ArchivedLogs:Knowing

Knowing
(...is half the battle? Dammit, G.I. Joe! >_>)
Dramatis Personae Shane, Micah	2 July 2013 A heart to heart and some sad news.
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- 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 living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. 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. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. It's early in the evening when the door opens. Too early in the evening for Jax to yet be home from bodyguarding, too early even for Spence to be delivered home from summer camp. And yet! Here is rattle of keys and shove of door and there is one tinyblue shark! Not particularly identifiable in dress -- plain black cargo shorts, a light grey ribbed tank top. There's an anachronous new accessory, a wide cloth collar buckled around his neck and covering his gills, deep red against blue skin. His /scowl/ maybe identifies him well enough as Shane even if his clothes don't. He tugs his shoes off by the door, dumps his backpack on the floor and heads in further to flump down on a beanbag and /drag/ Obie close for /aggressive/ snuggling. Facemoosh. The dog doesn't seem to mind, happywriggling, tail thwapping, tongue slurping at Shane's cheek. Micah is still at work. Sort of. He is still work clothes-clad, in a TARDIS blue polo shirt over khakis. He has set himself up at the table with a laptop and is slogging through the composition letters of medical necessity and appeals to insurance companies for denied equipment. Which is to say that he is /immensely/ glad for the existence of a distraction! A few keystrokes later, the laptop is closed and Micah swivels in the chair to face Shane. "Hi Shane," he offers with a little wave before giving in to brow furrowing. "Everythin' okay?" "I can never tell if he likes me or if he just really wants to steal my jerky," Shane answers, muffled against Obie's wriggly fur. He has a very /toothy/ wide grin when he finally looks up again though, scowl all! vanish! He scruffles at Obie's head for a moment and then gets to his feet, slipping over with beagle tagging at his heels to drop into a chair beside Micah. "Working?" He tips his chin towards the closed laptop. “Can't he do both?” Micah asks with a chuckle, watching the puppy wriggles. “Mmn. Ostensibly. S'more like paper-pushing, really.” He drums his fingers against the laptop case. “Electronic paper-pushing.” He certainly doesn't seem inclined to open the computer back up. “What's up with you? Random drop-by?” A hand reaches down to scritch at Obie's head, behind the ears. "He could totally do both," Shane agrees, laughing, "I steal Bastian's SlimJims /all/ the fucking time." His hand claps to his chest with feigned offense. "Am I not welcome any more? You should really change your locks, /any/ fucking asshole with a key can just traipse right the hell in. Do you really /push/ electronic papers? I think it's more like making paper airplanes out of 'em and sending them flying." A grin widens across Micah's face at Shane's dramatizing. “Shoot, y'know you're plenty welcome. Just was checkin' t'make sure weren't anythin' you needed or some such.” Obie doesn't seem like he's going to give Micah use of his hand back anytime soon. These may be some long-term scritches. “An'...well, that's what comes of givin' keys to assholes, I s'pose.” He nods back toward the laptop. “Paper airplanes are /way/ too excitin' for all that.” "I'm pretty sure half the fucking building's got a key here, dude, and, uh, have you /met/ any of your friends here? S'a lotta assholes around." Shane drops his eyes, rocking back in his chair as he watches Obie revel in his scritches. "He was just getting some from me two seconds ago. Slut." His leg stretches out to rub toes against Obie's belly. "I was kind of looking for Pa," he admits, "but I guess he's still working. So I'll just steal his dog and his boy instead." Micah feigns shock, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “Y'mean everyone here /isn't/ made of sunshine an' rainbows? /Somebody/ sold me a false bill of goods...” He smirks at the near-euphoric doggyface resulting from combined scritches /and/ belly rubs. “Oh, c'mon, like you wouldn't get all the scritches you could if it were as easy for people as it is for pups.” An eyebrow works its way up legitimately this time, but as a solo act. “Gettin' stolen, are we?” "I totally /give/ people scritches but nobody ever wants to give them to me for some reason." Shane says this totally huffily. And then gives Micah BigEyes? And tiiiips his head forward towards Micah? But the request for scritches is interrupted by a snort. "Dude you've met Hive right? About yea high," lifting his hand wayup! over