ArchivedLogs:Late Night Yurks

Late Night Yurks
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane
In Absentia	2013-06-12 warning: contains PUKE
Location <NYC> 305 {Teenhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
(Shane --> Peter): You awake? (Peter --> Shane): yes! youre okay (Peter --> Shane): well jesus of course youre not okay (Peter --> Shane): but youre texting me (Shane --> Peter): I'm alive, yes. (Peter --> Shane): where are you (Shane --> Peter): At home. (Peter --> Shane): i heard on the news (Shane --> Peter): I don't know what I wanted to say. (Shane --> Peter): Yeah. (Shane --> Peter): It was not a good afternoon. (Peter --> Shane): just dammit dude i should be there (Peter --> Shane): or you should be here (Shane --> Peter): I wish you were. Dai's living with us for the summer but I can't go near him. (Shane --> Peter): Bastian vanished after he heard. I don't know what he's doing. (Shane --> Peter): I *always* know what he's doing and he didn't even tell me. (Peter --> Shane): goddammit goddammit goddammit (Peter --> Shane): okay (Shane --> Peter): They think Ian killed that asshole. (Shane --> Peter): Ian doesn't kill anyone. Even in the cages where they tortured him for refusing he never killed anyone. (Peter --> Shane): just (Peter --> Shane): why cant that asshole cop stay dead (Peter --> Shane): even after hes dead hes still killing people (Peter --> Shane): they keep showing his picture on the news now i think i do recognize him (Peter --> Shane): did bastian say anything before he (Shane --> Peter): There were people cheering (Shane --> Peter): for ian dying like. the cops had won something (Shane --> Peter): he said he had to talk to pa. then never came back (Peter --> Shane): goddammit goddammit fuck this stay right there (Shane --> Peter): peter don;t go int he city someone might kill you (Shane --> Peter): peter? (Shane --> Peter): peter?? (Shane --> Peter): peter augh. don=t. die. :( This apartment is bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a small living room. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom. Furnishings are more in line with broke students than established adults. Cast-off couches and chairs provide places to sit, and the walls have been decorated in a frequently-changed street art style that combines bright, layered colors with exaggerated proportions and abstract shapes. Peter arrives -- actually, perhaps maybe surprisingly -- just a little over an hour later. There is a sudden, frantic rap-rap-RAPPING at Shane's window; it comes from a boy who is -- dressed in a black hoodie (hood up), black nylon backpack, black dress-slacks, black socks -- and, at the moment, kind-of-panting, kind-of-shivering, kind-of 'LET ME IN'. The instant that Shane opens that window -- unless the next words out of Shane's mouth are 'Don't touch me, I'm covered in invisible fire' -- Peter is going to be /rushing/ at him for a hard, vicious hug. And kiss. Kiss kiss kiss. Kiss no shutup kiss. There are in fact no words out of Shane's mouth. He pulls Peter in to curl his arms very tightly around him, returning those kisses with a sort of desparate intensity. And then just burying his face against Peter's neck. Unlike his room at Jax's apartment next door, this one is as yet pretty sparsely furnished. Not much to his bedroom past a few unpacked boxes and a small kiddie pool in the middle of the floor. "-- You idiot," Shane eventually manages (just before another kiss), "you could've been --" But this stops. Just. More kiss. There's maybe some vague, confused part of Peter's brain that wonders why there is no bed (the relevance of the kiddie pool isn't going to hit him for another minute), but the rest of his mind is locked on the task of pulling Shane down to the floor with him, side by side, just -- for more hugs. And kisses. Probably because, at the moment, Peter is /exhausted/; muscles trembling, arms and legs aching, gasping for air; maybe also because, this makes it easier to hug and kiss. And for a while, that's all Peter does -- hellbent on not giving Shane an opportunity to speak. Every time he tries, NOPE KISS KISS KISS. Probably pretty crudely on account of, uh, panting. But after a while, Peter's losing some of that steam, and his attempts to prevent Shane from speaking get sluggish. "I road a truck," Peter whisper-hisses, then: "I love you I'm sorry I tried to be good but I -- you /need/ me here." As if to stop himself from saying anything more, Peter leans down to bite a shoulder. It's a very tired, gaspy, wheezy sort of bite. Shane sinks down to the floor with Peter -- there's a stiffness to him, a tense-twitch that is not quite /comfortable/ in all the hugging but is doggedly clinging to it /anyway/. His hands slide down, not so much caressing as gently massage-kneading at Peter's arms. Through the kissing