Logs:For Luck

For Luck
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane
In Absentia	2019-06-04 "If someone's going to try and hurt you then /yes it is/ my fight --"
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
Spacious and open, this coffeeshop has a somewhat industrial feel to it, grey resin floors below and exposed-beam ceilings that have been painted up in a dancing swirl of abstract whorls and starbursts, a riot of colour splashed against a white background. The walls alternate between brick and cheerfully lime-green painted wood that extends to the paneling beneath the brushed-steel countertops. There's an abundance of light, though rather than windows (which are scarce) it comes from plentiful hanging steel lamps. The walls here are home to plentiful artwork available for sale; though the roster of prints and paintings and drawings and photographs changes on a regular basis it has one thing in common -- all the artists displayed are mutants. The seating spaced around the room is spread out enough to keep the room from feeling cluttered. Black chairs, square black tables that mostly seat two or four though they're frequently pushed around and rearranged to make space for larger parties. In the back corner of the room is more comfortable seating, a few large black-corduroy sofas and armchairs with wide tables between them. There's a shelf of card and board games back here available for customers to sit and play. The chalkboard menus hanging behind the counter change frequently, always home to a wide variety of drinks (with an impressive roster of fair-trade coffees and teas largely featured) though their sandwiches and wraps and soups and snacks of the day change often. An often-changing variety of baked goods sit behind the display case at the counter halfway back in the room, and the opposite side of the counter holds a small selection of homemade ice creams. A pair of single-user bathrooms flanks the stairway in back of the cafe; at night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits up the stairs above the coffeehouse. It's grown late, and though the cafe isn't scheduled to close for a good half hour yet the dining room is empty and, with no customers to tend, the baristas have been sent home. The sign on the door says CLOSED, though the door itself isn't locked, the lights on. The tables are spotless, gleaming, thanks to the just-finished work of one tiny blue shark, an apron on over his crisp lavender button down and grey slacks. Shane goes to put his cleaning supplies away, returning to start hauling the chairs up onto the tables. Kind of sluggishly, though no doubt they aren't /heavy/ for him. Dragging them up ponderously one at a time to set them slowly upside down on the clean tables. Tap. Tap. Tap. Peter wisely deigns to rap on the glass and catch Shane's attention. Given how recent events have depicted mutants, mutant-hating humans, mutant bikers, mutant-hating bikers, and even (apparently) mutant-hating Nazi bikers, sneaking in to surprise Shane might not be the smartest move. That, and... well, Peter could never sneak up on either of the sharktwins unless he was starting from down-wind. As soon as he's knocked, though? He's entering. The door clicks as he nudges it open. To ward off the chilled night air, Peter's wearing a loose red hoodie that hides the shirt he's wearing underneath; he's got a back-sack pack behind him. It's a familiar look -- one that, despite his significant growth in height, makes him resemble someone much younger from long ago. "...he~y," Peter says, pulling his hoodie down to reveal his sheepishly smiling face. He looks... well, he looks like an awkward 21 year old college student. Which he is. "I'm, uh... back in town. I heard you came down with a nasty case of the Nazis." That's probably his really bad attempt at a joke. Shane's head snaps up at the knock, his gills flattening against the sides of his neck. A moment later, though, and his nostrils flare, his mouth splitting into a large and toothy grin -- quick, then just as quickly gone. "Are there /good/ cases of Nazis? Like people out there, man, just the other week I had the most uplifting fulfilling case of the Nazis?" Slowly, he drags another chair up onto the table. "Kitchen's closed but we got /hella/ coffee." Peter shuffles forward, still awkward as ever. Both of his hands shove deep into his hoodie's pockets, pushing so far down that the fabric stretches