ArchivedLogs:Being Happy

Being Happy
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane	2013-09-26 '
Location <NYC> 305 {Teenhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a small living room. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom. Furnishings are more in line with broke students than established adults. Cast-off couches and chairs provide places to sit, and the walls have been decorated in a frequently-changed street art style that combines bright, layered colors with exaggerated proportions and abstract shapes. Night-time. Peter's arrival is silent; stealthy and swift -- up until the point that there's a steady a-tapping at Shane's bedroom window. Should Shane /arrive/ at that window, he'll find himself plus one Peter -- the boy currently dressed in all black (for night-time city-swinging); a black hoodie, black slacks, black socks -- and a curious looking black mask, done up similar to the red luchador one he had built himself earlier -- with white teardrop shaped eyes (opaque) and an unusual respirator attached from the nose down to the chin. Tap! Taptaptap! Let me in! Shane's apartment is filled currently with music. Quiet strains of Chopin being played on the violin from where Shane sits perched on the edge of his plastic wading pool. It's the only thing visibly /left/ in his bedroom, the normal assortment of clothes and boxes and belongings all vanished, as are his and Bastian's desks. He looks up at the sound of the tapping, though he doesn't lower his bow; still playing, he gets up to walk to the window and peer out it with a grin. He sticks his tongue out at the figure outside. Peter would likely reciporcate the gesture, but having a mask on makes it tricky to stick your tongue out. So, instead, he manages to lift both of his hands up toward Shane (well, down -- Peter's currently /upside down/ in front of the window) and promptly fire off the /double deuces/ at him. This is followed by Peter tapping the window again, this time in a rapid stacatto. Taptap! Taptap! Taptap! Maybe he's trying to communicate with morse code. Shane lowers his hands at this, setting his bow down on the windowsill so that he can /sign/ at Peter: 'What?' His expression is wide-eyed. So confused. What could Peter possibly want. Peter /stops/ tapping at the sign. And pauses. One can almost feel the intensity of that Peterstare through the mask. /Almost/. Instead of continuing on in silence like this, Peter makes a gesture toward the window's lock, and then signs: 'Open'. Shane's mouth opens into an O, eyes lighting like only now! can he understand what Peter is trying to communicate. He plucks his bow off the window, unlocking it to slide it open. "We /still/ have a front door, you know." He doesn't actually step back from the window enough to let Peter in; instead he reaches up to pluck at the respirator. "Why do you need this?" "Mmmph," Peter replies, in response to the mention of the front door -- offering no defense! But when Shane plucks at that respirator -- Peter's head pops into the room, following the pull of Shane's hand -- torso half in, half-out. "...smoke grenades," Peter mentions, half-idly, before deigning to add: "For some of the DR sessions. I haven't been -- y'know. But some of the simulations we've run, they got... gas." Peter mentions this weakly, as if slightly ashamed to even talk about it. "But why do you need this /here/," Shane presses, stepping back now to allow Peter into the room. "And what have you even been /doing/ in the DR, you know they're not supposed to give us sims that --" His brows furrow, eyes narrowing on Peter. "What /have/ you been doing?" And now Peter's flipping into the room; his hands seize hold of the upper portion of the window -- his feet tuck in -- and he /rolls/ his way down, torso snaking around to land on his feet with a whump, crouched in front of Shane. His hand is already tugging at the mask -- a tiny USB cord unsnapped in the back -- to expose his familiar, chitin-clad face, wearing a hesitant, tense frown. "I work on it at Stark lab, sometimes. And just -- sims. You know. To be... prepared. In case something... bad happens." "Yeah, but they're /still/ not supposed to be doing that kinda thing with us, uh, not even if you have a crazy fucking hero complex. I mean, you could get Dr. McCoy in trouble if you go too