ArchivedLogs:Friends Like These
| Friends Like These | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2013-05-18 Post friendship dance. |
| Location | |
It's a basement, somewhere, that much is clear from the slightly musty-cool feel, the lack of windows, the stark-bare cement decor. What purpose this place originally served is hard to discern; something industrial, judging by the heavy reinforced eyelet hooks still set into the ceiling, now devoid of any loads to bear. Of late the place has been repurposed, though. Around two parallel edges of the room, sturdy cells have been constructed, heavy reinforced metal segmenting off large cage-like cells. The enclosures are largely identical: two sets of bunk beds with pillows, thin sheets, identical grey wool blankets. A pair of large covered bedpans, a bucket usually filled with fresh-ish water. The center of the room is divided in two. One half is large and open, a spacious expanse of cement floor and emptiness. The other half holds long trestle-tables, long benches, both riveted into the cement floor. The ceiling -- of the room, of the cages -- hold very noticeable dark security-camera bubbles. There is one door leading out of here, heavy steel that is securely chained and barred from the outside. It's been a while since their fight. Probably all three of the teenagers were not returned to the cages immediately, taken to the small sparse room that qualifies as infirmary to be patched back together. But eventually they trickle them back, Peter and Shane before Sebastian. It's during the day's second meal that Bastian is finally returned, sans bloody t-shirt, just his increasingly ragged skirt and a wealth of bandages swathing his arm, his side, his neck; his body is dark and swollen-mottled with bruising. Shane is looking much the same. His vest and dress shirt are gone, leaving him just in torn and frayed linen trousers that were once white and pinstriped and are now a sort of a grisly red-brown. (His bow tie is still carefully tied, though. If bloody and filthy.) There is little /un/bruised blue to his skin and half his /face/ is currently bandaged, leaving him lopsidedly one-eyed. He hasn't emerged from his cell at the ringing bell or arrival of food. He hasn't moved at all since being brought back; it's only his brother's scent at the opening of the door that pulls his head up and his gaze over. Bastian is dragged more than walked in. Dumped unceremoniously at the nearest available table. His muzzle is back in place. He slumps at the table in exhaustion, head thunking down onto it, not looking around. It's hard to tell if he's even conscious. Someone must have felt sorry for Peter; his two broken fingers have been set in a metal cast - prodding out like a 'V for Victory'. His dress-slacks, damp with blood and in the way of his injuries, have finally been laid to rest; someone was nice enough to give him a tattered pair of sweatpants - the worst of the injuries are beneath it, stitched and patched. His black carapace hides the bruising - there's a faint sense of discoloration all over his shoulders, chest, and face, places where the metallic blue is /deeper/ in hue, but otherwise it's difficult to make out. Several more bandages swarm his torso - another across his arm, where the flap of skin Shane tore open has been stitched crudely back into place. Peter wasn't put back in Shane's cage. Maybe somebody figured if they did, Shane would eat him? And they didn't want to clean up the mess. He hasn't come out for breakfast, either. Despite a few zaps they sent his way, he hasn't been moving much; the deep claw-marks in his thigh make it near-impossible to do anything but crudely hobble. When he finally does come out - for the second meal - it's only by bracing himself against the wall as he goes, limping step by step, wheezy with pain. Eyes puffy and rimmed with red. When he sees Sebastian - his eyes widen. It's hard to say precisely what he's feeling, but there among the mixture of emotions, there is clearly something - relieved - in his eyes. A moment later and Peter's scanning the room - very slowly - for Shane. When he sees him, he swallows - stares - and lifts his arm. Just a little. The one with the broken fingers. 