. I just didn't -- don't want you to be. Sad." At the feel of that arm, scooping across Peter's back - and at that last word, in an unfamiliar tongue - Peter makes a quiet, strangled, happy sound. Scooting as close as he dares - even as he tries to draw Shane toward the wall, as far out of sight as he can manage. His own arm sliding over Shane's back, fingers spreading, /gripping/. Possessively. Sliding down. "Can I stay till breakfast," Peter asks, whispering against Shane's brow. "When we get out of here, I might," Shane confesses, and this /too/ has the feel of a note of -- something /clandestine/, something illicit: "Do some homework. It might even be /math/." It might be the first math assignment Shane's turned in all year! He nestles in against Peter, his arm wrapping snug around the other boy. His webbed fingers spread against the small of Peter's back. "Maybe everything counts. But -- but maybe I'm okay with that. Not -- not /happy/ but you know people -- do. What we need to do." The next touch of his lips is soft, to the corner of Peter's mouth. "Please stay," is all he says, then, quietly. When Shane's hand finds the small of Peter's back, he gives a little lurch, back arching into the palm; another muted sound raises in Peter's throat. His own fingers /squeeze/ against the base of Shane's spine, fingers threatening to dent into the boneless flesh. "Good," is all Peter manages to say - to the bit about homework, or to the bit about Shane being - okay with it? Maybe both. Peter's mouth moves to connect - that brief touch becomes something more - sustained. Peter has little to no experience with kissing, but what he lacks in skill, he tries to make up in sheer need - mouth just - mashing against Shane's, close and hard and warm.