ArchivedLogs:Taking the Train

Taking the Train
Dramatis Personae Shane, Peter
In Absentia	2013-05-24 Warning: May contain slightly elevated levels of SMOOCH
Location
During the length of the train ride that sends the entourage of people from New York to Georgia, Peter is -- well, for the most part, he’s with his folks. They’re coming too -- albeit with what’s clearly occasional flashes of confusion writ on their faces. They’ve been looking for their boy for what’s probably been near a month; when they last saw him, he was a little mottled, but otherwise pink-skinned. Now? He’s kind of a /bug/. But he /seems/ happy, which is /more/ than enough for them. Even if some of his friends are -- /highly/ unusual. During the length of the trip, though, Shane probably notices Peter carefully avoiding him around his folks. It isn’t so much an active attempt to push Shane away so much as -- a certain distance, maybe even curious lack of /hugs/! Whatever Shane might make of this, it’s some point when they’re nearly past the half-way point when - ever so carefully! - Peter creep, creep, creeps toward whatever compartment Shane has found himself in. Peter, looking much /better/ than he has days past; his fingers still in a cast -- but now, clad in a loose-fitting white shirt (with Boba Fett and Darth Vader as Jules and Vincent from Pulp Fiction), denim jacket, blue jeans, sneakers - a little /unusual/, probably, seeing him clothed casually with that gleaming, chitinous face -- moving to peek on Shane. “...hi?” Shane's compartment is an end car, a small cabin that contains for this trip nobody save Jax&co. Spencer is resting, napping, on Bastian's lap. Bastian and Daiki are playing a game of Mastermind. Shane is reading, tucked in with his legs pulled up beneath him at Daiki's side, attention mostly down on the Nook in his hands and intermittently partly on the game. He looks much better, too, skin its healthy deep blue sans pale-drying-cracking, gills no longer crusting themselves closed. He looks too formal for a vacation train ride, grey slacks and pale pink dress shirt, grey vest. Bowtie. Not the bloody one, thankfully. There was a cap, an also-grey newsboy hat, but this is resting on the table beside the game. Shane picks it up when Peter peeks in, sliding away from the others to move towards the door. He puts his Nook down, and reaches up to try and put the cap on Peter's head. "You look good," he says, and in tone this is not so much his usual flirtation as a critical sort of assessment: less-dying. Check. Peter grins a bit when Shane drops the hat on his head; eyes go crossy as he peers up at it. “Yeah. I finally -- oh, man. I finally got to have a /shower/. And then I looked at myself in a mirror. For the first time in -- it’s really weird,” Peter says, “just, not even knowing. What you look like? I --” His tone is quiet, but fast-paced; maybe just an edge of mania to it. Peter looks around the hallway, glancing left and right, as if to make sure the coast is clear. And then, softer: “We haven’t -- I wanted to -- um. Talk to... you.” His cheeks briefly darken and tint over to violet. "You look like pretty," is Shane's answer to this first statement, but it's kind of subdued. He smiles, a little crooked, and glances back at the others in his compartment before slipping out of his seat and out of the door into the hall. He slides the cabin door shut behind him. "Yeah, I -- thought you might." He looks at Peter, then down at his shoes (neat brushed-suede oxfords that /were/ pink in Jax's vicinity and have now faded to a more respectable black) and his hand rubs at the back of his neck. "Peter, look, in -- um. In there we -- you -- that place wasn't really --" Shane swallows, looking back up from shoes to Peter again. "I mean, that whole situation is hella fucked up, you know? And I don't think you --" Peter suddenly, after one more brief glance around, presses forward -- firmly moving to push Shane up against the door with his torso -- and dips his head down, /kissing/ his mouth shut. There is a flutter-quick /fierceness/ about it -- it’s also, probably not a very /good/ kiss. Mostly just, Peter shoving his mouth against Shane’s and trying hard not to cut himself on those tooth edges. He /might/ actually not manage; when he pulls back, depending on how quick Shane is, he might have a small cut or two on his lips. “...I just don’t,” Peter begins, hushed and breathing hard, “don’t want to -- freak my folks out. I already have the -- the /skin/ thing they are dealing with that, and -- I know, like. This would. Maybe be. Too much. At once? I just -- um.” The violet darkens, then, to something deeper. “...but, but. I still --” Huff. He’s almost /pinning/ Shane up against that door. “--want, um..." "Oh -- oh." Shane's eyes widen, with that kiss, and his gills flutter quickly. The sound that catches in his throat is a soft happy hum, and he seems to have no objections to being pinned. His hands lift to Peter's hips, not so much holding as just lightly resting there. "That," he admits, "isn't -- the talk I thought you were going to --" Now his hands /do/ squeeze, once, quick and gentle. "... how /are/ your folks dealing? With, um, all of this, did you tell them -- well." His brow creases. "Everything." Peter drops his head - temple just plopping against Shane’s