ArchivedLogs:Being Better

Being Better
Dramatis Personae Hive, Shelby	2013-05-31 '
Location <XS> Great Hall
The largest room at Xavier's, the Great Hall is designed to hold all of the mansion's residents and then some. Built for the mansion's bigger functions, it serves as the school's dining halls on ordinary days, and ballroom when needed. On school days, long trestle tables stretch across the hall, high-backed chairs with plush cushions offering seating for the students. Today the Great Hall has been transformed. Gone are its usual lengthy tables for serving meals. Instead, round tables ring two sides of the room; their white tablecloths are accented in ribbons of black and blue. Along one side the tables stand empty, just a place to rest and chat in between dancing; along the adjacent side, they are heavy-laden with snacks, as well as bowls of punch and iced tea and lemonade, water and chilled sodas. The DJ's booth stands in back, taking requests so long as they are not TOO risque. The dancefloor commanding most of the center of the room gleams in polished wood underfoot. Above, the large chandelier that normally hangs forgotten during the busy school days shines in its full glittering splendor; smaller fluted lamps hang dotted in satellite-orbit around the rest of the ceiling. Where many high school dances might have decorated with streamers, Xavier's has decorated with /light/, spiraling ribbons of it that drift down in muted-soft glow from the chandelier to wreath the moulding and glimmer more subtly down the walls. For those paying attention, the accenting ribbons of light are not /steady/ in their patterns; sometimes just a gentle spiral, sometimes a tracery of vinework with leaves and flowers, sometimes a web of delicate filigree that glitters against the walls. There’s no point in inviting someone to a dance if you don’t intend to spend time with them! And Shelby, after several dances and forays to the punch table, has decided that Hive has been neglected long enough. She appears like the proverbial bad penny to drag him away from the sanctuary of the DJ booth. << No dancing, >> she’s promised--unless he /wants/ to. But at the moment, she’s in need of a breath of fresh air before her knees buckle and the dress dissolves with ugh, sweat. So it’s to the opened French doors that lead to the back porch. Not out onto the porch, because that would risk missing the show Ryan’s putting on, but near enough to catch a breeze. She leans back against the door frame and drags a knuckle under one eye, then the other--her mascara is running, and leaves dark streaks on her fingers. “S’like bein’ in high school again, huh?” Oh wait. “Did you go to high school here?” Hive slips over after Shelby, willing enough to be dragged along. He is here as a DATE he will be more or less participatory in things. So long as those things don’t involve a lot of energy. Standing by the breeze he can handle, though! He lifts a hand, scuffing fingers through his hair and then adjusting the shiny metal strap on his dress. “I didn’t,” he admits, eyes skating around the tricked-out room. “Never even set foot in this country till college. None of my schools glittered this much.” “None of mine were too. I mean, I didn’t make it to high school but...elementary didn’t have a Jax either.” Shelby’s eyes flick towards the teacher in question. It’s close which is sparklier--the ceiling or Jax, and since Jax is creating the ceiling effects... Her attention swings back to Hive. Reaching out, she straightens the flower pinned to the non-metal portion of the trap. Such a fond gesture. Such a fond /thought/, and she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. The grin helps balance that out. “Meant a lot to B, you showing up like this. You’re pulling the dress thing off better than a lot’ve the chicks here,” she remarks. “They’d be fucking jealous if you went here. Showing ‘em up like this.” “Yeah,” Hive’s eyes follow Shelby’s over towards Jax, too, a small smile playing on his face, “I don’t think most places have a Jax.” His gaze drops to watch the flower-adjustment, and he shrugs one bare shoulder. “Yeah, well. He looks pretty great in that rainbow thing, doesn’t he? And fuck high schoolers, y’know, should wear whateverthefuck he likes without --” Another shrug. His hand drops to fiddle with her corsage, likely in Shane’s white and blue since /he/ knew nothing of this CORSAGE business. “Didn’t,” he says with a flick of glance upwards, “show ‘em /all/ up.” Just a flick of a glance and for a minute there, Shelby’s pulse defies the mellow swing of music. Her answering grin is immediate and reflexive; the blush is too. When she feels her cheeks heat though, she wrinkles her nose--which might do a number on the whole showing ‘em up thing. “Wasn’t really /me/. I had help,” << cheated >>, “this thing costs as much as I /won/. Not counting all the rest.” A foot is turned out to show off the bootie. “It’s kind’ve crazy. What money gets you,” she muses, turning her hand up to rest her fingers against the bottom of his forearm. “You ever miss it?” That /other/ country, she means. Not that she clarifies. Hello, telepath. “Jesus,” is Hive’s comment on the cost of the dress. He looks it over with mingled appreciation and horror. “That’s, uh. I mean, shit. I gotta admit I don’t really get all that. Clothes shit. You know, the twins’ old dad was --” He breaks off at this, shaking his head. “Which other country?” he asks with a slight twitch of lips, but doesn’t wait for clarification. “I mean, yeah. Sometimes. But --” Another shrug. “We allowed to smoke around here?” “Nah.” Which is why Shelby loops her fingers around his wrist and pulls him through the doorway across the porch. Away from the music but out into the evening, which is at least slightly cooler than the day. There are a few other students out there already but she heads away from the populated chairs and rail-sitters, towards a set of stairs that lead down to the lawn. The teachers probably know this spot is here--there are a few cigarette butts littering the ground already, in spite of someone having set out an empty Coke can for storage--but the coast is clear. For now. “I don’t even wanna know where you’re hiding smokes in that dress,” she says, the bridge of her nose rumpling again. Hive snorts, at this. “Uh, in my cleavage,” he answers like ‘duh’, “isn’t that where things get stored?” He does not reach into his AMPLE CLEAVAGE though. He takes a seat on the bench and then reaches /up/ the skirt of his dress, between his thighs. ROOTING AROUND. He doesn’t pull out a pack of cigarettes; he pulls out a small slim clutch which, judging by the very much not elegant strap attached, has been strapped up there. “I honestly don’t know how people live without fucking pockets.” There is not much /in/ the purse. Wallet. Cigarettes. Lighter. Keys. The essentials. He offers a cigarette to Shelby. “I got my /cleavage/ in my cleavage.” Just in case he thinks she’s joking, Shelby--after settling carefully on the bench beside him--pulls the front of her dress out a little, reaches inside and produces...well, it’s not a clutch. It looks like a chicken breast. Except jigglier. This is set aside and soon joined by another, all while she watches with apparent fascination as Hive goes digging around. “Damn,” is her only comment. The cigarette is taken, held between two fingers while awaiting the production of fire. “Why do you think I mostly wear jeans? Girl clothes are pretty dumb. If they’re not trying to hurt you, they’re just easy to break and don’t have what you need.” “Trying to hurt you?” Hive looks down at his dress with a /suspicious/ glare. “Hasn’t attacked me ye -- woah. You /do/.” He reaches over and squeezes at Shelby’s -- handheld breast. Honkhonk. “Did you put boobs in your boobs?” He puts a second cigarette in his lips, digging out the lighter to light them both. “Fucking hate having clothes I can’t run in,” he admits. The cutlets are great for honking. One could even say they were made for it! Shelby grins before leaning in to dance the tip of the cigarette through the flame. On the exhalation, she twists on the bench to get one leg up over his knees. Shoe on display! Those heels are something else. “Looks great, huh? Hurts like hell. Should’ve wore my sneakers, you can run in /those/.” She pauses, gives him a more critical look. “And that dress. If you hike it up to your waist. You gonna be running tonight?” There may or may not be a subtle thread of anxiety between that question. Of the sort that questions whether it was a good idea to invite the dude with the masters degree to the high school dance. HONK. Hive might be enjoying the cutlets a little too much. He settles back, resting his free hand over her knee when he is done with the honking. “Yeah I, uh, not sure how you walk in those fucking things let alone dance. They look killer but is it worth it?” His lips curl up into a smirk. “Hike it up? You’re just still trying to get a peek at what’s underneath.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette, head turning to blow the smoke away from her. His fingers squeeze absently at her leg. “Nah. Not tonight. Unless there’s some chaos planned I don’t know about -- I mean, fuck, the number of freaks around here just learning about what they do, I’m surprised this place doesn’t burn down /more/ often.” “Totally worth it, if it gets you looking at my legs.” See? She tilts her leg this way and that to show off her (skinny) calf and (freckly) knee. Hotness. Shelby leans back on one hand, the other occupied with carrying the cigarette to and from her lips. More smoke is plumed into the air. Her leg twitches at the squeezing--a latent funny bone there, mind it. “I asked that. When I came here. I mean...he said they have /awesome/ insurance. ‘Cause of all of the explosions’n’shit.” During the pause that follows, her gaze drifts towards the lap her leg is covering. His fault, with that smartass comment about what’s under the dress. But her mind goes in a different direction. << Got a running bag. Under my bed. >> Hive chuffs out a soft laugh, hand sliding up just slightly to squeeze again. Not funny bone this time, just thigh. “They do show them off,” he’ll agree of the painfulshoes, in between puffs of cigarette. “Man, I don’t even want to know what they say to their insurance company.” His next draw of cigarette is longer, his eyes closing, but with him the smoke in his mouth does nothing to halt conversation. It’s slow in coming, though. << You gonna be running? >> Thigh-squeezing earns a different sort of twitch. Shelby might have held her breath for a second there. Fortunately she has a smoke right there to cover for it. Puff puff. Further talk, after