'V'. Shane's eye fixes on his brother as he's dragged across the room, but even then it takes a moment for him to actually drag himself off the bunk and out of his cage. He stops in the doorway, looking at Peter and his small V-hand, and his own pupilless black gaze is hard to read. His posture is stiff, his motions stiff. He watches Peter a long moment, cataloguing the other boy's appearance, and his shoulders tighten. His head dips; maybe a nod, maybe a bow, maybe just /sinking/. He goes to collect food. Two trays. One to set down in front of Sebastian, the other is set down across from Sebastian, with a flick of a glance towards Peter. Before he returns for a third. Bastian doesn't move through any of this. Just, slump. Peter gnaws on his lip for a while, watching Shane as he retrieves the trays. Also, /eyeing/ the distance between him and that table - like it was some extraordinary odyssey. He thinks for a good long while - before just - slowly sliding down the wall, plopping on one knee. And /scooting/ toward one of them. It is a little slow, and probably very /ridiculous/ looking. But the whole while, Peter has a look of intentful focus on his face (along with, occasionally, a tiny little spasm of 'OH OW OW FFFFF). Once Peter reaches the table, he is. Very sloooowly. Pulling himself up. With the hand that does not have fingers in a cast. Sitting up with his back to Sebastian and Shane and the food. Then, slooooowly, turning around. Dropping a hand to ease the leg with the worst injuries up over that seat. Not dropping it; just - /laying/ the leg out beside him. With a grimace, and a wince. Then, Peter stares down at the tray Shane brought for him, looking at it - a little numbly. Both his palms are also wrapped in bandages; his fingers poke out like little sausages - making his hands appear like mitts. His (less injured) hand sinks down toward one of the plastic forks, fingers trying to clasp it without pulling the flesh of his palm /too/ much. "Nobody's dead," Peter says, his voice very tiny and exhausted. Not happy; not even relieved. Just, resigned. Maybe it is the scent; Bastian doesn't look /up/, at least, when Peter arrives. But his shoulders tense, shudder, and a quiet rasping breath is drawn in in a quick sharp gasp. His face stays thunked face down on the table. There's a long hesitation, when Shane returns with his own tray. He lingers at the end of the table, eying the free seats -- beside Peter, beside Bastian. Eventually he plunks his tray down and drops into a seat beside his brother. His eye drops down to his tray. "You would have been." Sebastian's voice is hoarse, a ragged whisper down into the nest of his folded arms. "Peter, I --" He swallows. Doesn't look up. "Nobody's dead," Shane repeats Peter's words with a little more ferocity. "I don't think /sorry/ really --" "-- I'm not /sorry/," Bastian cuts in, and now he /does/ look up. Sort of. Insofar as he /can/; it's not really /looking/, his face a swollen-misshapen mass of bruising that has swollen both eyes shut. "I don't know what sorry -- even means here. I'm --" His fingers reach to touch the bandage at his neck. Peter's hand -- the unbroken one -- suddenly just. Darts forward for Sebastian's hand. It's probably the fastest Peter's moved since they've seen him emerge from the cage; it's just a tiny little gesture, though - a flash of speed as fingertips reach to grip the back of his palm. And squeeze. "Sebast -- they starved you," Peter says, throat constricting. "They starved you both and put you in a cage with somebody you /love/. Because they wanted you to /eat/ him. I don't -- /want/ an apology. I want--" He makes a strangled noise. And then whispers, fiercely, eyebrows squeezing together. "...I, I want you to. Eat /them/." When he says this, he looks a little shocked. Horrified, maybe. His hand pulls back, and he just stabs at his food. There's a sense of widening; Sebastian's eyes don't manage to open but the muscles around them shift, his brows lifting at the touch. His hand turns, not squeezing back but just curling his fingers in to touch them lightly to Peter's. There's a rapid fluttering of his gills, and when Peter's hand moves away, Bastian's moves again to the bandaging at his throat. "{You should have --}" "{/Fuck you/}," Shane cuts in with this sharply and his Vietnamese lessons with Peter have surprisingly not covered profanity but his tone is clear enough. "You fucking asshole that is /not/ the way we're --" Sebastian's shoulders are shaking. "{I /love/ you}," this might well be directed to Peter or