far." Shane is returning to the side of his pool, dropping back down to sit on it with his violin resting now in his lap, bow held loosely in his other hand. "I mean, there's 'ready for trouble' and then there's 'running into situations where you regularly need a fucking gas mask', dude." "I think he thinks it's better than me going out and actually doing -- hero stuff. I don't know, I just... he almost made me stop, a week ago," Peter admits, the mask sliding into his back pocket. He hops up on the wall next to Shane, clinging to it; his butt pressed up against it -- his hands besides his hip, his knees bent, feet flat underneath him. There's nothing else to sit on! "I got obsessed with this one session that I couldn't beat and..." Peter trails off, shrugging. "We've gotten shot at by military dudes when we were just helping a friend. Even if I'm not running around doing... uh, the hero thing. I think -- it's going to happen again. And if it does..." "I'm just pretty sure you're both going to get in trouble over this," Shane answers with a shrug. "And what, so you're /blackmailing/ him into it with the threat of going out and getting yourself killed for real if he doesn't do this with you? That's -- pretty much douchebaggy, you know that, right?" His fingers pluck at the strings of his violin with a dissonant twanging, his eyes fixing down on it. "... what was the session?" he asks reluctantly, after a pause. "Oh, no, I don't -- I mean -- " Peter's hands pop off the wall at once, swinging out in front of him as if to hold off Shane's statement. "--is that... is that what I'm doing?" he asks, as if thinking this over for the first time. "I mean, I don't know if... I told him I might need to know. Some day. How to handle..." His lips purse, wrinkling into a frown. Peter's head lowers. "...those dudes we fought in the sewers. Eight of them." "Pretty much what you're doing." Shane's fingers continue to pluck at his violin, quietly. His teeth clamp down tight at Peter's answer, eyes still steadily turned downwards. "-- How're your classes going?" he asks Peter, somewhat abruptly. The hands re-attach to the walls, slapping down. "--um, kind of -- I mean. I've been getting Bs and Cs. Actually uh I'm not allowed to even touch the DR again until I get my grades back up, but I should be able to..." Peter shrugs, again. "...how has it been? With, uh, Taylor --?" "S'it sticking with you that much?" Shane frowns, ignoring Peter's question to look up at him. His hand moves off of the violin, dropping to rest over Peter's hand instead. "I mean, shit, last year you'd probably have slit your fucking wrists before you brought home a C paper. /You're/ smart, dude. You can't spend your whole fucking life skulking around sewers fighting monsters you're better than that." "--I kinda--you know, I don't know anymore," Peter admits, his hand bristling under Shane's -- knuckles lifting to brush underneath his fingertips, digits curling around his wrist. "--it doesn't even seem to matter that much. I mean, the grades. In comparison to stuff like -- staying /alive/. I... Shane," Peter says, afixing Shane with his most serious of serious faces, "did you know. That visible mutants /apparently/ have a heck of a time getting into college?" Shane answers this serious face with a slight flinch; his bow slips out of his loose grip, dropping with a soft clatter the short distance to the ground. He turns in towards Peter, expression obscured shortly as he tips his face in against Peter's shoulder, gills shifting against his dress shirt with a soft whisper of fabric. "Heard something like that, yeah," he mutters, muffled against Peter's hoodie. "Oh... oh, hey," Peter says, his voice now quite soft; his other hand moving to cup the back of Shane's head, squeezing. "Hey, it's okay -- I mean, uh. It really /isn't/, but --" He frowns, squeezing the nape of Shane's neck, trning his head to press and nuzzle against the whispering gills underneath that collar. "--but I mean, maybe it'll change. And if not, screw it, we'll -- uh -- make our /own/ college." This half-hearted idea doesn't get much traction in Peter's voice. "...Shane." "It's not fucking okay. Because you're goddamn /brilliant/, Peter, /you/ should -- /you/ should be --" Shane's words cut off in a soft frustrated exhale. "What if it never fucking changes." Peter's response