ArchivedLogs:Ask, Tell

Ask, Tell
Dramatis Personae Shane, Steve	2016-06-15 "{I mean I -- I imagine it'd be hard. To be the /same/ after something... something like.}"
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Arts and Crafts Room - Lower East Side
The art studio of the Harbor Commons is fairly neutral in base coloration. Easy to clean linoleum tiles in soft gray run up against darker gray baseboard. Overhead is a simple ceiling, unfinished but sprayed with a protecting paint to keep moisture, dirt, and other assorted substances do not stick. There is an exhaust fan to carry heavier fumes up and out, keeping the workspace usable all year. Where they can be seen, the walls are the color of white chalk, flecked here and there with paint, but for the most part, the walls are stacked with supplies, storage, and equipment. There's a small section for wood working, places to store canvases and larger drawings, and cabinets a plenty. In the center of the room, there are work tables aplenty, three at sitting height with a third set up for standing height, next to the open space for the easels. Two deep, stainless steel sinks face off against wide tall windows that open the craft room up to the outside, allowing air and sunlight in, weather permitting. There's quiet music drifting from the art room, an upbeat jazzy tune and a sultry tenor singing in French. Steve wears a plain black t-shirt and worn blue jeans splattered with paint, perched on a stool in front of an easel. The picture taking shape in acrylic on the canvas is of a bleak wintry seaside, executed in rough strokes but full of movement. The water beneath the curling white breakers is a deep, dark blue, and the sky above it is leaden. A single human figure stands on a rock, bundled up against the cold, the red scraf trailing from their neck the brightest spot of color in the entire composition. A huge, brindled mutt is sprawled on the floor nearby, chewing on a large black Kong toy. There has been quiet music nearby in the music room, as well -- muted with its soundproofing though the stormy chaotic violin strains can still occasionally be overheard. It has stopped a few minutes past, though, and now quiet footsteps pad past. And then back to the doorway. A small blue figure -- barefoot, dressed in white-on-white pinstriped slacks, no shirt, stops to slip inside, leaning aganst the doorframe to watch Steve work. Shane has a violin case -- heavily covered with stickers, the initials M.R.B on one edge of the cover -- in one hand, a thermos in the other. His eyes dip down to the dog, then lift to Steve's canvas, gills slowly opening and closing along his sides. The dog notices Shane before Steve does -- or at least seems to. Zenobia lifts her head, Kong still clasped in her jaws, then scrambles to her feet and trots to the door, tail thrashing wildly. Headbutts Shane in the side gently. Steve turns then, raises his brush hand in greeting. "{Hope my music didn't disturb your practice,}" he says, the rustic, provincial accent of his French gaining a noticeable Qubecois color. "{I should have closed the door, but the cross-breeze felt nice.}" Shane rocks back slightly, shoulders settling more firmly against the wall when Zenobia butts at him. He tucks his thermos beneath an arm, freeing up his hand to rub at the huge dog's head. "{I'm undisturbed. You're undisturbing. It's hot as fuck lately so --}" Shrug. His eyes are still fixed on the painting, lips twisting to one side. "{My music goes better with that painting than yours does.}" Zenobia nuzzles up into Shane's free hand, then presses the Kong into it. Steve lowers his palette and glances back at his painting. "{It was a happy memory, but...}" He shakes his head. "{It just doesn't want to come out cheerful. I guess I'm not feeling cheerful.}" Turns back to Shane. "{How are you doing?}" Shane crouches down, better to scruff at the back of Zenobia's neck for a moment. He takes the Kong from her, rolling it across the floor towards the windows. Then stands, meandering over towards Steve and his easel. He sets the violin case down on a nearby table, offers the thermos out to Steve. "{What was the memory?}" Zenobia's tail wags even faster and harder when Shane accepts the Kong, then bounds after it when he throws it. Steve takes the thermos from Shane and raises it with a nod of thanks, popping it open and drinking from it without pausing to inspect its contents. "Omaha Beach." Waves at the painting. "{A remote stretch of it. Winter of 1944.}" His expression softens as he gazes at the lone figure in the painting. "{And that is Howard Stark.}" Inside the thermos there is coffee, strong and black and iced. One of Shane's eyes squints up, head tilting as he studies the picture. "Omaha Beach," he echoes pensively, "{-- was a happy memory?}" This sounds just a touch dubious. As does: "Howard Stark like Howard Stark?" He leans back against the counter he's put the violin down on, turning his scrutiny on Steve, now. Small-lift of the ridge of his brows. Zenobia traps the Kong under one enormous paw and flops down to chew on it again. "{Oh, this was months after the landing. There were still assets there, but it was far from the front lines.}" Steve hums appreciatively at the coffee and hands the thermos back to Shane. "{Founder of Stark Industries, father to Tony Stark, inventor extraordinaire, and the most brilliant mechanical engineer of his time.}" His gaze returns to the painting, pale blue eyes distant. "{There was a terrible storm brewing, we were grounded on our way to our next deployment, and it was bitterly cold, but...I think this was the closest thing we had to a date.