Shane both, "If I'd --" "You didn't. Eat your fucking breakfast. If I'm going to tear anyone's throat out it's going to be every fucking last one of --" zzzzzzp. His teeth clench. He stabs a piece of sausage with his claw rather than his fork. Peter's throat just gets tighter as he listens to the two of them speak. He didn't get zapped when /he/ mentioned them eating their captors; that's probably just because he had enough composure to /whisper/ it. But despite the lack of a shock, he still looks a little nauseous for having said it. Peter recognizes one word, at least. Very quietly, as Shane stabs at the sausage with a claw, Peter repeats it. Garbled, and maybe mixed with the words around it: "{Love}," he mumbles, and there is. A weak curling of fingers to his chest, followed by spreading his fingers out toward the two of them. Then, the hand falls to the table and starts to creep toward Shane's. Creep, creep. He has given up on eating for the moment. "Sebastian," Peter says, maybe with just a tiny edge of confidence crawling into his voice. "If he had -- when Shane -- I was so frigging /scared/," he admits, and now the confidence just slips out, his other hand - the one /with/ the casts - is moving to rub, carefully, with unbroken fingers, at his face. "I've never been that -- and then Shane, when he /bit/ you, and the only thing I could think was -- what if you didn't... we're /all/ alive. Okay? We /won/. I don't know how. But, they tried to make us /kill/ each other and, and, we didn't. That's all that matters." Shane's hand slips out towards Peter's, curling around the other boy's gently. "{Love}," he answers, and in normal circumstances this would /probably/ be flippant, probably be a glib sort of snark, but here it is just: soft, but firm, a quiet answer to /how/. "And we'll keep winning. Because," here at least he's remembered to drop his voice lower, "I am /not fucking leaving here/ without you." "-- we should. Anole," Sebastian says suddenly. "... I think he could use a -- Hogwarts education." "Not leaving here without him either," Shane agrees. And this is firm, too, but his next: "... fuck, guys --" is a whole lot shakier. Tired-small. His hand trembles in Peter's. He is very ginger about dropping his head carefully to Bastian's shoulder. "I know," Sebastian whispers. And then, smaller: "{Thank you.}" "Nrrrngh," Peter responds, /squeezing/ Shane's hand with sudden - near /painful/ force, as if he just wants to /drag/ him across the table to him. He even gives a few tiny tugs. But his grip slackens, because. Everything. /Hurts/. "Yeswe'retakinghim," he mumbles, before adding - with what might almost be a bit of a /manic/ giggle: "Taking. The hobbits. To Isengard. Nnngh." His eyes are rimmed with wetness again, but he actually looks happy. Exhausted -- in pain -- but happy. "George Weasely's going to be pretty /pissed/ when he gets here," he says, and then his other hand is creeeeeeping, creep creep, toward Sebastian. /He/ gets the ones with two broken fingers. "Want," Peter says, with a rush of breath. "Hugs. Something. Hurts too much. Later," he finally decides, before adding: "Don't heal as fast. So, don't think I'll be in any fights. For a while." He does not at all sound like he disapproves of this. Actually, he almost sounds a mite bit /cheerful/ about it. "... have you seen him mad?" For the first time, Sebastian smiles; it's a sharp baring of teeth somewhat lopsided-skewed in his puffybruised face. "We're going to have all the hugs," Shane decides. "We can get a cage. Drag the lizard in. There's room for four." "Oh my goodness," Sebastian's laugh is quiet, raspy-hoarse, "this is the worst place for a cuddlepile." "Best place," Shane contests. "What the fuck else are we gonna do." His head tips forward, resting his forehead against Peter's knuckles gently. Sebastian quiets, for a moment. Sniffing down at the tray of food he cannot see. His hand closes geeeently around Peter's, too. "I think," he says, softer and a lot more serious, "You probably need to win your next fight." "Can't even imagine him mad," Peter admits, mumbling it distractedly - like he's trying right now. Jax, angryface. "...is it -- I heard --" Peter's face twitches, then. Hint of amusement. As if he's just realized something: "--he and Hagrid fought off a /dragon/. So I guess..." At the mention of bringing Anole into the cell, Peter brightens; at the