ArchivedLogs:Getting Along

Getting Along
Dramatis Personae Dylan, Shane
In Absentia	2014-10-15 new roomies
Location <XS> Shane and Dylan's Dorm - FL2
A standard, if comfortable, dorm room. Two beds, two closets, two desks, two dressers. For a teenager's dorm room this place is impeccably /neat/; in general there's not much at all out of place. On one half of the room this can be explained by the fact that the bed has no sheets and the closet and desk stand empty, implying a lack of roommate; for the other side, though, there are definitely signs of life. A closet stocked full of very neatly /organized/ clothes that tend to run towards vests and slacks and dress shirts more than more casual wear. Textbooks and sheet music arranged carefully on the desk shelves. The shelves and windowsills and top of the dresser have been decorated with tiny delicate statues and sculptures; half of them blown-glass in rich colours but half of them made, on close inspection, of clean white animal bones. A pair of violin cases often stands tucked against the side of the desk and the bed is almost always neatly made up in shades of silver and blue that match the curtains hanging on the window. It is coming to the end of the school day, when the door knob to Shane's room starts to turn and rattle, as if whoever is on the otherside is struggling to get it open. After a few seconds of battling the door, the knob yields and the door finally opens up. Dylan pushes the door open with his foot. The fabric handles of two duffle bags are clutched in his hands. There is a grimace in his expression, a bit more obvious since he looks like he was recently used as someone's personal punching bag. "-- fucking Christ doesn't anybody goddamn knock." This grumbling is coming from behind the half-open closet door. It's soon followed by a head peering around the door -- disproportionately enormous solid-black eyes in a narrow gleaming-blue face whose features have an uncanny valley sort of not-properly-human surreality to the composition. The face disappears back into the closet; after another shift of hangers as clothing is hung back up, Shane actually emerges, half-dressed right now in pinstriped slacks but no shirt. Along his sides and the sides of his neck, slitted gills are opening and closing slowly; his hairless ridge of brow furrows and his mouth sets into a grimace in return. "Aw, fuck. Right. What the shit happened to you?" Webbed fingers flick out in Dylan's general direction, claws gesturing at -- well, everything. Dylan just looks at the room's occupant for a few seconds, then kicks the door with the toe of his foot repeatedly. "There I knocked... " He glances down at a piece of paper that is mostly crumpled up in his left hand. "I think that this is supposed to be where I'm bunking." He walks on into the room, like he owns it, dropping the duffle bags by the unmade bed. He reaches up and runs his fingers through the unkempt mop of light brown hair. With a slight shrug, Dylan smirks. "Oh, this... it's nothin'... Just havin' some fun with some guys from my neighborhood... when we had a misunderstandin'... " He subconsciously runs the tip of his tongue over where his lower lip is gashed, causing a slight whince. He looks over at Shane, "So, looks like you're stuck with me... at least until they kick me out of here." "Yeeeah, looks like you had a /lot/ of fun." Sans visible pupils it's kind of hard to /see/ Shane's eyes rolling but the tone is there in his words all the same. "I've been stuck with a lot of assholes. Think you'd have to fucking murder a teacher before they kick you out of this place or I'd've been --" He shakes his head quickly, shimmying out of his slacks and hanging /them/ neatly in the (impeccably organized) closet, too, before grabbing a pair of black gym shorts from his dresser and tugging them on over his boxer-briefs. "So what's your deal?" He looks mildly crest-fallen at the idea of actually being stuck in this uptight private school. Dylan smirks, "If you've been stuck with a lot of assholes, what happened to them? You eat 'em?" He arches a brow slightly as he sits down on the bed. "What exactly do you mean by 'my deal'?" He can't help but notice the painfully organized closet. "You a neat-freak, huh? We probably aren't gonna get along then." He grins slightly, "I kind of live in a perpetual state of chaos." Shane grimaces again at the 'eat them' remark, but this time his teeth bare with the expression -- kind of a /ridiculous/ amount of razor-sharp