across his shoulders, down past his hips. He's still grinning despite himself, though. He has a lingering scent of... hm. Freshly baked cookies? Probably his aunt's. She's probably been stuffing him with them ever since he came back. "Coffee is... I probably shouldn't, I haven't had coffee forever," he mumbles. "But yeah I would, uh. I would love coffee." Then, almost offhand, as he closes in: "Maybe it's like the measles, you get Nazis once and then you develop antibodies. Though, uh, I guess that isn't working." "Oh shit," Shane lifts both hands, palms up and webbed fingers slightly spread, "am I gonna be responsible for you falling off the wagon? Because that's, I can't take that responsibility right now. I'm making you cocoa and you're gonna love it." He doesn't, though. Doesn't actually move yet, just leaning heavily against the chair he's just stacked once he finishes with this table. His gills flutter, shoulders slumping. "God, I wish there were some kind of. Fascism vaccine. Inoculate this whole damn country." There's a sort of buzzing energy that fills Peter the closer he gets to Shane. It's firmly suppressed; squeezed beneath layer after layer of closely monitored, rigorously enforced self-control -- but it's still there, humming through him as he finally reaches him, standing with that goofy grin still on his face. He's swaying, ever-so-slightly; his left foot is twitching to a silent rhythm. "I think it's probably more like chemo. You gotta, like. Poison it out." His grin twitches back a little, in response to a memory. "That metaphor might work a little too well," he mumbles. Then, quieter, and in a rush: "I'm glad you're okay, I saw the vigil on the news and I just -- god that's messed up. I was really, um, worried." Shane stays leaning up against the upside-down chair legs as Peter approaches. Straightens, only, at the smaller-twitch of Peter's grin, finally pulling himself upright and leaning in. Wrapping up the taller boy in a fierce hug. "You're vibrating," he observes (into Peter's sweatshirt), "you /definitely/ don't need the coffee." There's a faster flutter to his gills, that takes a moment to settle back down. "Yeah. It was fucked up as hell. They let those murderers go and stuck us in jail. Feel like that's kind of typical. And now we're about to --" His teeth clamp together, head shaking as he lets Peter go, steps back. "Everything's just fucked. You want cream on your cocoa? This feels like a whipped cream kind of night." "--hnh." There's almost a sense that Peter wasn't expecting the hug; when he receives it, his whole body briefly goes limp -- then tenses right back, hugging back with just as much fierceness. Shane's maybe one of the few people around who he /can/ hug that fiercely -- without, at least, making a few ribs creak. When he releases, Peter's face is flustered; he flushes briefly at the mention of vibrating. "I'm just glad to see you're okay. Cream, yeah, tonight seems like a --" Something in his brain tingles. The grin fades just a little. "...about to?" he asks, voice a little quiet. Shane leaves the tables, ducking over behind the counter to start prepping the cocoa. "Please. Getting arrested for some-ass bullshit is just a proud family tradition now. Pa wrote, like, a really scathing Facebook post about it so that kind of makes up for it, right?" He looks over the glass pastry display at Peter. "It's nothing. I'm sorry. It's -- just -- our team is --" His head bows over his work. "Things have been kind of busy, Peter. About to get kind of busy." "I'm trying to imagine your dad writing an angry Facebook post," Peter admits, his eyebrows briefly scrunching together. "I just keep imagining that by the end, he just ends up apologizing and offering everyone cupcake emojis." When Shane ducks behind the pastry counter, Peter frowns. "Your team is --" He goes rigid, again. His nostrils flare, toes clenching. "...oh." His voice becomes softer; frayed and agitated. A knot tightens in his chest. "I should... I -- is it too late to..." He leans over the glass to watch Shane work. "I want to -- I should be there," he almost-whispers. "If you're not following his angry activist Facebook page you're seriously missing out. He's very bless-your-heart about things, so /extremely/ Southern while he's /politely/ explaining how and why we need to eviscerate Nazis and probably you, too, if you get in the way of Nazi-punching." Shane's back is to Peter as he