he eventually stops trying to speak and just -- kisses, just kneads, just slumps back against the wall beneath the window to tug Peter close. Until there is speaking. Then he draws in a ragged breath, and tucks his face down against Peter's chest when he is bitten. This earns a shiver, earns a squeeze, but then promptly he just -- bursts into tears. There's a harsh gasping sob but only for a moment; then there's a lot of fluttering of gills at his neck and beneath the thin black undershirt he wears, and without breaths the tears soaking into Peter's shirt are largely silent. At the crying, Peter briefly tightens his jaw, biting harder -- but then he draws his head back, away, and just -- shoves his face down against the top of Shane's head, cradling him. Hands moving to try and -- push down on as many fluttering gills as he can. There's too many of them to do at once, but Peter tries his best. Push, push, push. Breathe. "Shane..." Peter begins, whispersoft, trying to -- pull his head closer, /tighter/ against Peter's chest as he feels the wetness soaking through -- but then, nothing. Just squeeze, and try to flatten as many of his gills as he can. Only sometimes pausing to nuzzle Shane's hair. The silence continues, for a time. The pushing at Shane's gills earns a small nestling sink back /into/ the touch on one side; on the other sharp tension, twitching away from it. His head tilts slightly, though, to allow better access to the ones at his neck. They quiet slowly, and his soft breaths afterwards are quick, too-rapid, too-shallow. "I panicked," he finally whispers. Stil burying his face against Peter's chest, the words soft and muffled. For whatever reason, it takes Peter a moment to understand what Shane means. But when he does, something tense enters his jaw, his shoulders; his hands slip down to /squeeze/ down on the gills at Shane's neck, cupping his jaw with his palms, his thumbs sliding along the bone. Then -- kiss-kiss -- at the parts of Shane's brow and skull that are not nestled close against his chest. "/They/ panicked," Peter responds, and though the words are soft, there's an accusing, angered edge to them. "When they -- /they/ had /guns/. Anyone in your position would have -- panicked. Shane--" Kiss-kiss, again. "--I'm staying tonight, okay? Here, with you." "Hive was listening, they weren't. Gonna shoot they just. Were. They wouldn't have -- I /panicked/ I didn't. Didn't listen and my claws and they -- everything started. To get bad. If I'd just listened." Shane's body trembles against Peter's. "Just, the /cops/, I thought. I /didn't/ think. And Ian." This prompts a fresh round of tears. "Stay," he agrees, turning his face upwards to kiss Peter back; against his cheek, against his jaw. "Stayplease. I don't. I'm not. Going to work tomorrow. I called -- sick." "Oh," Peter responds to Shane's explanation, the sound soft, but accompanied by -- more squeezing, tighter, closer. And more kisses, kind of reckless, kind of exhausted, buried into Shane's hair. "Oh, /oh/, Shane, it's not --" When Shane turns his head up to kiss back, Peter leans closer, eyes closed, head butting close. "/Good/," Peter finally replies, voice a little hitched. "Because I wouldn't -- let you leave -- this apartment. I want you here. With me. For a while." Then, a little weakly: "I'll even sleep in the pool with you. Um. Snorkel. Do you have -- one?" He sounds, actually, /serious/. Like he's already trying to work this out. "... Daiki has one," Shane admits. "But I don't know if." He closes his eyes. Tucks his head in against Peter's neck. "We can just. Sleep. Right here." His fierce squeezing of Peter starts to slacken. He shifts to just nestle in at Peter's side, propped up against the wall. His hand returns to absent kneading. Peter's arm, Peter's leg. "-- Westchester's a long way away." Peter's muscles are still tense; he isn't shaking as badly as he was when he first came in through the window, but his leg and arm are both hard, clenched -- even as he just kind of /slumps/ against Shane at the nestling, managing to come off as -- semi-boneless. Managing to squeeze Shane's gills with his fingers and palms -- but not his arms. At the kneading, Peter makes a happy-but-tired chittery sound. "...oh man I'm gonna get in trouble," Peter mumbles, but soon adds: "S'okay though. First offense? Is worth it." Kiss. "I can, mmnf. Cling to your gills." Lazily, he stretches his palms over Shane's neck. Like... cling. And suddenly, that's what he's doing -- his palms /sealing/ over them. "S'maybe keep 'em closed? S'long way away," Peter agrees. "Too long." "Have Pa call in for you. He can. I think in the circumstances --" Shane continues the kneading, fingers working gently at exhausted-muscles. His head tips back when Peter's palms close against his gills, a slow relieved breath exhaled. "Feels good," he