ArchivedLogs:...and That's Why We Have Ants!

...and That's Why We Have Ants!
Alternatively: SAFEST DANGER BROS
Dramatis Personae Ivan, Peter
In Absentia	2013-05-01 '
Location <XS> Ivan and Peter's Dorm
The first thing one might notice upon entering this dorm room is the almost constant, low drone that emanates from almost a dozen terraria, situated mainly on and around one of the two desks present. Inside of them are plants, sand, bits of driftwood and a /lot/ of different insects and arachnids, all making their respective little noises. Krrt, chkk chkk. The other desk houses no such creatures, but it does have a laptop. There is a poster of a Dalek hanging next to a small television perched atop a few game consoles, a three-seater with a dark brown coffee table in front of it, two dressers and beds on the far side of the room. One is made quite neatly, the other... not so much. Books are strewn across pillow and sheets, mostly English and Russian-language. An even greater number is piled precariously next to the bed. Numerous postcards depicting well-known European and some Russian cities are taped to the wall above it. Peter has been a little unusual for the past few days. Okay, Peter has been unusual /since the day Ivan met him/, but Peter has been unusually unusual since, Monday, maybe. For example: Wearing his mask. Almost /all/ the time. Disappearing at odd, unscheduled hours. Clothes that smell like woodchips. And, maybe occasionally thieving some of Ivan's beekeeping books, only to return them the next day. Now, when Ivan returns to the room, Peter is - clinging to the ceiling. It's a tricky trick; the first time Peter did it, he actually managed to rip out a tile with his own weight (and nearly get himself detention). Since then, the tile has been replaced and Peter has carefully /marked/ the section of tile he can cling to with helpful tile-adhesive tape. He is currently clinging to those particular junctures - hands and feet - clad in his red hoodie, blue jeans, tabi socks, and - of course - ski-mask with ridiculous goggles. Sometimes he assumes this posture for an /hour/. Sometimes, he /studies/ up there. Peter is kind of weird. It's a good thing Ivan is used to weird, then. In fact, he's bringing some more in! He enters with over a dozen clear, plastic containers of various sizes cradled in his arms, closed with blue and white lids. Some of them are empty, yet others are /brimming/ with small insects. Sorted, it seems. One for ants, one caterpillars, one ladybugs- the list goes on. He foots the door shut behind him, and looks left. Right. Hm. Where to leave these. He's also kindly dragging some twigs and leaves in, clinging to the black coat he's wearing, like he just /rolled around/ in the woods. "...oh, hey Ivan," Peter says, offhandedly, from above. Then: "You brought... bugs. Oh man that's - a lot of bugs." He doesn't sound as /excited/ as he usually would be! But he doesn't sound like the prospect of bugs here really bothers him, either. Mostly, he sounds carefully curious. "Why are you - /oh/, right, bugclub." Ivan stiffens-- just for a moment. Maybe he didn't know Peter was up there. But, person of mild responses as he is a lot of the time, he continues on his way and lets the containers pile onto the bed. Subsequently wincing, because-- that's a lot of tumbling bugs just then. Only then does he look up, timid smile on his face. "Bug club. But also food." Then, "Hello, Peter." "/Food/?" Peter asks, and now the excitement he is known for creeps back into his tone, just a /hint/. "Like - Ivan you're not gonna /eat/ them riii... oh you mean for the /other/ bugs, right? Like - your bugs." And then he's detaching; *WHUMP* down on the floor. Just... release, flip, THUD. He starts brushing off his hands before dropping down atop of his bed. "The taste is not good." Ivan responds, aaaalmost like he knows what he's talking about. A moment later and he's grabbing individual containers and moving them on top of specific terraria. Between containers, though, he looks at Peter. /Squints/ at Peter. For /reasons/. Peter bristles underneath the stare. But then: "Oh um, I was thinking - um, maybe - you know, after you took a /swing/ at a dude... I've been learning to, y'know - Rasa helped me learn how to jab," Peter admits, and even underneath the mask, Ivan can pick up the blush to his tone. "Maybe I can show you? I mean, I don't think you should go around /punching/ dudes but, like, I think the big thing they teach you is /restraint/ anyway, and sometimes if a dude is coming at /you/..." It takes a little while for anything to make it to Ivan's face, in terms of expression. Eventually... amusement gets there first. A close second is confusion, layered on top. "I was told /not/ to fight." Then, slightly quieter, more hesitant, "... Is Rasa a good teacher?" "Yeah I mean, you shouldn't fight unless you /have/ to, I guess - I'm learning it 'cuz, um, it helps me with - being all strong and stuff - I need to /control/, you know? So if a dude comes at me, I don't hurt them," Peter explains. And then: "Oh yeah I mean... I guess. Taught me how to jab, and cross, and hook, and upper cut - didn't know what a /tiger/ upper cut was, but --" That is a joke. Maybe not a good one. "--but yeah maybe Rasa could teach you I mean, I think..." Peter trails off. Then adds: "Ivan, you know, I've just been thinking - we need to know how to defend ourselves, I guess. And /not/ get into trouble. But, be able to do something when we /are/ in trouble." Confusion takes over Ivan's face entirely now, leaving amusement in the DUST. "But I will not get in trouble. I will be /here/." Then, "/You/ are the hero." This is one hundred percent said in earnest, his head angling curiously. "It is important that /you/ are safe." "But you /almost/ got in trouble. Oh man Ivan I don't know what I'd do if you were in /jail/ or something - and, like, I know you are probably getting scolded by /tons/ of people for that, I don't wanna give you any grief for it, I am just worried - because, like - Ivan I think we are /all/ in trouble." Peter scratches at the back of his mask, now. "I just want you to - stay safe. And I think I'm gonna - try and stay safe, too, maybe. For a little while. Be less - /dangeresque/. I mean - we can both work on being - /safe/ heroes, maybe." There's a certain amount of unease evident on Ivan's face at the mention of scolding, but even afterwards, it stays. Strengthened by Peter's words, slowly turning into a look of deepening concern directly at Peter's face. Or lack of, rather. No words, this time. He just wanders a little closer and slooowly /reaches/ for the mask's fabric. "Ivan what are -- aaaaaaaa, /Ivan/," Peter says, as Ivan approaches, reeeeeaching for the mask. But, even as Peter /leans/ away, he doesn't quite lean away enough - playing keep-away with his face is probably not going to last very long. So when Ivan grips it, Peter hesitantly reaches up to grip it too - giving it a tentative tug. Tug, tug. Tug. Peter's face is - well, Peter's face. Not much different! Except for a little blotchy mole above his mouth, to his right - and another along his jaw. And another nickel-sized one around his forehead. Mishapen, unusual - and a crisp, almost /metallic/ black. Peter is frowning. "Ivan," he tells him, hands lifting up - as if to ward off any immediate response. "Don't freak out--it's okay. I mean, it--I'm okay with it. I'll /be/ okay. Don't freak out, Ivan. Ivan." IT IS EATING HIS FACE. It's funny, how some people respond to things... by not responding at all. Ivan's face changes very little, beyond that concern slowly wilting away. His hand just sort of... hangs in mid-air, having helped tug the mask off. Behind him, one of the filled containers just kind of... bumps. A second one drones out a buzz of little beetle wings. Another one still, more precariously situated, /falls off/ its terrarium and onto the floor. Ants. It's full of ants. Or it was, anyway, before the impact popped its lid. Now, the floor is. Ivan is not interested. He's good. Just staring at Peter's face, the colour on his own face slowly draining. Yep. "Ivan." Peter's eyes flicker to the pile of /ants/ now on their floor, before moving - smoothly - back to Ivan's. He reaches out, now - mask dropped - to