ArchivedLogs:Enough

Enough
Dramatis Personae Shane, Steve
In Absentia	Thanksgiving 2015 "{Don't feel much like celebrating now.}"
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Laundry - Lower East Side
Warm and bright and often warmer still from the running of the machines in here; with neat tile underneath and a soft yellow paint on the walls this room strives to make a necessary chore a little more cheerful. A long row of top-loading washers is mirrored by a long row of dryers along the opposite wall; they come in mostly standard sizing though there are a pair of much larger-sized ones at the end of each row for bigger loads. Residents' electronic keys can operate these machines, rather than coins; the money for each load is automatically added to their share of common utilities each month. Over top of the machines, shelving on the wall leaves space for people to leave their detergents; it's a good idea to mark them with names if they are not available for anyone to use. A collection of magnets along the wall carry the names of all residents who frequent this room; when leaving laundry it's customary to stick a name on the side of machines in case of forgetting a load in one of them. Large cloth bins beside the machines are available for storing leftover clothes forgotten in a machine by other residents. Off to the side is a small seating area for people who choose to sit and wait with their laundry; a couch and a loveseat sit perpindicular to each other by a low coffee table. Beside this there's a folding area, long wide table and a number of folding chairs situated around it. Steve emerges from the fitness room with a bucket, a mop, and a rag, all dirty. His red-and-black flannel shirt has seen better days, and is covered with small tears, especially along the shoulders and arms. Right now it's unbuttoned to reveal the white A-shirt underneath, and rolled up the elbows to expose muscular forearms (the right one wrapped in gauze). His blue jeans are faring slightly better, but still look distinctly chewed-on in some places. He heads for the laundry room to dump the bucket out in the sink, his movements somewhat mechanical, though he does not look weary for the labor. There is a small blue shark standing /atop/ the washing machines, barefoot and in faded jeans and a plain crimson v-neck sweater. Shane isn't actually tall enough to reach the shelves from the floor; even now he's kind of stretching to wipe down the very back of the shelves. The bottles of detergent have been removed from the shelf, stacked in a row on the machines, presumably to be replaced once he is done. His short sword, sheathed, is propped up against the side of a dryer opposite. His head turns sharply when the door opens, but the flutter of his gills presses back down flat once he sees Steve. "{Oh. You.}" Mildly surprised Spanish. "{You ever take a day off, dude?}" "{Sunday,}" Steve replies without hesitation. "{Also, hello.}" He lifts the bucket easily and upends it over the utility sink, then turns the faucet on to fill it again, dropping rag and mop in. His pale blue eyes are not really focusing on the bucket or its contents. Looks back up at Shane. "{Do you?}" One side of Shane's mouth twists upward, baring sharp teeth in a glint of smile. His claws dig into the rag he is holding; his hand scrubs more fiercely at the shelf. He takes a step to the side, spritzes a little more cleaner on the shelf, scrubs harder. "{Heard a rumour today was a holiday.}" "{Give thanks. I remember.}" Steve turns off the water and stirs the bucket with the mop desultorily. "{Big holiday, back in my time. We would go to dinner at my best friend's house. Me and my mother. Did that a lot, not just holidays.}" He smiles faintly, but it doesn't last. "{Don't feel much like celebrating now.}" "{Thanksgiving,}" Shane offers the correction offhand, staring ahead at the shelf as he scrubs -- again at the same spot he had been working on. "{Are you -- upset.}" His brow pulls inward, head shaking a little uncertainly, like maybe this isn't quite the word that he had wanted; he doesn't correct it, though. "{That you didn't die in that crash. That you woke back up.}" "{Thank you.}" For the Spanish tip, presumably. Steve bows his head, does not answer at once. "{It's a miracle. Should be thankful.}" He fishes the rag from the bucket. Wrings it dry and holds onto it as if he doesn't really know what to do with it now. His eyes lift to search the shelf that Shane is cleaning. Then, finally, "{I don't know.