ArchivedLogs:Much Better

Much Better
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane	Tuesday, June 27, 2017 part of futureytimes.
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Treehaus - Lower East Side
A spiral of sturdy slatted wooden stairs winds up the trunk of an enormous oak, leading the way up to this treehouse positioned between a pair of trees at one side of the Commons yard, abutting the river. It's clear enough upon ascending that this is no ordinary treehouse, built sturdy-strong and with a polished finish that would rival most /regular/ residences. Spanning the distance between the pair of oaks, the treehouse is a long one-story building, equipped with both plumbing and electricity. The stairs lead up onto a wraparound balcony that projects out at one side to overlook the East River rushing by below. The doorway inside leads to a furnished sitting room, long low futon-couches on the pale wood floors, walls painted in leafy shades of green, exposed-beam ceilings that seem to have worked some of the actual branches of the tree into the curvature of the roof. The front room is bright and airy, large windows looking out on the Commons grounds and the river outside. Recessed lanterns in the wall give the room a warm glow, come nighttimes, and in the center of the room amid a stone-tiled patch of flooring there is a squat glass-encased gas fireplace providing warmth in winter. Off to one side of the room there is an elevated loft up nearer the ceiling, accessible by ladder and furnished with pillows and plush futon mattress and lots of blankets. The adjoining room is decorated in watery river-blues instead of leaf-greens; in here there's a small kitchenette to one side with sink and stove and toaster oven and counter space, cabinets on the walls. A long dining table in this room seats eight; by the windows, plenty of cushioning sits in the wide window-seats. Off in the very back, a tiny half-bathroom holds a sink and toilet. No stove in here; the wintertime tends to find this room much chillier, but there's generally plenty of warm blankets lying around the house. It's late. Late-late, but there's music coming from the treehaus nevertheless. The strains of violin, played slow and haunting; it gives the still dark courtyard below kind of an eerie feel to it. Up here it's hot, windows open and a fan running but summer still /oozing/ in muggy-oppressive. Shane looks like he's /feeling/ it, skin a little too pale, his eyes drooping half closed. There's a large pitcher of lemonade on the table in the sitting room, a /spritz/-bottle beside it, a bowl of ice half-melted. He's kind of /half/-dressed after a long day of work, slacks but his shirt and shoes shed. His violin -- this one traditional, /actually/ wood rather than his odd black-and-blue electrical piece -- is tucked beneath his chin, but after a moment his bow hand falters. Drops. He sets the instrument down to just DUNK his head into the bowl of ice-water, hand splashing some of it up onto his gills before he straightens. Towels off the excess water, dries his hands, draws a huge breath, picks up his violin and tries again. "I still can't believe," Peter's voice comes from the stairwell, a moment after Shane has just finished drying himself off with that towel -- Peter's own footsteps whisper-soft, bare feet hugging the timber -- "that he included a giant tree-house in the design. That's /so/ cool." The young man is feeling the heat, too -- though the sleekly designed cooling shirt he's wearing (just a white, short-sleeved t-shirt -- with ultra-thin tubing and a fist-sized 'pod' clipped to the waistline of his denim shorts) is helping to take a little bit of the edge off. Peter looks different, today; rather than dark, chitinous skin, his flesh is a familiar shade of light gold; a little less pale than it used to be -- with a blush-pink for his mouth. The make-up has been carefully smeared up the length of his arms, neck, and face -- and down his legs and feet. If someone looked closely, they'd be able to see where it stops, just at the roots of his hair -- dark chitin extending up where his fingers refused to smear the grease over his scalp. But that's only if you look /really/ close. In three years, he's gotten a bit taller, too -- though not much else has changed. He's wearing a pair of thick-framed black glasses perched on his nose; he's grinning a little, crooked grin. On his back is a large, black, nylon back-pack -- strapped down hard. He's traded in his webshooters for a single sleek, future-styled wrist-watch, on his right hand -- at least, that's what it /looks/ like. It can