ArchivedLogs:To the Future

To the Future
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane
In Absentia	March 8, 2015 A dream that takes place a year in the future... part of the Future Past TP.
Location Dreams (and the Evolve Cafe)
It's late -- /really/ late, and by now even New York is starting to wind down -- as much as it ever does. Granted, to some degree that never truly happens -- especially not on a Saturday night. But here in Evolve, last call upstairs was some while ago and the thumping music of the nightclub has finished, the lights in the coffeeshop have been dimmed, though there's still music playing from the speakers down here. Very quiet, classical. The chairs are up on tables, the counter gleaming polished where it's been wiped down. Behind the counter Shane -- dressed impeccably neat as ever in bowtie, pinstriped vest, slacks, dress shirt -- is humming along with the music as he balances out the register. There is a sound, somewhere from the back; subtle -- so delicate that a set of human ears would likely never be able to differentiate it from the gentle sway of classical music that flows through the room. The sound is accompanied by a smell, similarly subtle -- strawberry flavored shampoo. Spaghetti and meatballs. And... is that a hint of cologne? Why, yes it is! But all of those smells pale beneath the familiar hint of chitin, mixed with that near-perpetual, unmistakable odor of -- well, *science*. Peter crawls, quiet as a mouse, behind Shane -- *above* Shane -- attached to the ceiling overhead, his eyes peering down at him as he moves silently forward -- stalking like a jungle cat. Dressed in a black and white pin-striped collar shirt, with black dress-slacks -- his hoodie ditched somewhere near the bar -- sleeves rolled up. His 'wrist-watches' are in his pocket; in their place, he's wearing a silver locket slung 'round one wrist, the needle -- currently hidden beneath the lid -- pointing unerringly down at Shane. "Meatballs. You bring me any leftovers?" Shane doesn't look up from his work. Maybe he likes the feel of MONEY in his hands. Though, okay, at the moment it's the credit card receipts he's holding on to. His nose twitches on a slow inhale, lips curling upwards. "One more day," he informs Peter brightly, "still not bombed yet." "In a container, by my coat," Peter responds. "They're a little cold, but--" BUT. Whatever else Peter was going to say is cut off by the fact that he's descending toward Shane, hands unsticking -- leaving only his feet connected to the ceiling above. His arms wind around Shane's upper torso, squeezing him from behind, head pressed between his shoulderblades, nuzzling up (well, down for Peter) toward the back of his head. "Love you." Soft. Before he adds: "You rich yet?" Shane leans back, gills whispering up against the collar of his dress shirt in quiet-content flutter at the nuzzling. He tips his head back, craning his neck so that he can twist and press a small kiss to Peter's neck. "Oh, yeah. I'm actually getting ready to close a deal. Buy /your/ boss's company out from under him. Moving on up in the world. Coffee's serious fucking business, you know." "Mmmnn. I bet I could get him to sign a contract for you," Peter hums happily as Shane cranes back and kisses. Peter responds with a tiny nip, quick and precise, just at the edge of Shane's jaw -- a little closer to his throat. The arms wrapped around his torso pull him in tighter, threatening to lift some of Shane's weight off the floor. "I don't think he reads any of the paperwork he signs. Bet he doesn't even know his own social security number." Another nip, closer to the neck. "Shane Tower. We could retool all the technology there to building snappy suits and sharkbots." Then, again -- another nip -- his voice emerging as a soft sigh: "--birthday's coming up. Yours, then mine. We're going to have to register." "/My/ robot suit would have pinstripes and a /wicked/ awesome hat." Shane sags backwards with a soft purring rumble in his throat, letting his diminutive weight comfortably settle into Peter's arms, supported now more by the other boy's arms than by his own legs. "Shane Tower's got a good ring to it, anyway. Maybe I'd just dress the whole /tower/ in pinstripes." He lifts his hand, resting it over one of Peter's. "Fuck that shit." He shakes his head at the mention of registration. "/Have/ to hell. /I'm/ not doing it." "Mmmf..." Peter's only response to Shane's assertion is a soft, raspy sigh; warm breath rushes out of his nose and up across Shane's jaw, his mouth briefly biting -- teeth scraping -- as he drags the boy a little higher into his arms. Much like a spider might slowly reel its prey up into its clutches. "Is Sebastian?" Peter asks, before reaching his palm down (one still tucked underneath Shane's arm) to stroke at the center of his chest -- then down, down to his belly -- fingers threading through the space inbetween the buttons of his vest -- to rub. "--aren't you worried they might -- take this away from you?" Shane's quiet-rumble-purr thrums deeper, closer to a growl at the bite. He doesn't resist the dragging, slight figure providing not much resistance. Just nuzzling into the hold. "Fuck are they gonna do? I bought the place, I'm not renting. Evict me from my own damn property? I'll gut the motherfuckers." His tone is nowhere near as bold as his words, though, soft and uncertain. "B's registering," he agrees heavily. "S'worried as fuck about what it means for college applications though. Kinda hoping a personal recommendation from Tony fucking Stark is enough to override any bigotry MIT might have. S'his alma mater too." His teeth bare briefly. "Not like it'll matter registration or /not/ the first day ze fucking shows the hell /up/." At that hint of uncertainty, Peter /pulls/ -- and just like that, Shane's off the ground, in Peter's grip, his feet no longer touching the floor. Fingertips that have threaded their way under his vest now endeavour to thread their way under his shirt, to touch bare skin and navel; his mouth /bites/ at Shane's neck, following it up with a kiss, knees bending a bit to pull him higher up in the air. "Nnmmn. You won't be there to help him," Peter agrees, tone slightly tense, before he adds: "M'applying too. I can maybe..." Whatever he's about to say next, the words are smothered underneath another kiss, against Shane's throat. "...kinda just want to stay here, though. For a while." Shane's breath catches, cutting off into a slow flutter of gills. His muscles tense against Peter's fingertips, and he tilts his head back to rest it against Peter's chest. "I won't. I think ze'll do okay but ze's fucking terrified. I can't say," he admits, "that I'd be upset if ze didn't wrangle Columbia instead. But they've been shitty as fuck to freaks /and/ Tony Stark didn't go there." His head turns, and he tips his face down to press into Peter's shirt. "Wait, are /you/ trying to ditch me for Boston /too/? S'fucking cold up there dude." "You could always come, too," Peter hums, in response -- kiss, kiss, tiny-bite, kiss -- his fingers sprawling out over Shane's bare belly, thumb sliding over his navel, fingers drifting a little lower -- higher? -- toward the hemline of his slacks. "Or I could... stay," he adds, much more softly. "My parents want me to go. I don't want to be far from you... or him." The hand under Shane's arm slides out, careful to keep his grip tight, fiddling with Shane's bow-tie. "We need more teleporters," Peter decides. "I could work as a bouncer, at the club." He almost sounds half-serious. "Ze needs someone to look out for hir." Shane doesn't really sound /happy/ about this. But he sounds firm about it. "Spence can get here to Boston in a heartbeat." With some dry amusement he adds: "-- and /most/ of the time these days he'll even bring you with all your limbs still attached." "/You/ need someone to look out for--" Peter starts, but the force in his words melts away, mouth molded against Shane's neck again. "--yeah, I guess. I just... mmf." He gives Shane another throat-kiss, lazily. "...for now, at least, I can drag you wherever I want." And then he bites. /Hard/. Pulling Shane up, and -- now, away. From the cash register!