}" Shane just shakes his head, no, at that first answer. He keeps scrubbing, hard, firm, not moving from the same spot. "{Wasn't trying to imply how you /should/...}" His gills flutter. "{Kind of a tangle of a question. I'm sorry. I just...}" His eyes are still fixed on the shelf. "{What do you do if you don't figure it out?}" "{You ask, not mean I need to answer.}" Steve shrugs, his broad shoulder slumping after. "{Keep going. In war, don't always have time to figure it out.}" He drops the rag back in the bucket. "{All you need to be sure about is your team has your back. Have to keep going.}" Shane's hand clenches, claws gripping his rag tight. "{Have to.}" He swallows. Nods. The side of his mouth twitches again. "{... Are you? Sure about that?}" "{Yes.}" Steve licks his lips. Then, much more softly. "{Maybe that's a choice, too.}" He blinks hard and fast, shakes his head as if to clear it. "{I have your backs, too.}" "{I've noticed.}" Shane pauses in his scrubbing of the shelf. His head turns to the side, black eyes fixing on Steve. It takes a moment before he nods. "{You don't. Have to keep going. It's a choice you make every damn minute, you know?}" One of his hand traces fingers slowly against the edge of the shelf, claws scraping there. "{But if it helps you make yours... your confidence isn't misplaced.}" "{I know.}" Steve huffs a breath, maybe almost a laugh. "{Had a lot of practice, making that choice.}" He lifts the bucket out of the sink without much apparent effort. "{But I think, it helps.}" He frowns lightly, as if this fact surprises him somehow. "{What would help you make yours?}" Shane's hairless brow hikes upward, a sharp flash of teeth bared in quick grin toward Steve. "{Hey, /I/ wasn't the one trapped in an iceberg for a lifetime. I'm eighteen, isn't my choice supposed to still be easy?}" "{It's your eighteen years.}" Steve quirks one blond eyebrow at Shane. "{You tell me. But I don't remember it being /easy/, even before the iceberg.}" When he smiles this time it's guileless and sincere. "{Having someone's back isn't /all/ fighting.}" Shane finally drops his hand from the shelf -- his claws have dug all the way through the wad of rag in his hand, droplets of red speckling the fabric where they've poked into his palm on the other side. He turns, sinking down to sit atop the washer. His eyes fix onto the wall, on the magnets labelling the residents' names. His smile is slower, a little softer. "{No. Maybe... not with your /fists/, anyway.}" He's wringing at the cloth, now, slow and mechanical. "{What would you do if you weren't at war? With your life, I mean?}" Steve follows Shane's gaze to the names on the wall. "{Hard to imagine a world where there wasn't something that needs fighting for.}" His lips press into a thin line. "{Before the war, we fought bosses and landlords. I not believe that would all magically fix when the war over, but I guess...}" He looks down, shakes his head, and switches to French, the words coming suddenly more graceful. "{I guess I had some fantasy in my head about falling in love, getting married, having children and a dog.}" He shrugs. "{Seems a little far-fetched.}" "{Still have bosses and landlords to fight. Sadly, fewer people inclined to fight /them/ lately. People mostly just okay with getting fucked by capitalism like somehow /that's/ the American Dream.}" The wringing of the towel stops as Steve switches to French, Shane's eyes pulled away from the magnets to focus on the other man. He shakes his head. "{Not far-fetched.}" /His/ words, contrastingly, come less gracefully now. His eyes drift back to the names on the wall. "{Maybe just have to tweak your fantasy some. Even in war we still have love.}" There's a small tremor that shivers through his hands. "{I thought people just too busy fighting zombies,}" Steve mutters, in Spanish again. "{But I'm not really surprised. The Cold War, that's what it was for.}" Stares at the blood on Shane's hands. One of his own hands tightens on the handle of the mop sticking out of the bucket. Then, very deliberately relaxes. Then, back to French, "{We always have love. Sometimes not much else.}" "{No. People too busy thinking socialism's a dirty word and helping each other is un-American.}" Shane's voice is a liiitle bit dry, his smile thin and sharp. It fades as he sets his hands, the blood-stippled rag, down into his lap. His enormous black eyes are shiny-bright when he looks up to Steve again. "{Sometimes it's enough.}"