tell time /and/ shoot webs. Multi-use! "He was a fucking nerd," Shane mutters, hands stilling for a moment before he backtracks to pick up from one measure previous. "He made the whole. Goddamn place a. Playground." His eyes close /all/ the way, now, lost, briefly, in the music he plays. It takes another little while before he drops his hand again, setting his bow down to fish out a piece of ice from the bowl and rub it across his face. His eyes narrow contemplatively on Peter, lips twisting for a moment to one side. "/Still/ doesn't suit you," he decides, tossing the melty ice cube lightly towards Peter's makeupped face instead. "I kind of like that," Peter says, and that crooked grin shows signs of fading -- his eyes drifting from Shane to the room, to the window that points outside, toward the commons. "He was really grumpy, but I like to think that in his head, there was a really… playful. Place." The words trail away, that grin slipping to a distant smile, bordering on turning into a frown… right before Shane throws that ice-cube. Peter blocks it with his hand, the grin flashing up as he catches it. His thumb slides over the ice; the makeup resists the moisture, at least initially -- but after a few more swipes, it starts to smear off onto the cube, exposing a dark splotch on the thumb. "It makes walking down the street way easier," he cheerfully /grumps/, before making his way toward Shane -- to plop down next to him. And reach for one of his moistened towels, using it on his arm… to wipe away a long streak of the flesh-toned stuff. "--did you hear about what happened in the news?" Peter asks, continuing to wipe rapidly -- trying to get his arm clean enough so he can curl it around Shane's waist without smearing any of the paint on /him/. "With the mutant terrorists -- the sentinels. Just outside of NYC." "His head was full of stars." Shane's answer is quiet, brows pulling together for a moment as he sets down his violin on the table beside his bow. "People always got it wrong, you know? He wasn't grumpy because he hated people, he was grumpy because he loved them too fucking much. -- /Christ/, dude --" He picks up a different towel when Peter starts wiping off on his, twisting it up to /thwap/ it against the other boy's back. And then hook-hook-hook his arm around Peter's waist and draaag him off towards the bathroom. "The what? Who?" His brows lift rather /sharply/. "Nah I -- you know I used to be a goddamn news /junkie/ just eat that shit right the fuck up I've sworn off it now? Cold turkey. S'bad for my --" He hesitates, gills fluttering. "Blood pressure. Always some motherfucker wanting to stick us in camps or cut of my dad's fucking /head/. You know just the other day on HuffPo there was this fucking /bile/ --" He stops short here, per/haps/ realizing this commentary gives lie to his vehement denial of Following The News, and ushers Peter into the bathroom to turn the sink on. "Uh. What terrorists?" "Mmf, sorry," Peter says, but there's a cheekiness to the grin that follows that towel-thwack which indicates he might not be *too* sorry as he's dragged off to the bathroom -- already in the process of stripping off his shirt as they walk, snapping off the belt-clip at his waist -- it dangles, attached to the shirt by an insulated rubber cable. He hasn't painted his *entire* torso; just the sternum and up, and the shoulders and down -- leaving large smears of flesh-tone interrupted by the sudden emergence of that chitinous chest -- his shirt clunking on the ground behind him as he follows Shane in front of the sink. At once, Peter's hands are cupping the water, bringing it up to start washing his hands -- that little frown accompanying Shane's mention of the news, and the article in Huffington… he shakes his head. "--you remember those mutants way back, at the Oscorp Gala? They were apparently plotting something big -- and they got taken down by three of the Mark II sentinels. The ones the police are using. They're in custody, now. Just happened yesterday." Peter's lips purse as he rubs the grease off of his fingers and palms. "...and yeah. I think I know that he…" The words dwindle away, again; Peter's motions have slowed down. He keeps at it, though. "...anyway, I was just worried, because… the news was saying it was the Brotherhood, right? But I don't think -- /were/ those guys Brotherhood?" Shane leans Peter a little bit more over the sink, his own hands lifting to squirt on a little bit of soap and start scrubbing off one of the other boy's arms. "Uhhhhn." He squints up an eye, claws tracing lightly through makeup against Peter's chitin before he