mumbles. And then a kind of sad admission: "I got a little bit shot. Gills aren't -- all working great." Knead, knead, slow and firm. "Tore Dusk's wing right the fuck open though. Bastards." He opens his eyes, peeking over at Peter. "A long way to /come/ just for me. Do you. Want food? That's. Like. Exhausting." "Maybe," Peter says, at the mention of having Jax call in for him. But then: "Man I don't even /care/ though detention -- /pfft/ whatever." Peter's hands flex a little, locked against Shane's gills; at the mention of getting a little shot, Peter's eyes /widen/, his whole body tensing up briefly. "You g--where?! Are you --" He relaxes a little, though, under Shane's continued kneading. And the mention of Dusk, and the offer of food -- probably figuring, if it was REALLY bad Shane wouldn't be. Uh offering him something to eat. "...you're not -- bad, right? /Jesus/ Shane they shot you too I just..." His face drops to Shane's hair as he peeks up at him; Peter's voice gets a bit /more/ hitchy. "Nngh. No. I'm okay. Just need to, rest for a bit. I can't -- I'm staying," Peter tells him, finally; at first, his tone is forceful -- but as he goes on, it gets increasingly shakey. "In the city. For break. With Jax maybe I'll ask him if -- I can't /do/ this Shane. I can't stay safe while you're -- here. I need to be -- here. With you. They /shot/ you," he hisses, sealed fingers /flexing/. "Only a /little/ shot," Shane insists. "In -- the side. Gills," he says this with a little bit of a wince. "You need water, at least." He sounds pretty insistent on this point. It was a /long/ trip! The rest of the words quiet him. "It's not safe," he whispers, but this doesn't seem like a /protest/ so much given that he follows it up with: "Pa might let you stay. He wants /us/ at the school, though. Would your folks -- be ok with -- it's dangerous." "They /shot/ you," Peter repeats, angrily. But, he is a little too tired to maintain anger. So, he just /squeezes/, a little more firmly. "They'll argue. Probably want me to stay with /them/ or at the school but--" Lazy, tired kiss. "I'll insist. Tell them that -- I'll figure something out." Head-slump. "I'll get some water," Peter mumbles, "in a bit. Then you can -- we can. Just rest, for a while." "-- Tell them what, they don't know --" Shane tugs Peter a little closer against his side. "This might not be. The best way to -- find out. But I guess right now there's /no/ good -- way to. Anything." For a while he is silent; when he speaks again it is very, very quiet: "Did you know," veryquiet!, "I died, once." "...don't even joke about that," Peter says, and it is just a hoarse, sudden-fierce /whisper/ as he is tugged closer to Shane, kind-of-awkward because his hands are still -- clinging to Shane's neckgills, but Peter manages to shove his elbows out of the way, one angled into the air, the other -- kind of shoved beneath him. But then, as if immediately reconsidering -- remembering some distant thing in the past -- he adds: "...wait, /really/?" "Not a joke. It -- Bastian didn't used to be so. Hair-trigger. About --" Shane's head shakes. "But he watched me die. I think it. I don't think that's. He's -- protective, now." "...he watched you die." Peter's breath catches; he squeezes Shane's neck a little more /possessively/. Maybe making breathing even normal-like a bit harder. "...but you're not dead." "Really?" The word is a little strained through the sudden squeeze of neck; it makes it hard to discern Shane's tone on this. "It's sometimes hard to tell." He melts into the squeeze rather than pulling away from it, and his hand that /has/ been still working slow at the muscles in Peter's leg slips up to slide against his side instead. "We went. With -- pa and. Ryan. Ian. Dusk -- all of them. To a. Went to. Get people out of --" This pause is less out of hesitance and more out of a slight strain of breath. Draw in slow, push out just as slow. "It was when we found Spence. But I -- there was a person who did this -- thing with --" He shudders, slightly. Doesn't explicate. "I have a friend. Who. What she does is -- bring people. Back. Like a healer. But for -- the dead." The hard swallow Shane makes here is easily felt against Peter's palms, rolling down his throat slow. "She. Helped." "They know -- they must know, she was. Was in those places /with/ us I think they. They made her -- a lot. Killed people just to --" Shane closes his eyes through the kisses, and the tension he carries in his posture starts to ease with that squeezing. Relaxing minutely at each compression, sucking in quick breaths between them. He returns that last kiss, softly. "But we don't. Tell anyone else, we don't. -- I don't know where Bastian." He shakes his head, just slightly. "I mean, we can't -- get to Ian anyway, they think he. Killed that bastard, she needs his body and