ArchivedLogs:Everybody's Okay

Everybody's Okay
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane	2013-06-11 warning: MUSHY FEELS
Location <XS> Boys' Hall - FL2
The boy's dormitory is more densely lined with doors than the main thoroughfare, nearly all of which sport some kind of bulletin or dry-erase board, or some manner of poster. This hallway is slightly more cluttered than its counterpart across the hall, with door-hangings prioritizing posters and decorations and dry-erase missives marginally more likely to be composed of crude drawings. Peter's exiting his room with -- a handful of things! Most of them are stuffed in a black nylon backpack he is in the process of slinging around to his back; it is /filled/ with things. He's also carrying his sleek black laptop (which has been peppered with numerous stickers of varying types -- including terrible movie advertisements, muppets, band names he's never heard of, and at least one sparkly hologram star). For now, he's clad in his red hoodie, blue jeans, two-toed socks -- and his sleek little webshooters. "Mmph," Peter mumbles, /shoving/ the door closed with a foot, readjusting the laptop in his grip, and preparing to -- well, go /out/. Probably to the workshop. To continue whatever insidious work he's been up to in there! There is a door opening into the hallway! It is not actually the twins' door. It is the dorm that Taylor and Daiki share. Shane is slipping out of it, though! Dressed casual in t-shirt and corduroys, though he has a vest over top. He was kind of casual about his exit -- saaaaunter -- but then there is a Peter! And his black eyes widen hugebig, and he hurries down the hall -- "/Peter/!" POUNCE. Sharkpounce. At least he is aiming for a HUG. A moment after Peter sees Shane -- whumpf. Laptop on the ground. It's not a /hard/ drop; Peter's got enough sense not to just let the thing loose. But it's fast, and sudden, and /maaaaybe/ a little more abrupt than he should. But what choice does he have? Because he's suddenly stepping forward to replace his laptop with a SHANE, arms swinging out wide to catch him mid-hug and, well. Just /squeeze/ and maybe shove him up against the nearest wall. HEAD-SHOVE. Directly into shoulder. "Ohmanohman /Shane/," Peter says, happy-tense. "I was -- they told me you got back, but I hadn't seen -- Sebastian's okay right? Oh, man. /Shane/." Peter's starting to squeeze. A bit harder, now. "Man Shane, I -- nnnghf. Was worried." Shane's arms curl around Peter, tighttighttight. Maybe uncomfortably so, in his fiercehard squeeeeze. "Yeah no I'm alright, Bastian's alright /Pa's/ alright /everyone's/ alright -- oh god OK fuck not /everyone/ some assholes beat up Dusk but -- but, OK, he's also alright." His face mashes up against Peter's chest. "It's fucking /crazy/ though just going to work today was -- /fuuuuck/, you know?" Apparently that should be adequate explanation. "You just staying here for break now?" "Yes," Peter says, a little breathlessly on account of all the /squeezing/, but. A palm squeezes the back of Shane's head as he mashes his face against his torso; Peter just pushes him /deeper/, like. He's going to stick Shane's head somewhere inside of his chest-cavity. GET IN THERE. "You shouldn't even be /going/ to --" Peter starts, but then he's pulling back a little bit, /frowning/ as he -- peck, peck. Like a bird, pecking at Shane's face. Starting to relax. Just a bit. "...if you're going to work -- I mean. Someone should go /with/ you. With you guys going into the city and me here -- oh man. I'm gonna go nuts with worry. Maybe this will just blow over in a week or two," Peter says, maaaaybe just with a tint of manic optimism. "Bastian's got it worse," Shane admits, "he -- works for /Iolaus/, people /already/ hated that doctor." He is happy to be mooshed, burrowing in against Peter. His head tips up, though, catching one of those pecks actually on his lips. "... I gotta go to work, we're -- we're getting an /apartment/, and I still -- want to chip in at /home/ for things, my pa -- I'll be fine," he assures Peter, "I'm tough. We survived /murdercamp/, we'll be alright through this." "I want to help," Peter just, kind of blurts out, post peck-lip-catching. And then, to follow it up, there is -- actual lip-/kissing/! Quick, but definitely not a peck. It's followed up with a brief squeeze, just beneath Shane's arms, against his flankgills. "--tell me what I can do? To help? Oh, oh," Peter adds, suddenly -- a little more flustered, a bit more /breathless/. Violet swimming in. "I, um, wanted to -- I'm working on -- costume stuff. There was -- something I wanted to -- um, maybe -- test with you." Shane closes his eyes, relaxing with a quiet exhalation at that squeeze against his gills. "It'll be fine," he tells Peter, "shit, c'mon, angry mobs -- you think they'll have pitchforks?" He sounds almost excited at this possibility. "Anyway, we could eat the /shit/ out of an angry mob." His head tips up, darting a small kiss to Peter's throat. "-- Test? With me? What, your crazy superhero costume shit? I'm no superhero, dude. Ordinary people don't need costumes." "You're /not/ ordinary," Peter insists, coupling this with a firm, insistent /squeeze/, eyebrows pulling together into a tight little knot. But then, the violet intensifies, and: "Umcomewithme." Pulling Shane -- gently! -- toward his dormroom. There is, at the