grip Ivan's shoulders. Firmly. "Ivan," he tells him, mouth drawn into a thin line, eyebrows crumpled. "It's /okay/. It's fine. I know I am - I'm gonna probably look /weird/ but it's okay. I'm fine with it. Ivan -" And then, something small and frightened and /desperate/ slips into Peter's expression, and maybe his grip on Ivan tightens a little /harder/ than it should, almost possessive: "--Ivan we can still be friends, /right/?" The ants behind Ivan are apparently of absolutely no concern, and seem to be left to spread throughout the room of their own free will. Perhaps a bit /quicker/ than they usually would. "Peter, you are not my friend." Ivan's voice is quiet now, even for him. There's a certain something that creeps across his features that looks suspiciously much like disappointment, at Peter's confidence whittling away. Ivan just looks like he doesn't understand, like this is /all wrong/ and Peter should understand. But he doesn't. And it's sort of infuriating. "You are my /brother/." When Ivan says 'you are not my friend', oh man for a second, it looks, for a moment, like - yep - Peter is just about ready to /cry/. Mouth slightly open; eyes wet. But when Ivan finishes it with that next sentence - Peter /slams/ his head against Ivan's shoulder. *WHUMPF*. Arms around his waist, /squeezing/. A little /too/ hard, just maybe. "...I'msorryI'msorry," Peter half-mumbles behind a strangled sob. "Just, look, I know - I didn't think you would - I just get paranoid sometimes - if you were /angry/ with me - even though that would be /so/ silly - Ivan you are my bestest-bro, if you are cool with this then I don't even /care/, I can deal with it." "Peter--" Ivan tenses, face blank again. Maybe a little wide-eyed. "Peterpeterppp--" He leeaans forward, as much as he wasn't already due to being /squished/. "--peterbreathingisnice." "Oh--ohGod /sorry/," and at once, Peter has released - almost /pushing/ Ivan back, as if he was worried mere contact might alone be enough to crush him - even though, simultaneously, one hand remains firmly attached to Ivan's shoulder. Peter's eyes might /still/ be just a mite wet, but he doesn't look - /terrified/, anymore. "I'm sor--thanks, Ivan," he finally finishes. "You are - a good danger-bro. The /best/ danger-bro." Sniffle. Ivan /stumbles/. Breathing IS nice. He takes advantage of having been released to do some of that nice breathing. There's also a smile that makes it onto his face again now, a bit lopsided, a bit... pondery. He rubs his side with one hand, but there's no winces to accompany it. "Will you feel better if I learn to be safe, even if I am already safe?" "I -- yeah, I guess. I /think/ so I mean," Peter says, calming down quite a bit now, blinking rapidly. Blink. Blink. "Yeah I -- that would make me feel a little better, I think. Knowing that -- if you were in trouble, you could handle yourself. Oh man I've got -- a present for you, too. Tomorrow. It is /so/ sweet Ivan." Maybe they should call Peter the /Tease/. "But -- but we should go to bed. And tomorrow I will show you the most /awesome/ thing." He squeezes Ivan's shoulder again. As if he is afraid, upon releasing, Ivan will evaporate. Only then does something occur to Peter. Glancing down, at the floor. Wide-eyed. "...Ivan, /ants/. We have -- Ivan ANTS ARE EVERYWHERE." Ants? Ivan, to the best of his abilities with his shoulder being squished, turns to look behind him, taking a tiny step to the side. Crunch. -- 'Crunch'? His smile disappears again, and his eyes dart from down at the floor to the dressers and the bedframes and EVERYWHERE IS ANTS. All at once, they /stop/. "Then I will learn." This is the last thing he says before the ants start moving again. Whatever bees do to his brain, ants seem to have a lot /less/ of an effect, because Ivan just stands and cracks another smile as they move in tiny little crawly rivers along the floor and furniture, to gather on a large, blank spot on the wall. Once they're all there, crawlin' around in a big vertical mess, they start to separate. Into... letters? Into letters. Blocky and wriggly and uneven. 'DANGER BROS CHAPTER 2: THE SAFEST DANGER BROS'