works on the drinks. "/And/ there's cupcake emojis." He goes quiet, too, after this, head bowing through Peter's near-whispers. Methodically continuing the drinks. "You can't be. It's not --" There's a brief flap of gills. Quickly stilling. "It's /soon/," comes first, more pragmatically, but softer -- "... and this isn't your fight." "It's not my --" Both hands come out of the hoodie. Peter's palms smear across the pastry rack's glass. He leans forward; there's something sharp and fierce in his tone, something harsh and uncontrolled -- even as he keeps his voice low: "If someone's going to try and hurt you then /yes it is/ my fight --" "People try and hurt us every day, Peter! Do you know how many death threats I get daily just for having this place?" Shane's hands soread as he turns around, wide and encompassing the cafe around them. "How many people want to hurt me just for walking out my front door? You can't fight the whole /world/." For just a moment -- judging by Peter's expression -- his response is an emphatic 'just /WATCH/ me'. There's a tight snarl of anger in his shoulders, his arms, and even the way his hands 'stick' to the display. But then his eyes close. His breathing, fast and furious, slows down -- each finger makes an audible 'POP' as he plucks them from the glass. "...sorry. Sorry. I know it's not -- but I hate this. Feeling like this. Not, not /doing/ anything, and..." He rolls his sack-pack over one shoulder, suddenly rummaging inside. "I know." Shane turns back around, setting two mugs of cocoa down on the counter. Getting out a canister of coconut-milk whipped cream to swirl it in neat pouf atop each, sprinkle them lightly with cinnamon. "I stayed home for years just fretting while Pa and the others --" He shakes his head. Folds his arms on the counter. "But there's a lot you can do. You don't /just/ have to punch every problem." Wryly, after this: "... and even if you do, there are /so/ many things that need punching." He slides one mug towards Peter, watching the rummaging curiously. Sniffing curiously. "Sometimes," Peter mutters, "I'm worried if I start punching things again, I won't stop." The sack is full of several notable items -- probably the most notable scent Shane catches is the acrid hint of vinegar. "I gave B a set, I know at this point I'm just basically handing them out like candy, but ze needed it more than me and I mean I've got like, two whole other sets, and --" He's speaking faster, his voice picking up momentum, falling back into old patterns. He tugs the sleek, coral-pink pair of web-shooters out of his pack. Configurable wrist-mounts, a sensitive pad that fits into the palm. As Shane sets the cocoa down, Peter's setting the devices down between them. He pushes them forward, before one hand quickly snatches the cocoa. "Wide-nozzle spray means you can use them for makeshifting bandaging, too." Then, softer, with a flutter of panic: "You can't... I mean, just -- don't. Don't die." "B and I are the only ones who have these?" The prominent ridge of Shane's brows lifts. He rests a hand over the webshooters, sliding them close. "Remind me not to stop by your house on Halloween." He bows his head -- looks down at the pink webshooters under his palm. "I wish I could make promises." He says this quieter, scooping the devices towards himself. "But I think all the support kind of betters my odds." "Yeah. Just you two, right now. The skillset to use them is so particular, and... okay, maybe, uh, Professor McCoy might have kept a set," Peter confesses. He keeps his voice hushed despite being alone with him. "I don't know. It's been a while since I've seen him. Since I've even messed with these things." He examines his cocoa for a moment, before taking a small, brief sip. And then -- on impulse -- he darts forward and leans over the pastry display to deliver a swift peck atop of Shane's brow-ridge. The kiss happens so quick that if you blinked, you could miss it. The cocoa's warmth that seeped into his lips is transmitted to Shane's temple, briefly lingering; Peter, meanwhile, cradles his cocoa against his chest and just looks -- well, flustered. "...for luck," he mumbles. Shane doesn't blink. Not until after, at least, clear inner eyelids shuttering as his claw swipes through the spiral of cream atop his drink. "Luck." The curl of his smile this time is slower, but -- this time it lingers. "I'll hang onto that. Give it back to you -- some time next week."