mention of -- uh -- /snugglepiles/ -- he goes violet. His hand lifts up into Shane's forehead, scraping his knuckles across his brow-ridges. A faint tenseness as Sebastian's hand closes around Peter's -- maybe a flicker of pain, or maybe just what he's saying. Maybe both. "...I know," Peter mumbles. "I think. I am pretty sure. That --" Just a whisper: "--they did this cuz I was boring. Just to--" He sucks in a breath. "--get rid of me. They're probably going to--" Whatever Peter's /about/ to say, he doesn't. He just leans forward over the table, edging his hands a little closer to the two of them, temple descending for a portion of the tray that /doesn't/ have food on it. Just, resting his head a moment. "...next fight, won't lose," Peter says. "I'll try not to -- /kill/," he whispers that last word, as if worried it will be overhead. "But I won't. Hold back." "Dragons are /pretty/ badass and he did take one on. I bet he could kill, like, /every/ fucking --" For a moment Shane hesitates before continuing, "dragon, for real." His head tips, just slightly; the brush of his lips to Peter's knuckles is feather-light. "/Good/. You've gotta --" "Be exciting." Sebastian says. His thumb is brushing, also very light, against Peter's unbroken knuckles. And, in a /very/ small whisper, "But. They. Have to be coming. Maybe we won't -- have more --" "Maybe," Shane interrupts in a sudden sharp snip. He reaches over, slicing a small piece of sausage off to poke it through the bars towards Bastian's mouth. "But until then we -- have to -- win this fucking quidditch match." Bastian is slow about eating. Probably because of the mouthful of broken and missing teeth visible when he opens his lips to take the sausage. "... I don't think we'd all be in the same houses." He sounds actually kind of upset about this. Peter's knuckles press up greedily to Shane's mouth. As if needy for contact on the parts of him that /don't/ hurt. A fingerpad brushes across the knuckle of Sebastian's thumb, as if in preparation for a thumb-war. Except, it kind of gives up before it even starts. He doesn't say anything while the twins talk; he just listens, head lifting up slowly, wearing a sort of -- burnt, but /present/ smile. And then his head dips down and - no hands, so he just /bites/ a sausage. The twins manage to make this look easy; for Peter, it looks kind of ridiculous. Like some teenager... well, trying to eat his food without any hands. Peter chews for a second as Bastian mentions the houses. And promptly makes a pffft sound around the sausage, right before swallowing: "Man screw the houses I always thought that stuff was /bogus/ anyway. We'd make our own house. 'Awesome House'. Or, uh. Mutant house." Peter's nose scrunches, as if debating this last one's validity. "I guess, uh, all the houses would be mutant house, /technically/. Maybe..." His head dips for another sausage. This one takes a little more work to acquire. His words are muffled down into the tray. "...you're both sharky, I'm buggy, Anole's lizardy. Animal house?" "Oh my god," Shane says this stark and shocked, abruptly wide-eyed, "Are you one of those /mutants/?" It hurts -- it /clearly/ hurts, Sebastian's expression screws up a little with the effort of this movement of his bandaged arm, but some pain is /necessary/. He lifts his hand to /thwack/ Shane in the back of the head. It's possible he has some kind of sixth sense about this; he does it without having to look. "Motherfucker." But Shane says this with a /laugh/ in his voice, and he tips his head sideways to nuzzle it for a moment against Sebastian's shoulder. Against the bandages at his neck. "Can our house symbol just be a giant chimaera? Lizspiark. Shizdar. Spizark." He straightens just as his collar zzps once, small and quiet. "Jesus fucking --" His teeth clamp and he reaches for more of Sebastian's food, breaking it into small pieces to feed them through the muzzle's bars. "Those," Sebastian says a little muffled through broken teeth and careful wincing bites of food, "are all terrible names. But Spizark's the least terrible of them." His hand hasn't released Peter's. His thumb still brushes it, very lightly. "One things for sure, though, all /these/ people are Death Eaters." Peter is, well, Peter. So when Shane asks him if he's one of those /mutants/ - he gets a little wide-eyed too. Like: Wait /what/ did I miss!? But an instant