goes back to just rubbing. Rubrubrub. No wait now he's doodling patterns in the soapsuds. "Yeah okay crazy-ass motherfuckers. I remember. OK. So uh, so nobody we. /Know/." His gills flutter quickly again, hand sliding up now to Peter's shoulder in less of a scrubbing motion and more an absent caress. "I don't know what those guys were. Crackpots? I'm pretty sure to the news, we're /all/ Brotherhood." Peter's not /complaining/ about the way that Shane starts doodling and caressing his arm, then his shoulder -- even if it isn't the most efficient means to take off the makeup. Peter continues to scrub himself, the pattern becoming slower, steadier, extending up to his elbows, now -- a tiny chittering sound emerging from the back of his throat as Shane traces up to the edge of his shoulder, leaning back against Shane's contact. "...think they were just -- kids, like us. Except without…" Peter bites down on his bottom lip, glancing at Shane's reflection in the mirror. "...anything to anchor them, I guess? I don't know. They were really… messed up, from what I heard. But…" Peter takes in a slow breath, now. "...according to the news," he says, "Homeland Security's interested in purchasing the sentinels, now -- for -- dealing with the Brotherhood. And I mean, I know /Jax/ isn't--" Peter pauses, here, taking in a quick breath -- eyes suddenly scanning the room, as if in a moment of paranoia. When he speaks again, his voice is /much/ more quiet. "--is it okay to -- here?" "No." Shane's agreement comes a little absently, his hands returning to scrubbing the makeup off more in /earnest/ before he rinses soap off his hands and just scoops up water to pour down over Peter's arms. "No, /Jax/ isn't --" His eyes slant around the room, brows knitting slightly together. "I don't know. Probably. I think if it weren't okay to talk here they'd have picked up Dusk /long/ ago," he admits, a little bit of a wry smile on his lips. "What were those kids' powers again? So long. Are these robots /serious/?" "Mmf." Peter reluctantly returns to the scrubbing; now, his biceps are clean, his hands extending up to his shoulders, leaning /farther/ over the sink so as not to drip water and makeup everywhere -- letting it dribble down into the sink, bending forward, his chin nearly touching the mirror -- arched muscle along his back tensing as he pauses, sliding his arms away, gripping the sink instead -- letting Shane continue to scrub in his stead. The chittering returns, deeper and longer. "I don't remember," he says, in response to the question about their powers, his eyes drooping as his temple presses to the glass -- smearing just a dollop of makeup against it. "But I remember that they were /dangerous/ as hell. And the robots are -- they're amazing," Peter comments. "Like, seriously… amazing. I don't know if /we/ could take one." Then, a little softer, at the mention of Dusk's name: "He needs to be careful," Peter tells Shane. Shane scoops more water up over Peter's shoulders, frowning as he watches the makeup run down into the sink. "Amazing like what, amazing?" His words are a little hitched, a little breathless with the rapid flutter of his gills. His thumb works at a stray patch of recalcitrant makeup before he continues upward, rubbing it off Peter's neck. "Could my Pa take one? He's like a nuke in glittery form." His frown is not getting any /less/ frowny at the mention of Dusk. "He's been at this so long now I'm sure he -- I'm sure he knows how to -- but fuck, he's /so/ recognizable, how the hell do you even /be/ a terrorist when you can't walk out the damn door without." He exhales sharply, flicking one finger down into the sink at the makeup ebbing away down the drain before tucking Peter's head further down to get the rest of the cream off his neck. Peter obediently slips his head down deeper along the mirror, toward the sink -- bending harder -- his back arching, muscle *clenching* and rolling in a long, languid wave as Shane scrubs at his nape. "I don't know what Jax's upper limits are," Peter admits, "but if he can melt *steel*... he can probably melt these things. He could put a shield around one, and we could throw a webnade into the shield," Peter suggests, half-jokingly. "/That/ would take it out." Then, more softly: "They're fully functioning, autonomous robots. They're -- do you remember the Doombots? At that expo, so many years back? They're like that, except mostly -- plastics and non-ferrous materials. I think they did that because of…" Peter pauses, there, as if there's no need to fill in the gap. "Well, Dusk can /fly/, can't he? That probably helps." Peter doesn't sound