}" Shane's brows lift higher. "{Date? Like a} /date/-date?" There's a note of surprise in his tone; he straightens slightly from where he's been leaning. "{You mean you and /Howard Stark/ were --}" His brows knit, head giving a small shake. "{But wasn't that -- back then, I mean, weren't people, uh...}" His hand rubs at the back of his neck, a sudden scowl crossing his face. "... Not like they're exactly /great/ about it now but. Uh. Back /then/. Wasn't that, you know. Shitty." Steve nods, still staring at the painting. "Well, I'm not really sure if it was a '/date/-date', but...{like I said, it was as close as we got.}" He looks down at his paint-stained hands. "{We were lovers, after a fashion -- in secret. Because...} because yes, people were. Shitty." Zenobia abandons her Kong and pads over to the two men, sitting down beside the stool and leaning on Steve's leg. He reaches down to pet her head. "{Only my team knew.}" "{Sorry.}" Shane's head dips, claws clicking against the outside of his thermos. "{That's gotta be kind of rough, huh? I mean, for anyone, but, like.}" He waves the thermos towards the painting. "Howard Stark. And Captain America. {That's a whole different level of --}" He breaks off for a moment, a smile twitching wryly across his face but then vanishing. "... is that," with another nod to the paining, "why you're sad?" "{It was rough,}" Steve agrees, "{for a lot of reasons.}" Zenobia starts licking Steve's hand, but he pulls it back before she can consume too much paint. The dog looks a little betrayed at this and turns to snuffle at Shane's hand instead. "{And I'm sad for a lot of reasons, but...}" He shakes his head, his eyes bright and damp. "Yeah. I miss him. So much." Unlike Zenobia's treacherous human, Shane leaves his hand where it is. In easy snuffling distance, fingers curling up to scritch under her chin. His gills flutter a little faster -- for a time he is quiet. Studying Steve. Studying the painting. At length he answers -- simply, "{I'm sorry.}" Zenobia presses her snout into Shane's palm and sits down beside him, leaning her muscular shoulder against him. "{Thank you,}" Steve says. "{They tell me he was crushed when I was declared dead. That he was never really the same.}" Then, after a brief quiet. "I've lost so many people, and I miss them all, but I.../regret/ the things I didn't do with Howard. The things I didn't say." Shane keeps his hand in easy Zenobia-distance, slow idle scratches dispensed between her ears. "Things like... like what?" His voice is a little unsteadier than it had been before, a little broken-up with quiet breathlessness, hitching around the rapid flutter of his gills as they flap open and closed along his neck and sides. "{I mean I -- I imagine it'd be hard. To be the /same/ after something... something like.}" His voice is quieter, eyes fixed steadily on the painting. Steve draws a deep, deep breath. "I never had sex with him." He blushes only a little, saying this, but looks relieved once he'd said it. "He didn't pressure me, but I knew he wanted it. And I never told him. That /I/ wanted it, too." Zenobia leans harder on Shane, snuffles at his gills as they flutter, looses a low, concerned whine. "{I imagine. At least I know he led a long life full of adventure and innovation, married, had a family... But he --}" Steve turns back to Shane, eyebrows furrowed. "{I was torn from him without so much as a goodbye. Left him only letters and photographs and an empty grave.}" "Why didn't..." Shane doesn't finish the question, though. His eyes tear away from the painting at the sound of Zenobia's whine. A faint tension creeps into his jaw; he presses an arm absently down against his side, gills slowly pressing down flat. "{I'm sorry. I guess war kind of...}" He hesitates, brows pulling inward again. "{... Do you ever, like. Talk to anyone about all this? I mean it's kind of -- a lot.}" Steve doesn't answer the half question. He hops off the stool and goes to Shane. Pulls the shark boy against his side. "{It is a lot, but...no. Not really.}" His hand tightens on Shane's shoulder. He's quiet for a moment. "{Do you?}" "{I'm pretty sure that's what therapy's for, I mean. After everything you've been through, it might not hurt to -- at least /try/ --}" Shane quiets, gills fluttering once more as he's drawn against Steve's side. His head falls against the other man's side, breath briefly stilling. "{I didn't live through that war.}" "{I have a therapist, but...}" Steve shakes his head. "{I'm great at pouring my heart out to strangers. To anyone, really.}" He exhales sharply. It might have come out as a laugh if there were any humor behind it. "{No! You've lived a different war. Your whole life.}" The breath Shane exhales is sharp as well. His head bows, teeth momentarily clenching -- then relaxing again. His inner eyelids slide shut even as his gills flutter open again. Zenobia nuzzles at Shane solicitously. Steve looks back at the painting. "{I'll never understand all your struggles, but I understand enough to begin to try. If you need someone to talk to.}" He runs his hand over the spiny hair on Shane's head. "I'm here for you. And I love you." Shane pets absently at Zenobia's head, unthinking and automatic as she nuzzles at him. His own head tips slightly up, pressing up into Steve's touch. He looks up quicker, eyes wide and startled at the older man's last words. He turns, arms wrapping tight and fierce around Steve. Squeezing in hard. Steve wraps his arms around Shane's shoulders. "{Anyway, considering your music seems to go with my painting, maybe we should make art together sometime, no?}" Shane buries his face against Steve's shirt, claws prickling in against the other man's sides. "{Really?}" His words are a little muffled -- and a little shy -- when he does speak. "{I'd like that.}"