later, Sebastian is THWACKING him, and Shane's laughing, and Peter's eyebrows are descending - that burnt out smile setting back into place. Maybe a little wider. The zzp gets him to frown, but it's brief; at this point, Peter thinks of them like bee-stings. Just something that /happens/. "Spizark sounds like a pokemon," Peter huffs. At the comment about Death Eaters, Peter grins, crooked and pained. With vast reluctance, he pulls his hands back - both from Sebastian and Shane - bringing them to his food. He hasn't eaten since morning; he's only now realizing just how /hungry/ he is. And using utensils is tricky when you've only got 8 functioning fingers and your palms are bandaged. "Even Death Eaters could cast spells," Peter says, fumbling with his fingers - finding a way to effectively balance that fork on his good hand - steadying the tray with the other one. Nnnom nom nom. Through a half-full mouth: "All these bozos --" ZZZP. Grimace. "--have are dog collars and cages." ZZZP. Shane tips his tray over Peter's, using his own fork to scoop off his oatmeal (today it has raisins AND brown sugar!) and potatoes onto the other boy's plate. "The fuck is a pokemon," he wants to know. "Are you serious?" Sebastian FROWNS at his brother. Shane I am /disappoint/. "... Oh. Oh god." He looks abruptly horrified, eyebrows lifting again in that futile attempt to open puffy-closed eyes. "Oh god Peter. /We're/ the Pokemon /they're/ trying to catch 'em all." Peter tries not to gigglesnort because, honestly it /hurts/ to laugh right now. He manages only to smother about half of it, fork now greedily /attacking/ the potatoes Shane shovels over onto his plate. The oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar will come next; the more Peter eats, the more he starts to remember his hunger. "Oh man if this place is run by that Ash kid -- it's, this really weird show," Peter tells Shane, "like -- they collect these little monsters? And store them in tiny red balls? And use 'em to fight each oth--" The fork freezes a moment. Just, /peering/ at Shane and Sebastian. And then, eyes widening: "/Squirtle/. You're -- /Squirtles/." This image, apparently, is enough to prompt Peter into a /burst/ of snickergiggles. Which leaves him leaning heavily over the tray because, OUCH. But, the image is lodged into his head. Of Shane and Sebastian. Waddling around and saying 'SQUIRTLE, SQUIRTLE'. "Oh god no /way/ we are like. Sharpedo. /You're/ -- like -- spinarak." Sebastian is pressing his free hand against -- well, the grate of his muzzle, this does little to stifle his giggling. His head tips forward, resting very carefully against the back of Peter's knuckles for a moment. "That," Shane decides, "sounds like a really fucked up show what the fuck. I don't want to be a pokemon." "Too bad," Sebastian says. "At least these cages seem less cramped than Pokeballs." "You guys watch /weird/ fucking shit." Shane shakes his head. He pokes another piece of meat through to Sebastian. He's finished what's on Bastian's plate and is starting instead to feed his brother what is on his own. "It's a game, too," Sebastian sounds a little muffled around his food as he tips his head back up to accept it. "/You/ can catch the pokemon and fight them against each other." Shane snorts, at this. "You sick fucks." Peter's own snickering takes a bit to subside; once he's managed, his knuckles spread out to brush across Sebastian's temple. "Oh man, I forgot about - Sharpedo. He looks /wicked/. But if I'm gonna be a pokemon it's not gonna be -- Spinarak is /cutesy/. I'd be - something /badass/ looking like--" He is having a hard remembering any pokemon who are both spidery /and/ not-cutesy. "Oh man you have no idea," Peter tells Shane, "I mean this show is /messed up/ - basically? These things, they're like, almost /people/ smart, but all they can do is say their own name. That's how they talk; they just - say their name, again and again. I mean, imagine a dog that didn't bark. It just follows you around and says 'CANINE'." But at the mention of them being sick fucks, Peter huffs teasingly. "/You're/ one to talk I mean I couldn't help but notice that between the two of you only /one/ of you now knows what I /taste/ li--" Peter stops here and proceeds to go /dark/ violet. "--uhnevermind." BACK TO EATING. Shane /grins/ at this. /Fiercely/ bright -- perhaps a little disconcertingly not so much because