ArchivedLogs:Be Here Tomorrow

Be Here Tomorrow
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane	2013-08-09 Immediately after Dealing with Consequences
Location <NYC> Lower East Side
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. The city at night has, true to its reputation, not fallen asleep. There’s still a heavy flow of traffic even late at night, still plenty of people wandering to bars or clubs. The little street that holds the Fight Club safehouse does not hold much by way of /nightlife/; its foot traffic is low, though just on the next intersection up there’s still plenty of people passing by on the cross street. Shane is outside, though at first he’s hard to /notice/. He’s tucked himself onto the doorway of the drop-in center next door, its doors closed for the night and its lights dark. In dark t-shirt, dark shorts, he doesn’t much stand out himself against its dark doorway; the cigarette he’s smoking does, though, a strong tobacco-smoke smell and a glowing hot red ember intermittently shining brighter with each puff. It’s burning its way down to the end; he pulls the pack from his pocket, lighting his next cigarette off the dying end of the first. Peter darts out of the safehouse from a back exit; when he emerges on the street, he’s still clad in his red hoodie and blue sweat-pants -- the hood is turned up, though, to hide his face. There’s a certain franticness to the way he swivels his head back and forth, /searching/ -- but when his eyes catch the brief flicker of red ember, a wave of relief floods him -- followed by a slightly rising sense of tension. He approaches slowly -- warily -- his hands suddenly thrust /deep/ into his pockets. Making his way toward that doorway with a quick, spurious glance either way down the streets, and: “--Shane?” “Ksssssh.” It’s a slow harsh hiss of breath. Shane flicks his finished cigarette butt off in front of him, watching it scatter sparks onto the sidewalk before it rolls off the curb into the gutter. His nostrils are flaring even before Peter speaks, and he pushes himself to his feet in one jerky quick motion. “Fuck do you want.” “I’m--” Peter starts, right before that cigarette is flicked; he frowns, watching its path as it rolls down toward the gutter. Peter’s hands push even deeper into his pockets; the hoodie is stretched, now, threatening to push down to his mid-thigh. He stands just at the edge of the doorway, not coming any closer just yet. “--sorry. About -- I was -- angry. Panic-ky. I’m not going to...” His eyes drift down to Shane’s feet. “--I’m not going to do anything.” “Angry.” Shane echoes this, sharp, on an exhaled stream of smoke. “With every fucking thing that’s happened this past year you --” His eyes narrow on Peter, but then he turns aside. He shoves his cigarettes back in his pocket; his hand stays in it afterwards, a bulge in the fabric as his fingers curl into a fist. “Why is it your first gorram {motherfucking} instinct to do /dumbass shit/ that will get you fucking /dead/ when you panic?” “I,” Peter starts, but then pauses; his eyes remain set on Shane’s feet. “I don’t know. Because I’m stupid, sometimes. I...” He shifts, his posture wavering for a moment, before -- oh so tentatively -- he takes a step forward. Still outside of arm’s length of Shane. His head lifts a bit, though, his eyes settling on Shane’s chest. “You know a year ago the /worst thing/ I could imagine happening was getting spit on in gym class. I’m not...” His eyes seem ready to /bore/ into Shane’s sternum. “--the hero thing. When people would push me around I would just imagine saving them, or something. From a train wreck or from some kind of--it’s /stupid/, I know it’s stupid. It’s just how I coped, I guess.” Peter sneaks another step in. /Almost/ within arm’s reach. “{Stupid as fucking hell.}” Shane is quiet, but only so that he can take another long drag of his cigarette. His eyes have narrowed on Peter; almost unthinkingly, he takes a step back in tandem with Peter’s first step, his muscles tensing up. “Learn some new fucking coping mechanisms. Do you have any fucking idea how many people I’ve --” Shane’s teeth click together, hard; this serves, only, to /sever/ the filter end of his cigarette. “{... fucking shit.}” He spits it out irritably, /hurling/ the broken cigarette angrily against the side of the nearby building. His claws have extended; they pull back slowly, his eyes fixed now on the cigarette guttering itself out on the sidewalk. He doesn’t step back again, at least, with Peter’s second step. His eyes just stay locked on the sidewalk. “... People used to spit on you in gym class?” Peter watches those teeth snap, his eyes briefly flicking up -- widening, just a little -- at the sight of Shane spitting the filter out and throwing the cigarette aside. When he turns back to Shane, there’s a mixture of tension in his expression; his shoulders ease back, though, his hands beginning to slip out of his pockets. “...yeah, but, that was -- before the mutant thing. Nobody ever tried to /kill/ me. I...” Peter swallows. Eyes cemented on Shane’s throat. Another step forward, very small; he’s now definitely in arm’s reach, even though he’s not moving to touch him. “...Shane, I don’t want to hurt you. The hero thing -- it’s -- not as important to me as -- /you/. Losing you, or letting you lose me. I don’t want... that to happen. If you asked me to choose...” And now Peter steps forward again; also small, but closing in, /pushing/ into Shane’s space. “--I’d pick you.” “That’s -- shit. Did you go to a school full of dickbags? Just. Just huge walking bags of cocks sitting in all your classes. Pissing on everything. S’what I’m picturing now.” Shane lifts a hand, picking a stray wisp of tobacco off his tongue. He flicks it off his thumb with one claw -- though it only sticks to that claw, instead. He scowls at it, eyes narrowing there, now. “Ffff.” His head snaps up, when Peter steps in closer, and though his teeth /bare/ there’s no accompanying danger-prickle to this snarl. Nor when his hand moves, snapping out to curl around Peter and /drag/ him in close; his claws prick down against Peter’s hoodie but don’t dig any further, his arm tightening in a hard squeeze. He has to stretch up high onto his toes to get his face near Peter’s, lips brushing against the side of Peter’s face to speak, when he does, very /close/ to Peter’s ear. “{Then fucking act like it.