very thrilled at the notion, though. "I totally want to dissect one of these robots, like… apparently, they're pretty strong? But they have a lot of problems with their batteries -- I've been reading about them on the internet," he admits, just a /little/ bashful -- his own hands moving now, at last, to start washing at his face -- cupping water to lift it to his features. "Some mutants have already -- had to deal with them." "He can melt steel. I mean. It's not exactly something he likes to /talk/ about a lot or anything but he could probably level the entire fucking /city/ if he --" Shane shrugs a shoulder, huffing out a sharp breath. "There were -- yeah, I remember. The doombots. They were creepy motherfuckers. They attacked the Morlocks." He drops his hands when Peter starts to take over, thunking his palms down onto the rim of the sink with a kind of deflated wilt to his shoulders. "... yeah. Yeah. Dusk can fly. I think that's the only way /he's/ stayed -- wherever the fuck he is. For so long." His claws click rapidly against the sink. "... and it didn't go well for those mutants I. Guess." "...he can?" Peter says, his voice very quiet, very drawn -- he doesn't sound /surprised/ to learn that Jax can melt steel, more as if it's just -- confirming something he already suspected. "Actually," Peter admits, at Shane's last comment -- he sounds almost guilty as he says this -- "it went… pretty well. Better than the police, anyway. Sentinels, they don't… /beat/ you. Kill you. They don't panic, or act cruel. They just… subdue you. Plus, a lot of people in the forums I've been reading, they mention that the sentinels all have recording equipment inside of them? So when they're around, the police have to be kind of careful, because -- they're recording everything they do. I even heard about an incident where a mutant /requested/ a sentinel." His face is nearly completely clean, now; a few more swipes, and he's starting to slowly rise -- his hand reaching out for Shane's hip. "He can be pretty terrifying," Shane confirms, before adding: "On /paper/. But, I mean, Christ, can you imagine my /Pa/ blowing up a fucking -- anyone? Jesus." He leans back against the wall, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he watches Peter clean off. "Soooo." Taptaptap, his fingers are drumming against the inside of his elbow. "What you're saying is, the sentinels don't lock you in cages and make you fight just for sport?" He shrugs a shoulder, thunking his head back against the wall; when Peter's hand reaches for him he shifts his weight into it, a small smile crooking across his lips. "Shit, I'll take it." "No," Peter agrees, though it's hard, at first, to tell if he's talking about Jax blowing up anyone -- or whether or not the sentinels will lock them up in cages. Suddenly, Peter -- now with scarcely a smudge of paint on him, his face and body returned to that familiar, dark blue sparkly chitin shine -- darts forward to kiss Shane on the mouth as his head thunks against the wall. Smooch. Small, quick, almost chaste; the resemblance to their very first kiss is probably largely unconscious, but still familiar; somehow, it makes him feel safer. "They still scare the crap out of me," Peter confesses, his voice a subdued whisper, leaning in close to Shane. "Maybe if they were -- Stark's, or even -- /anyone/ else's. But they're not. /He/ built them." "I don't know. Even creepyass people can do -- vaguely -- sort of -- not entirely terrible things sometimes? Sometimes. Who knows. Maybe you should talk to Rasa. Ze's like. Been fucking /living/ in Oscorpland, if there's creepy shit going on --" Shane shrugs, exhaling quietly with a very small hint of smile after that kiss. His fingers curl against Peter's hip. "I don't know. It's just. You know me I'm the /last/ fucking person to say that this entire world /isn't/ a goddamn shitheap but. Things've been getting kind of /better/? I've been trying to worry less. Be less angry. Be less /scared/. Just let things be --" He shrugs a shoulder, a small furrow appearing between his brows as he looks off somewhere past Peter's shoulder. "Better." Peter smiles at this; not as wide as that initial crooked grin -- but deeper, easier -- his eyes half-open as he listens to Shane. As the sharkpup looks past Peter's shoulder, he kisses him, again -- this time, longer, fuller -- pressing his mouth warmly against him. When he pulls back, he presses his temple to the side of Shane's head, just squeezing close. "...I'm glad," Peter whispers, before adding: "Maybe you're right. I /feel/ better," Peter admits, nosing against Shane's jaw. "Much better."