of the sharp teeth (everyone's probably /used/ to those by now) but because of the /gaps/ in them where their fight has knocked some free. Sebastian blushes, though. Flushing deep purple up through his neck, up through his cheeks, darkening the skin around the mottled bruising. He lets go of Peter's hand, here, and his fingers trace -- light and slow, up the backs of Peter's knuckles, up his arm. Shoulder. Neck. Finding his jaw with a light touch since his eyes refuse to open and do it for him. He leaves his hand in place as -- still preeeetty much wincing, he leans across the table to press a /very/ light kiss to the corner of Peter's mouth. "That was /hardly/ a taste," Shane is very critical of this kiss. "{-- he tastes good.}" This just makes Sebastian blush worse as he sinks back down into his seat. When Sebastian's fingers trail up the length of Peter's wrist, arm, and shoulder, his eyebrows lift; when his hand reaches his jaw, the shade of violet intensifies. "Wh--" Peter then shifts into /indigo/ as Sebastian leans forward to kiss the side of his mouth -- briefly squeaking. /Maybe/ even leaning his head up into it. Just a little. When Sebastian pulls back, Peter remains that shade of indigo, just - /peering/ down at his lap. Not exactly sure what to say. "...you guys are, um." He just worries away at his bottom lip for a few more seconds, trying to figure out what the right word is. He just ends up /shoveling/ the last of his food into his face. Oatmeal, raisins, brown sugar. Trying to smother whatever he is thinking with sweets, not daring to make eye contact with either of them. "Horrible? Oh gosh were you going to say horrible?" Sebastian looks instantly mortified, ducking his head down to tip his not-really-gaze away from Peter. "I'm sorry --" Shane cuts this off with another poke of some of his sausage through the bars of Sebastian's muzzle. "We /are/ horrible but I don't know if he was going to /say/ horrible. Although dude, you can't see yourself but you're basically like this gross misshapen /lump/ of ugly right now I am /definitely/ the prettier twin." Even with half his face in a bandage and most of the rest of him bruised. "N--no I wasn't -- I don't mean," Peter begins, eyes flicking up from his half-finished oatmeal toward Sebastian, then toward Shane, trying to hide a smile. "...yeah but I mean I know what you -- both look like -- under all that, swelling. I dunno you look like a wreck right /now/ but I mean, um," and now with a few more scoops, he's finally finished, chewing and swallowing and /peering/ at his empty tray. "...pretty," he admits, still a dark indigo. Though, by the way his mouth dwells uncertainly on that first syllable, it doesn't come across as being the word he's actually /thinking/. Shane has fed nearly all of his food quietly to Sebastian -- it is easier being SNEAKY when Sebastian can't see! -- but now he takes the last for himself, shoveling the meat into his face. He licks his claws clean afterwards. "Pretty," he echoes thoughtfully. "-- that's not what you were going to say." "It's nice to hear, though," Sebastian admits, very quietly. "It's not -- when you're like --" This cuts off for a moment, his shoulder lifting in a stiff shrug. "... not a thing people tell us a lot." "People are fucking stupid," Shane answers this. "I mean, seriously, uh, you're --" He flicks his fingers at Peter, "going to hear a /lot/ of stupid shit when we're out of here and you're back in the world but it's a bunch of bullshit, cuz, man, you are freaking gorgeous." "Wonderful," Peter adds, when Shane prompts him about that not being the word he was /actually/ thinking of saying. At Sebastian's comment, Peter frowns; at Shane's - about what's going to happen when they get out of here - he looks down at his tray, stirring what few shreds of goop remain of the oatmeal. At those /last/ two words, he doesn't look up - but violet and indigo proceed to wage a brutal war for control over his upper torso. "I -- I haven't been thinking about that," Peter admits, before adding: "Brave." His head slumps a little closer to that tray, peering at it with an extraordinary /intensity/. "...strong," he offers, tone softer, weaker, more embarrassed. "...beautiful," he says, now just a murmured whisper, head nearly on top of the tray. The last word is no more than a whimper as Peter attempts to /bury/ his face into the tray: "...hot." Predictably, this earns another deep blush from Sebastian.