browridge - his own hands on Shane’s shoulders, soon sliding down the length of his arms - under them - curling around his flank. /Careful/, with the spaces around his hidden gill-ridges; remembering where they are - but not, apparently, afraid of them. At the mention of what he told his folks, Peter’s eyes sink down to Shane’s chest -- his breathing gets a little more ragged. “No,” he tells him. “I don’t think -- they’re doing okay. I mean...” Peter’s own hands squeeze back, up against Shane’s ribcages -- also careful, but maybe a little less. “...I’m not telling anybody everything, not yet. Shane --” The squeezing gets a little more fierce -- maybe /too/ fierce. “I didn’t think we’d get out.” Whisper-soft, kind-of-scared. "OK." Shane tips his head up; at his height when he darts a kiss forward it is against Peter's chin. His breath catches, when that squeezing tightens, and there is a brief wince, decidedly pained, that crosses his expression. He doesn't pull away, though; he slides his arms around Peter and squeezes -- gently -- back. "I did." It's quiet, too, but sure. "C'mon. My dad is a superhero. And if he didn't find us, /we're/ pretty super, too." Peter slackens his grip when he sees that wince -- a slight whisper of sorry not /quite/ making it to his lips -- because after Shane darts up to kiss Peter’s chin, he’s suddenly grinning, cap-clad head descending, until he’s -- almost /hunched/ over Shane, just to get his face level with his. “I know,” Peter says, softly. “Back when you -- when you first told me, in there, that he was coming... I was starting to think maybe -- he wouldn’t -- come in time. But,” and Peter leans in to give another awkward kiss, just below Shane’s nose, just a bit slower than a peck, “but then I did, for a while, and --” Peter’s grip shifts, down to Shane’s hips, giving a testing little squeeze - to make sure it doesn’t hurt, there. And if it doesn’t - he pulls, /lifting/ Shane up along the edge of that door, up to be level with him. “--I wouldn’t have made it out of there without you,” Peter finishes, and then -- one more, confused, awkward kiss on Shane’s mouth. A little slower, a little less /mashy/, maybe this time trying to -- take his time and figure how this thing actually /works/. "I knew." For a moment Shane's head tips back against the door, tilting as though listening to something inside. "Because he /told/ me he wouldn't let anyone /keep/ us in --" He stops, and, kind of shyly admits: "It's not just that he's a superhero. It's just -- he'd -- never lie to me." The squeeze at his hips earns a smile, and Shane's arms lift to wrap instead around Peter's neck when he's lifted, crisp-starched dress shirt a comfortable barrier between scratchyrough skin. "I wouldn't have /left/ there without you," he answers, kind of a whisper but kind of a /fierce/ one. The kiss initially curls his lips upward, smiling rather than reciprocating, but then he does. A little slow, a little careful. Probably both out of care for Peter's inexperience and out of care for the sharp /teeth/ behind his lips. But he is, at least, well used to navigating this terrain, cautious this time not to nick Peter's mouth. Just -- gentle. “He’s -- wonderful,” Peter agrees, briefly breaking the kiss, pulling his head back. “You’re --” The next word isn’t spoken, but rather muffled against Shane’s mouth -- Peter is less /careful/ than Shane, more insistent and needy as he /flattens/ against him, hand shifting up Shane’s back to /grip/ with fingers between his shoulderblades, the other lingering, /curling/ against his hip, before -- “Nnnm. I -- I know you wouldn’t,” Peter agrees, the violet now deep underneath the edge of his cotton shirt, the skin along his chest flustered and warm. “I, um. We are -- would it be -- okay if -- we spent some time together -- there,” he asks, breathlessly. “With, um. I mean -- no one /watching/,” he adds, and now the violet turns to a crisp, dark indigo. Shane's gills are fluttering again by the time Peter breaks off, a quiet whisper of sharp edges rustling against the fabric of his dress shirt. "Noone watching?" He echoes this with a slight widening of his eyes, "Oh, shit, we didn't tell you? Uh, Jax's farm is just, mandatory orgies all the time. S'gonna be hard to avoid people watching." His head tips forward, nuzzling against Peter's neck. Brushing a light kiss there. "... no, yeah, I. Would. Like that. There's -- oh man it's /gorgeous/ down there -- but there's a lot of places to -- be alone." There is -- perhaps -- a brief, sharp /squeeze/ of Peter’s fingers at Shane’s hip that is meant to be /punishing/ but probably fails to discourage him. In case that doesn’t work, Peter leans his head back and gives Shane a tiny, quick head-butt. But he’s smiling, albeit with that shade of indigo to him. Lifting his head as Shane nuzzles under his jaw. “O-okay,” Peter says, happy-but-nervous. “I should -- probably, um. My folks -- others.” But Peter’s not showing any signs of /relinquishing/ his grip. It predictably does not discourage Shane, although it does make him shiver, his next kiss to Peter's neck firmer. "Yeah. You should. Probably. I should." This is punctuated with another kiss, this time properly on the lips. "We should." His arms tighten, slightly, around Peter's neck. His next kiss is longer. "-- In a minute."