ArchivedLogs:Carry You

Carry You
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane	2013-11-16 (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> The Sharktank - Village Lofts - East Village
Everything in this bedroom comes in pairs. Two beds (pushed together to the center of the room to form one larger one), two desks, two bookshelves, two dressers, two closets. The walls hold a scattering of artwork in Jax's typically whimsical-surreal style. The right side of the room is impeccably tidy; desk neatly arranged: often a laptop or a nook, but otherwise cleared off, everything tucked in its drawers save for a small arrangement of textbooks and music books and little colourful glass figurines or pale bone sculptures on its upper shelves. Closet neatly in order, clothing (favouring pinstripes, vests, slacks) pressed and hung, shoes on a shoe tree inside the door. Books on the shelf neatly categorized. The left side of the room is a riotous spill of colour, bright eclectic wardrobe (lots of skirts and dresses and clothing with many bright patterns) haphazardly thrown together; desk cluttered with books and notes and an assortment of bones, its shelves also holding little glass or bone sculptures, though this alongside a wealth of mechanical parts or small robots in various states of completion. The floor here tends towards clutter; more robot-parts, clothing, treacherous Legos lying in wait for unsuspecting feet. There comes a text at some point during the evening, from Peter's phone to Shane's: (Peter --> Shane): hey (Peter --> Shane): hey im at your base lemme in (Peter --> Shane): front door (Shane --> Peter): ok That is all the answer that comes, but the door to the Lofts buzzes shortly afterwards to let Peter in. The building is quiet, evidently clear of dead. Shane doesn't answer his front door but Spencer does, peering out at Peter with a frown. "You're not dead?" "No." The response comes from a significantly morose, and visibly exhausted Peter -- clad in black hoodie, black sweatpants, and black socks. His chitin-clad face is visible; even through the dark coloration, the darker circles around his eyes are visible. He's wearing a black nylon backpack, strapped behind him -- the scent of his uncle and aunt still cling to him, along with the odor typically associated with the city's safehouses -- medical supplies, sterilization kits... there's also a faint taste of blood, and a whiff of gunsmoke. "I'm not. Is Shane here? Sebastian? I--" Peter just shakes his head. "--been trying to keep track of everyone. Where's your pa? Still at the clinic?" "Shane's in his room." Spencer just shakes his head to the mention of the others, though. "Have you eaten?" He watches Peter suspiciously. "Dusk says there's no food left. Pa's been bringing some, though. We have a soup." "I've eaten," Peter says, kind of distractedly; the mention of no food makes Peter frown a bit more deeply -- and then he's shucking off his backpack, hand thrusting into it. Moving toward Shane's room as he does -- pulling something out of it. A handful of slimjims. "They won't let mutants into the safehouses, makes finding food hard -- but I'm sure I can figure... something out." When he says this, there's a hint of exhaustion in his voice; as if he's not quite sure if he /can/ figure something out. But it's just the sort of thing you're supposed to say. Spencer doesn't look eminently reassured by this. But he locks the door behind Peter and slinks off back to his room. Shane is in bed, in his room. His violin is out beside him but he is just lying curled up on his side beneath the sheet. His narrow face has hollowed out to gaunt, his eyes sunken deep in their sockets. He doesn't look up when Peter arrives. "Your folks okay?" "Yeah. They're in a shelter. I can't visit them, but I'm pretty sure they're safe." Peter just -- presents the handful of slimjims toward Shane, as he moves up to him. As he gets closer, his frown begins to deepen. "--have you... eaten?" Shane's hand darts out from beneath the covers almost too fast to track, snatching the slimjims out of Peter's hand though he promptly drops two of them immediately afterwards with how badly his hands are shaking. "Yes," he bites out, halfway to a growl. "--Shane," Peter repeats, a little more softly -- watching that hand dart out. Something trembling and nervous creeps into his voice; he crouches down beside Shane, moving to scoop the fallen slimjims up -- peeling them out of their wrappers for him, offering him the sticks of salty, processed meat, one by one. "--if I got you to the water, do you think -- could you hunt? Fish? Like you are right now?" At first there is only another growl to answer this. Shane snatches up the unwrapped slimjims, abandoning his shaky efforts to open the others and just scarfing them hungrily down. He shakes his head, in answer to the question. "Like this?" He exhales a sharp breath. "School's starting again. Y'hear?" "You're shaking. You look--" Peter starts, before adding, even /more/ quietly -- offering Shane the last unwrapped slimjim, his face clouded with worry and agitation. "We need to get you meat. Fish, if we can. Get you in the water for a while." He doesn't respond to the mention of school; not verbally. His frown just deepens. "I've never caught fish before, but I could try -- or I can go get Sebastian. Bring him to you, in the water, and..." The words trickle off, disappearing. Shane's hand snaps out again, but this time it's for Peter. His fingers clamp down around Peter's wrist, though there's not as much strength in the squeeze as there otherwise might be. His eyes have opened much wider. "Where's Bastian?" "Nngh--" Peter seems surprised by this sudden grip, eyebrows darting upward; he flushes, just a little -- his other hand moving out to rest atop of Shane's wrist. Squeezing back. A little more firmly. "Last I saw, with Mr. Stark. He was helping him with--" His mouth tenses, as if remembering something he'd been told... but Peter just shakes his head. "Helping him build stuff to, uh, stop zombies. It's complicated. He's probably still there, I think -- Mr. Stark -- /he/ might have food, we could..." Peter gives Shane's wrist a tiny tug. Tug, tug. Shane devours the last of the slimjims in short order, though his other hand stays clamped around Peter. His eyes close at the return squeeze. "You saw him. He's alive, you've seen him, he's --" Shane stops, his voice hitching and his eyes squeezing shut. He curls forward further, resting his forehead against Peter's knuckles, his shoulders shaking. "He stopped answering my -- I thought he --" "--oh," Peter says, suddenly, soft and hesitant and reaching forward with his other hand -- to seize hold of Shane, to /drag/ him toward him. "Oh, oh Shane, I'm sorry, no, we--" Suddenly, Peter's gathering Shane up, dragging him to him to curl him as best as he can in his grip, to tuck his head against his collarbone. "Last time I saw him, he was -- we were at Stark Tower, together. I left him to look after my parents, but I don't think he's... we can go there, okay? Check up on him. Together. And then -- we'll get you something to eat, okay? In the water, or maybe in Stark Tower." His head lowers, aiming to press his mouth against the top of Shane's head. For a time, Shane doesn't answer. He curls up close, pressing his face against the other boy's shirt. His gills flutter in silence as tears soak into Peter's sweatshirt. It takes a while before he manages to speak again. "Pa was gonna. Bring me. Us. Back to the -- school. You could bring Bastian he could come. The lake --" "Shane," Peter asks, squeezing him harder, his fingers weaving through his hair, cupping. "Shane, is that going to be soon enough? Shane, I will take you wherever I have to, just..." His mouth descends again, nuzzling into Shane's hair; his mouth slinks down toward his temple, bending his head back to kiss at his cheek, near the wetness. "...you need to eat, okay? Let's start with that. When is Jax taking you to the school?" Shane growls again, his mouth opening when his head is tipped back, teeth biting down again sharply at the shoulder of Peter's sweatshirt. But he pulls off with a whimper, resting his forehead against Peter's chest once more. "Tonight. Soon. He just has to. Get home, he's been doing a lot of --" He shakes his head, slumping in against Peter. "Please bring him." Peter's breath hitches a little at that bite; he doesn't respond with pain -- only squeezing /harder/, kissing again at Shane's cheek, before burying his face against the side of the boy's neck. "--don't want to leave you. Come with me. Will carry you." Shane closes his eyes, trembling against Peter, his gills fluttering once more. "Please bring him," is all he says again. "We'll go. Back to the -- we'll go together." Peter gives Shane one more firm squeeze, before -- setting him carefully down atop of the bed. And throwing off his backpack, to the floor. Then, with a steady hss from his wrists, Peter begins coccooning him -- making himself a little Shanepack. Eyebrows clenched, eyes wet, jaw set. Shane twitches, at first, but doesn't resist this. His eyes close, his posture largely now just limp.