Sebastian's blush remains deeply in place. The shy bow of his head suggests even if he /had/ use of his eyes he'd be having kind of difficulty meeting anyone else's, right now. "You say that like you're -- /not/ all those things." Shane just keeps his head bowed, lips softly touching against Peter's glossy black skin. "Can we -- go back to our -- I think I --" "... want hugs, now?" Sebastian's puffy lips twitch upwards for a moment. "/Gentle/ ones." Peter just whimpers into the tray. "...can't believe I said that," he mumbles, /not/ looking up. Even when he feels Shane's lips against his knuckles - though his hand presses up, arching into the warmth of contact, knuckles tracing the shape of his mouth. Peter remains that deep shade of vivid indigo; when Sebastian talks, he mmphs. "I -- know I'm -- some of those -- just, just --" A sharp, constricted noise. "--people have told me. I'm strong. Brave. B... whatever. But -- they don't tell /you/. Often. Enough. Even though you're both so -- ohGod, please," Peter just /gasps/ at Shane's suggestion, like someone desperate for air. "Just -- pleaseplease be gentle," he adds, mumbling. "I, I might need. A little help. Getting there." He peeks up from his tray, now. Meekly eyeing the two of them. "People tell me -- a lot of things," and for a moment here, Shane's expression sinks into something more tired, something more sad. He presses another kiss to Peter's knuckles, and then another, and his eye is kind of too bright when he looks up. "Not so much that, though. You know, you -- make me /actually/ want to go back to --" He swallows, and stands.
Shane slips -- admittedly kind of /stiffly/ himself, kind of limpy-hobbly -- around the table to very carefully slip his hand beneath Peter's shoulders. "C'mon. Man. We are a /pathetic/ pack of cripples here. Fumbling around all blind and limpy this is like the least politically correct sitcom." Peter lifts his head a little higher as Shane mentions going back -- and Sebastian snaps back about -- who? -- but he doesn't ask. He can find out details later; when they're close enough to whisper, mouth hidden from the cameras. When Shane brings his hand under Peter's shoulder, he makes a sharp little noise -- "Ah, ah, ah," -- but then he's getting to his feet, /sloooowly/ -- maybe a bit slower than the twins. Head /immediately/ dropping to Shane's shoulder. Maybe a little harder than it should. Cheek rubbing, nose stuffed just underneath his jaw. Leaning his weight into him. Peter's arm slings - very gently - around Shane's waist, giving a little - hop, hop - with his (mostly) uninjured leg. A little wheezy. "If we end up in wheelchairs, do we still have to fight?" Peter asks, and he sounds - almost serious! But also tired. "...would they stick a bunch of, like, buzzsaws or something to them. That'd be -- kind of badass." Half-mumbled into Shane's neck. Peter's forced to crouch down quite a bit to do this; Peter's short, but the twins are /tiny/. It probably looks pretty ridiculous - like a St. Bernard leaning on a chihuahua. Then, as they start to walk, Peter whispers to Shane - probably forgetting that Sebastian has excellent hearing: "...by the way, next meal, you are eating your meat /and/ mi--nngh /no/," Peter whimper-groans, briefly turning away as he goes violet-indigo again. "...you know what I mean." Shane waits until Sebastian has made his way to the end of the table; he nudges his brother slightly with his elbow as they walk past. Sebastian takes it, not leaning his weight on Shane /too/ but using the other boy as guide. Peter's comment makes Shane's lips pull back in a grin. "... If you're alright with that," he agrees so-very-lightly, "/I'll/ certainly be happy to try your meat." "Oh my god." Sebastian squeezes harder at Shane's elbow as they hobble along. "You're terr -- /wait/. Did you not /eat/, Shane, you /need/ to --" "I ate," Shane protests firmly. Even if it was only a couple bites of food. "Look, you're /way/ more fucked up than I am, you won't get /un/fucked up without enough food. I'll eat fine next meal. Peter," he says a little more brightly, "has offered me a taste. Of his meat." Sebastian lets out a quiet hissing breath. Of /despair/. Peter mirrors Sebastian's sound, free hand reaching to scrub at his eye with his thumb. "Terrible," he groans. "I forgot terrible." | |