sharkteeth. "Fuck you," is his answer to this question, as he nabs a black sleeveless shirt out of his (also carefully-organized) drawers. "I /mean/ nobody just ends up here. Everyone's got a story." The teeth bare further when Dylan calls him a neat freak. "You use that word again, pretty boy, and we're /not/ going to get along. Don't touch my shit and I could give half a fuck what you do with your half of the room." Dylan smiles slightly at the 'fuck you', which apparently was a pleasing response, though his amusement by the reply isn't really malicious. The smile fades slightly, "Hey, dude, I didn't mean it like that... I meant that you are... um... anal-retentively organized." He slips off the heavily worn army field jacket. From the stiffness and the intake of breath from the motion, the bruising on his face is probably equally or moreso matched on his torso. His right hand slides to his stomach as he leans over a second, before he looks over at Shane through the slight veil of hair. "Yeah, I guess everyone has a story... My luck ran out.. mouthed off to some guys that didn't like my brother... they beat the crap out of me... a cop saved my ass, before busting me for possession of someone else's wallet." He flashes a slightly pained lopsided grin, "I really have no clue how it ended up in my pocket, honest." He chuckles softly, then shakes his head, "Anyway... I was in a holding cell, waiting to get processed, when this guy tells me that either I'm going to jail, or I could come here... Thought at the time, this was the better choice." He shrugs, "But I have been wrong before..." Along the sides of his neck, Shane's gills ripple faster. His flattened nostrils flare, eyes cutting sidelong to glance over Dylan's stiff motions. "I have some salve. Good for bruises. If you want." He returns to the closet to dig out a duffel bag, already packed, and a white-bibbed black mask with a carbon-steel mesh faceplate. "Cop saved your ass." He sounds just a hair skeptical of this. "Guess there's a first for everything." Dylan shrugs noncommittally. "S'alright. My old man has done worse." He smirks, "I got my ass kicked, must be Wednesday." Hazel eyes flicker to the bag and mask. He doesn't ask, as it's none of his busines. "Cop saw a teenager getting the shit kicked out of him by five of the neighborhood bruisers... I got lucky." He sits up a bit. "I'm Dylan, by the way, but I do answer to Little Shit and Dumb Ass too." "I know." Shane tucks the mask beneath his arm, glancing back at Dylan with brows hiked slightly upward. "They do /tell/ me before they spring a new roommate on me, you know. I answer to Shane. Pretty much just Shane." His mouth hooks up in a crooked smile. "And when the cops see me getting the shit kicked out of me, if /I'm/ really fucking lucky? They look the other way. Your old man sounds like a dick, by the way. If you're in the market for a new dad, I have spares." Dylan shakes his head slightly, "No, I really don't know. I don't really have a clue what exactly I got myself into this time." He smirks, "Trust me, you don't know the half of it... Better the devil you know than the one you don't... At least with my old man, I know where I stand. Besides... two more years, and the state doesn't give a shit anymore." He smirks, "Well, I'd say nice to meet ya, Shane, but considerin' startin' out on the wrong foot, it'd probably be a lie." "I'm pretty sure I prefer no devil at all." Shane picks up his duffel bag, sliding it over his shoulder, and saunters over to grab his phone off his desk. "I don't know why anyone ever says that, anyway. How can you tell in ten minutes whether it's nice or not? Come back in a year, let me know /then/ if meeting me was net positive or not." He heads for the door, glancing at the time on his phone and then tucking it into the pocket of his shorts. "Gonna be late for practice." His claws drum against the faceplate of the mask. "But there's salve in the bottom left drawer in my desk." He slips out the door -- but opens it a second after closing it to poke his head back in again. "-- Just don't touch any of the /rest/ of my shit." JUST in case that was forgotten. Dylan snorts. "Good luck with that... there's always a devil in the mix... " He cocks his head slightly, "Don't worry, Shane... I won't mess with your stuff... " He carefully lays back on the unmade bed, which is probably the softest thing he's ever slept on. Which is pretty much what he is doing within ten minutes or so, legs half off the bed.