they're /keeping/ that." Peter continues with the compressions; not so much because he knows they're helping, but because -- he just wants to /squeeze/ Shane. Until all the words come out. All the tension, all the sads. "Nnngh. Your pa might be able to. Maybe. We have teleporters and Hive and -- maybe even Eric. There are -- a lot of ways to --" He stops, suddenly, quieting himself by pressing his lips to Shane's forehead. Squeeze, release. "...shouldn't. Get your hopes up. Just, I'm sure that's -- what Sebastian left for. It makes sense. I'm -- really glad you're not dead. Anymore." Much more quiet, when he says this. "Sometimes I don't know if I am. Glad." Shane admits this in a tiny guilty whisper, words barely voiced. And then hesitation. And then just as tiny: "-- I know. Who. /Did/ do it." At Shane's first confession, Peter makes a tiny sound, but quickly kisses, as if to smother the very /thought/. At the second confession, though -- Peter tenses, just a bit: "...killed the cop? Who...?" But then: "Whoever it is. They shouldn't -- God. I don't even want them to get in /trouble/," Peter says. "I'm not, like, suicidal," Shane hastily amends, as if suddenly realizing how this first confession might be /taken/, "it just -- sometimes. Everything is --" His face presses down against Peter's neck. Then lifts again. "I don't know what I want," he says heavily. "I would've said I wanted him dead and now I don't even know. And I don't want /them/ to -- but God, Peter, /so many more/ people are going to die because of -- that was /fucking stupid/. They're not. The only one who wanted that bastard dead just the only one who's a complete fucking /moron/ enough to do it in /Central Park/. And now we're all fucked for it." "I know," Peter whispers. "I mean, I wouldn't think you'd ever--" Kiss. "--you wouldn't, I know. I just wish -- I used to feel like, sometimes. Like -- I just wanted --" Peter's face drifts through Shane's hair. "--go to sleep and not wake up." When Shane's head lifts from his neck -- Peter's hands compress down on his gills again, and he breathes, slow and hard. "...yeah. I -- I don't know who it was or why they -- but yeah. S'gonna be hard. They /shouldn't/ have. But, I dunno. Maybe they --" Peter grimaces a moment after he says the next words: "...maybe they -- panicked." Shane's arms creepcreepcreep around Peter through this whispering. Squeeze him in tight. He presses kisses, firm, to Peter's neck. "Yeah," is his whisperquiet agreeance with this first, but it's followed with more kisses. The kisses stall at those last words, a ripple of tension shivering through him. "Maybe they --" he echoes, ragged-shaky; after this he twitch-jerks a little bit away from Peter, shoulders convulsing as his palms press to his lips. The unsteady breath that whistles out through his nose is timed with this shudder. His hand presses harder. "...oh man oh man Shane I'm sorry, Shane it just kind of -- popped out I didn't -- Shane don't be -- angry? I wasn't thinking about -- this isn't your fault Shane, you didn't /shoot/ anybody, you just --" Now /Peter/ looks like he's about to panic; watching Shane push his palms to his lips, Peter bristles, wide-eyed and squeezing at Shane's gillflaps. "-- I'm sorry." Reeeeeeeeeetch. Shane has had sadly not enough to eat today but what he's HAD since getting back from the police station is coming back UP. In front of them. Possibly ON them. Splatter. Tasty mostlydigested meatsgoop. "...sorry," Shane mumbles, scrambling back to his feet, "I. Sorry." Peter's eyes BOLT open wide as Shane proceeds to. BLOW CHUNKS. When Shane pulls back, Peter's hands are still firmly clamped on those gills. So for at least a portion of this, Peter is being dragged by a yurking Shane. It's only when he's gotten half-way up that Peter suddenly remembers to unstick his palms. And then, FLUMP, back to the floor. Chest and throat covered in -- meatgoop. "...you... you puked on me," Peter says. Not /angry/; more like -- what? He looks back up to Shane, arms held out over him. "You just --" Twitch, twitch. Peter's left eyebrow makes a few spasms. "--okay," Peter finishes, and then he is grinning. Weakly. "Okay, you just puked on me. Um. I'm gonna get -- cleaned up. Um. In the bathroom." He pauses as he slooowly leans up, trying to keep the goop from sliding down, forced to reach down and pull his hoodie up a little bit. Eeergh. Waddle. "Yeah, uh." Shane's knuckles are pressing to his lips, gills fluttering again. "Yeah. That. I did that. Sorry. I'll get you clothes to borrow." He is making a FACE. Because pukemouth. "-- be careful going out there, um, if you feel. A strong compulsion to go into the other bedroom just. Don't." And with this warning he is opening the bedroom door so that they can both. Go. Cleanups. And probably so he can also brush his teeth really well.