is sudden; perhaps surprisingly so -- the grip on the back of Shane's head suddenly shifting to seize hold of his plastic-y hair, giving it a sharp, fierce /pull/ -- followed by a kiss to his jaw, once it's exposed. "--then--we'll deal. Because /we'll/ still be awesome." Shane draws in a sharp breath at that pull, his teeth instinctively baring in a sudden fierce snarl -- that fades away against a moment later, melting into a softer neutral expression at that kiss. "We'll always be awesome," he agrees, "but the world is fucked up as /hell/." "...yeah," Peter agrees, before delivering another kiss to Shane's jaw, and another -- starting to slide down off of the wall. His foot creeps over to the floor, reaching for the bow to Shane's violin; he plucks it up with his socks, passing it to his other hand. "--but," Peter adds, continuing to kiss. "I have a hot boyfriend who plays sweet music, so..." He sneaks the bow to Shane's hand. "...for now, s'okay." Shane's eyes close, his neutral expression shifting into a small smile. His head tilts, a little bit away from Peter's kisses -- partially baring his /neck/ instead and partially so that he can tuck his violin beneath his chin. "For now. But you know this means now /I'm/ the one who's gonna have to ride /you/ about homework. And I'm coming to your next DR session. We're going to fight /robots/ in /space/, OK?" He draws the bow lightly across the strings, careful not to poke it /at/ Peter's face. "Did I tell you I'm /doubling/ my stockpile of dads?" "...robots in space. Okay," Peter agrees, grinning lazily, kissing into Shane's neck as it's bared, carefully avoiding the violin tucked there -- even as he eyes the bow sliding across the strings. The arm that brought Shane the bow is now curling around his waist; another kiss comes at the mention of Shane doubling his stockpile of dads. "--you've been /stockpiling/ them?" Peter asks, before: "Wait, you're getting another dad?" "Well, OK, I don't know about stockpiling," Shane's lazy bowing resolves into an actual melody, of sorts, quiet and slow and improvised in an almost lullaby-esque gentle tune, "but I've been tending /one/ very /carefully/ for a while and now he's born fruit. -- OK that sounds like he's having a baby bad metaphor. But yeah I am doubling in the father-department, I think. At least, soon we'll be finalizing our adoptions all properly and legal and shit and Pa came to ask us all /earnest/ and /serious/ how we'd feel about Micah signing the adoption papers, too. I'm -- still unclear whether or not he's asked /Micah/ this yet," he admits with a snort, "but he's basically already family anyway, so um." Peter's eyebrows raise; Shane might not be able to see them, but he can feel them lifting up against the side of his neck, up to his jaw. "--Micah? Oh, wow, so you're going to have -- that's kinda cool. Wait does this mean Jackson and Micah are gonna get like --" Peter's eyebrows scrunch together, scraping up against Shane's throat. "--married?" "They haven't said anything about that yet." The soft almost-lullaby turns into a real one, or near enough, a quiet violin rendition of Sinead O'Connor's "Lullaby for Cain". "But I'm guessing if they're adopting us together that's sort of -- on the horizon. I hope they do," Shane adds, quieter. "Pa loves him like -- crazy a lot. And I'm pretty sure he loves Pa sort of crazy-a-lot, too. I can't really imagine if they --" His face scrunches up; the playing doesn't stop but his weight shifts just a /little/ more firmly up against Peter. "I want them happy. Though shit now we'll have to figure out all over again what to call Pa-Number-Two." "Pa and Pa-pa? Cyborg-Pa, 'cuz he has... robot leg," Peter offers, helpfully, his tone growing a bit more sleepy; his weight is propped up against Shane, his nose wedged close against his throat. "MmmfI like your playing," he decides, sluggishly, before adding: "I hope so too. Your dad -- Jax -- he deserves to be..." Peter slumps a little. "--happy." "You falling asleep on me, hon? We'll miss the last train back." Though Shane doesn't stop his playing. "I'll let Pa know you're here. Can bring us in the morning." The song continues, soft and soothing. "... You deserve to be happy. It's just -- nice when that actually," Shane's playing slows, though doesn't stop, his eyes closing for a moment. "Works out."