that, goes completely mental if only to drown out what’s underneath each remark. << Nah. Not tonight. Unless there’s some chaos planned I don’t know about, >> she parrots back at him. << ...I mean, better safe than sorry, right? Just in case. Shit happens fast around here. >> She pauses for a beat. Then, << Around everywhere, I guess. Yay life. >> << Around everywhere, >> Hive agrees, stretching his hand out in front of them to tap ash down to the ground. << You do alright keeping up, >> is his first musing, but then, << though I guess sometimes that’s not always the goal. Sometimes it’s out/pacing/ the rest. >> His head tips against the back of the bench, and his fingers now just drift absently. A little up her thigh, a little back down to below her knee. Around the calf. Back up over her knee. Shelby closes her eyes too. One part simple enjoyment, melting and tensing both. Two parts trying to concentrate on /talking/. Restraint has never been a strength of hers but she’s trying, damn it. << What, like staying ahead of the bullshit? Or...what? >> All right, so maybe it’s two parts enjoyment and one part focus. She’s easily distracted. The cigarette is burning down, now that she’s just hooked her hand over the edge of the bench to join the other in supporting herself. << Staying ahead of all of it. There’s a /lot/ of bullshit. Though I guess there’s no running fast enough to really avoid it all. >> Hive is not neglecting his own cigarette, taking a slow deep drag. << KInda had more than your share lately, too. >> It’s not said pityingly, just musing. << -- It make you feel like running? >> It is with mild surprise that Shelby finds herself saying, without censor, “Not lately.” Oops, that was in her outside voice, wasn’t it? She cracks an eye open, uses it to glance around, then returns to lounging as if she weren’t wearing a dress that cost thousands. Any more relaxed and she’s going to end up lying on the bench. << Guess I just got more reasons not to run than to take off. It’s still better than Florida. >> Pause. << ...you’re. Way better. >> “Jesus, talk about damning with faint praise,” Hive mutters, but there’s amusement in it, << Florida’s a shithole, that’s not a high bar to cross. >> His hand stops moving, settling against her leg just over her knee. << Glad to make the list, though, >> immediately precedes a more wry, << Running gets exhausting anyway. >> “I kinda suck at compliments.” No kidding. She even has the grace to feel embarrassed over the fact, for having offered up something so ridiculously insufficient. This time, it’s Shelby who moves. She bends her knee to push it up into his palm, wedging the tip of her heel against the bench. “I mean. You’re...” << ...you make me want to be different. Better. Try harder. You make me... >> But even mentally words fail. What’s left is that small, fragile, uncertain feeling that she has no name for--and once she realizes it’s visible, she swings her foot down from the bench to sit properly and casts the neglected cigarette into the dirt. “How’s your head?” she asks, tipping a glance sidelong at him. “You holding up okay?” “Pfft. I hardly ever even give them.” Hive’s thumb strokes against Shelby’s knee, tracing against freckles lightly. << S’what friends should do. I mean, there’s all that love-song bullshit about love you just the way you are but fuck that, that’s dumb as fucking rocks. Loving people /just/ the way they are means they don’t ever get over themselves and I have not met a person yet who couldn’t do with a bit of getting the fuck over their bullshit. You really care, you’ll whip them into being /better/ than they are. >> His hand lifts, when she shifts position, sliding out around Shelby’s shoulders insteadand tucking himself nearer her side. “... head’s loud,” he admits, “but I’m doing alright.” He takes a last drag of his cigarette, stubs it against the bench and shoves it into the Coke can. “You want to dance?” << Yeah. >> Simple agreement, though it comes more in the form of feeling: <<(yes)(that seems right)>>. As his arm settles over her shoulders, Shelby settles bony arm against bony ribs and gives him a faint smile. << You ever notice, you’re not as big an asshole to me? Never really were. I noticed. >> And it’s enough to have her leaning in to set an impulse kiss to the apple of his cheek. “Yeah. Let’s do it out here. On the lawn. Less brains to distract you from /me/.” Hive’s head tips down, after that kiss, briefly resting forehead against hers. It’s less words and more sentiment that comes in reply to her: << (only asshole)(when relevant)/(just honest) >> and << (with you I don’t need to be) >> An asshole, that is. For a moment he lingers. His arm curls tighter against her shoulders. He gets up all in one quick motion, snapping shut his clutch purse and then scowling at it like it has offended him. He doesn’t tuck it back away. “C’mon,” is all he says, offering her his arm. “Let’s dance.” Shelby has no qualms about making a grab for the clutch as she stands. Her other hand nestles easily inside of his elbow. << (going to try to keep that true) >> And she is /determined/--but then the music, the sparkles, the night breeze and the stars above all make it seem so easy. She’s grinning as she pulls him out onto the grass...pausing only to crouch down and strip off those ridiculous shoes, for some barefoot dancing.