}” His hand drops, weight rocking back down to his heels; he lets Peter go just as abruptly as he grabbed him. Peter’s breath catches when Shane drags him closer, his head tilting down -- that brush of Shane’s mouth, with the accompanying whisper, causes him to tense -- not out of fear, but something else. When Shane releases him, Peter just stands still -- his head still tilted down, breathing quick and hard. Until -- -- he /reaches/, his own hand snapping up to seize the back of Shane’s collar, pulling sharply back and up -- his own mouth descending. Not for Shane’s lips, but for his throat; roughly /shoving/ him into that space against the door, even as his teeth snap down on his neck. Thrusting him up against the frame with a brutal CLUNK that forces the glass to rattle; teeth digging deep, a harsh little hiss in his throat -- his other hand squeezing round Shane’s hip. Something near feral in Peter’s posture, his sudden force. “Oh --” Shane’s breath catches, too, quick and sharp. His shirt ripples slightly, his gills flaring beneath it, and a tiny whine catches in his throat as well. The thunk against the doorframe makes what breath he has left expel in a short gasp; his head tilts back, eyes widening slightly as his neck bares. He tips his head back down to brush his cheek against Peter’s. His eyes squeeze shut, and the bite, the squeeze, the force, elicit a soft growl. His gills open along his sides again, then press down flat. His own hand moves to Peter’s side, fingers curling against it and his arm /pushing/ with the same sudden aggressive force. “Peter stop.” His voice is a little ragged. “You can’t just --” Pushing turns to pulling, his arm curling around Peter’s waist to just drag him close and hold. His face presses up against Peter’s shoulder. “... fuck you.” This time it’s smaller. There’s a pulse of tension that ripples through Peter’s frame when he feels Shane pushing back against his arm; his mouth draws away when he hears Shane say stop -- but when Shane pulls him back, the tension melts, Peter’s bite turning into a furious kiss against Shane’s throat. His arm squeezes; the hand against Shane’s collar shifts to clasp the back of his head, his body crushing Shane between his chest and the doorframe. “I’m sorry,” Peter whispers, in response to the sound of Shane’s small voice. “I’ll stop -- if you tell me to. I just--” His breath grows hard and heavy, a hot scalding rush against Shane’s neck and jaw. “--/want/,” he says, more fiercely, before, much more softly: “I’m sorry.” Shane just keeps his head pressed up against Peter’s shoulder, his fingers tightening into Peter’s sweatshirt. “I want --” This echo is soft, too, muffled against the hoodie. “I want you.” His weight sinks in against Peter, his grip tightening. “... but I want you to stop. I want -- fuck, Peter, I don’t. Just want you now. I want to know you’re going to fucking /be here/ tomorrow.” His claws are prickling through the clothing, now, pressing in harder. “I want,” he finishes tiredly, “life to stop being so /fucked up/.” Peter’s grip abruptly shifts, hand moving from the back of Shane’s head to slide down his shoulders, palm smoothing out across the valley and ridges of his upper back; the other hand slides up, circling just beneath the other arm -- there’s a slight inwardly drawn breath as he feels the clawtips prickling, but it only seems to prompt Peter to slide closer, pressing his nose against the side of Shane’s skull. “...okay,” Peter says, the sound scarcely more than a breath of air against Shane’s cheek. Shane tilts his head back, stretching up onto his toes slightly higher so that he can press his lips very gently to Peter’s. Just for a moment. He turns his head to glance over towards the adjacent house, and then rests his forehead back against Peter’s shoulder. “-- Can we go home? They’’ll be alright it’s. I mean we could /walk/ it’s not -- that far.” “Yeah,” Peter responds, shifting his posture to slide beside Shane, to let his head lean up against his shoulder; one arm curled around his waist, a little defensively, a little /possessively/. “We could just... walk. Text them. It’d be nice to just--” Peter squeezes Shane’s waist, then loosens his grip. “--/walk/ for a while. You know,” he adds, shifting his weight a little awkwardly, “for a second there, I thought you were going to say ‘I want to see other people’. And then I remembered we, uh,” Peter’s face darkens to violet, “already -- kinda do.” Shane laughs, his shoulders shaking slightly with the sound. “Be seeing Daiki when we get /home/,” he points out, a little bit of amusement softening the tense edge to his tone. “And I think Anole’s coming with us, too?” His eyes flick over Peter’s face, with this. He steps back, hand slipping into Peter’s. “But I want to be seeing you, too, for a long time. C’mon. It’s a nice night.” Peter’s face darkens just a hint /more/ at the mention of Anole; he nods, squeezing Shane’s hand, and smiles -- an edge of weariness to it, but a smile nevertheless -- as he follows.