moment, no Ivan present. It takes a moment to open the door, but then -- Peter's kicking / skidding his laptop inside, already slinging his backpack off, hurling it to the ground -- hands reluctantly leaving Shane to thrust inside. Searching. Rummaging! "I -- s'upposed to be, kind of a surprise? But, um. There are some bits of it," Peter admits, "that I'm probably gonna need your help with. Um." He's pulling out -- is that a roll of cloth? About an inch in thickness, and several feet in length; the material is stretchable -- elastic, even -- and a bit porous. He holds it up to Shane, stretching it out horizontally, violet dipping toward indigo. "Can I...? Around your -- throat. Um. I need to. Measure it." There really is /no/ way to handle this diplomatically. "Well, OK, but I'm sure as shit not a /hero/. Aren't /you/ supposed to be trying the boring life?" Shane moves along when he is pulled, slipping into Peter's room behind him. He closes the door, leaning back against it. "-- Measure it... around my throat?" His brows hike upwards, at first bemused and then with a quick sharp /grin/. His head tips back. "You gonna tie me up first, too?" ".../I/ think you, um, are. Heroic," Peter mumbles, in response to Shane's first comment. /This/ admission manages to keep him well into indigo. Shane's last comment, well. That just guarantees he's not going to be coming out. "N-no," Peter says, maybe a bit too quickly! But then he's stepping forward, and -- carefully winding the wrapping around Shane's throat. "...tell me if I'm too tight," Peter mentions, leaning close as he wraps it around Shane's neck -- taking special care to loop it over his gills. Pinching it at the back of his neck. And then, /still/ indigo: "Try to... try to flare your neck-gills?" Shane's crooked grin does not fade at this first mumble. He does stay still for the wrapping, though. Well, /mostly/ still; his hands move to rest on Peter's hips. "You /could/ be tighter," he says, "I don't mind it rough." But then he is quieting with a puzzled look. "-- Huh?" A little confused, he does as bidden, his gills flaring -- just slightly against the binding. A little ripple of motion that pushes it out a hair, and then settles. "Mmmf. I know." /Still/ indigo. But now, Peter's grinning, bristling beneath Shane's hands; he's shifted his weight to the balls of his feet -- rocking on them excitedly. "I think this might -- have you ever tried using bindings to keep your gills closed?" Peter removes the stretch of cloth, very careful to keep his finger pinned at the point where he kept it wrapped around Shane's neck -- swinging the cloth over to him and -- pen! He carefully /marks/ that point, or just a little behind it -- using Shane's shoulder to scribble on. "I think. I think I could -- I mean, we could. Make a collar for, um. You," Peter says, rocking a little more quickly, before adding: "I mean for both of you, uh. To, keep them -- you know." He makes a flapping motion at the side of his neck, as if he were closing Shanegills. "For when you, uh. /Sleep/." Yes. Onlyforthen. "-- No, I haven't, um." Shane craaaanes his neck around when Peter presses against his shoulder to make that mark. For a moment the wicked-bright grin fades, thoughtful instead. "I haven't tried that," he says again, "that could be. Like. /Shit/, I could /breathe/." His eyes widen at this novel idea! Oxygen! Steadily! But it doesn't take all /that/ long for the grin to return. His arm hooks around Peter's waist. "/Only/ for when I sleep, or can I actually use it in bed, /too/." "Yeah," Peter agrees, a little breathless himself. "I was -- this was gonna be a surprise? But man with all the stuff that's been happening I just. I guess I want --" At the mention of using it in bed, Peter /squirms/ in Shane's grip. "--something nice? For you. I, um. Micah's going to help make a compression suit. For both of you. For the gills on your sides. Um." His hand creeps around Shane's back, too. Down along his spine, sneak, sneak. "...notjustforsleeping," he mumbles, and this -- is followed by a squeeze, perhaps in a place increasingly inappropriate. Or increasingly /appropriate/? Peter is flustered. "After I finish it, if you wanted to -- wear it. Other places. That'd be, um. Fine. I... uh. Do you -- what do you want it to -- look like. I mean. Color? Or..." There's another flare at this, Shane's gills opening as his eyes fix on Peter. "You wanted to -- make -- for us --" It is kind of abrupt, the sudden tightening of Shane's arms around Peter. Kind of equally abrupt, the kiss he presses to Peter's lips. Both fierce in their sudden intensity. It takes a moment before he pulls back. "... Uh, I mean, thanks." This time the smile he wears is just -- simple. /Happy/. It fades into a little uncertain in the next moment. "I didn't do anything for you." "Mmmhph," Peter responds, to the kiss; leaning down into it, eyes closed, /rocking/ into it. When Shane draws back, Peter's smiling, just a little crookedly. When Shane mentions not doing anything for him, though -- Peter's smile doesn't go away, but his eyebrows rumple together. "Shane, /yes/ you did, you--" Pull, pull. /Closer/. Until their temples are pressed together. The next words spoken on the tip of a deep, indigo flush, kind-of-whispered shamefully, like some terribly embarrassing confession: "--you were /born/." And then, /kiss/. Probably for a while.