his head (which is not a very tall head admittedly), "got his own personal raincloud, has game night -- uh, soon?" He props an elbow on the table, cheek resting against it. "Well, no, I mean, you could just come willingly. Obie's usually all kinds of eager, look: Hey Obie, wanna go for a /walk/?" This last word sets of a fit of even more wriggling. Aborted request or /no/, Shane is getting headscritches. It does require Micah to scootscoot his chair a little closer to reach once the teen sits back up. Alas, poor Obie. Out BigEyed by Shane. "Mmn, yeah, game night soon. I was gonna sit an' do...ugh.../this/ pretty much 'til then." His eyes flick over to the computer at 'this'. "But walks sound nicer. An' it would be criminal to use the W-word at Obie'n not follow through. Look, he's all wiggles already!" Shane's eyes widen abruptly with the headscritches; it's clear he wasn't expecting this to /work/. For a moment he wriggles happily in his chair but then his eyes squeeze up tight, expression somewhat crumpled as he butts his head up into Micah's hand. "Walks are pretty great," he says, a little quieter, eyes still shut, "though I should warn you they're kind of less comfortable sometimes with me." Even with Obie's eager wriggling he doesn't immediately move, just kind of /nuzzling/ into headscritches. "We could," he says with a quick return of smile, "/also/ make paper airplanes." “Sometimes people suck when they think y'don't deserve t'be in public. Ain't stopped me from doin' it before.” Micah pets at Shane's hair, as much as it allows for petting. “If you're willin' t'be out'n dealin' with folks, I'm sure willin' to be out /with/ you.” He smiles at the less serious talk. “We /could/ also make paper airplanes. If we wanted to go sit in the park or somethin'. Prob'ly could get Obie to /chase/ 'em.” "People are pretty much always shitty," Shane judges. But grins wider still and butts up once more into Micah's touch. "/Except/ when they're giving you scritches. Obie would chase the hell out of some paper airplanes, though he sure won't bring any back. Not that they'd be much good once he bit them." He shifts out of his chair though -- still doesn't get up for walking! Instead leans forward to curl his arms around Micah in a brief tight hug. "-- Peter says you're maybe making a thing. For our gills." "Not always. They get their acts together sometimes," Micah asserts, though with a light tone rather than a defensive one. Petpet. "An' sometimes there are scritches," he adds with a fond smile. "S'okay if he kills 'em. So long as he's not a paper eater?" Hugs /do/ require a pause to the scritches, however. "Maybe nothin'. Pretty much finished by now. But I think he wanted to give 'em to y'all as gifts? So should prob'ly let him do that. I only made one of each, since this is kinda off-label use for 'em. But if they work out, I can figure out a couple more. Nice to at least have two so you can wear one while the other's dryin' after bein' washed." "Sometimes there are scritches," Shane will at least agree with /this/ much, his head tipping down to bonk against Micah's shoulder. He pulls back with a deep blush creeping up his cheeks; his hand lifts to touch fingers against the strip of red cloth buckled around his neck. "Yeah, he. Made this for me. He mentioned you were making when he --" The colour in his cheeks deepens. "Put it on me. Uh. Obie eats any gorram thing he puts in his mouth." Micah gives Shane's shoulders a little squeeze at the head-bonks, but moves to allow him to pull away. Of course, blushing faintly himself for no reason save the fact that Shane is doing so. “S'that been workin' okay? S'a tough proposition, gettin' compression on part of the neck without restrictin' airway or bloodflow.” Micah's nose crinkles at the report on Obie. “Okay, no chasin' paper airplanes for the pup, then. Can't have 'em all gettin' /eaten/. Just seems rude t'the tinytiny passengers.” "It's been good," Shane says, although the continued dark flushing of his cheeks might not just be referring to the actual benefit to his breathing. "It's flexible enough that it doesn't -- I still breathe fine. And he --" He trails off, sitting back in his chair and bending down to scritch Obie. "Micah," he explains very patiently, "nobody is riding on the paper airplanes." He lifts a hand, fingers touching lightly against the red collar. "Do you and Pa ever --" he starts, and then just rocks back in his chair again. He looks up at the ceiling, baring a sharp smile towards it. "Did you know he's gotta teach sex ed at our school now?" “Oh, good. Not stranglin' is a plus, generally. Is it actually effective? For keepin' the gills closed?” Micah is largely ignoring the deepening of his sympathetic blush. “Pssshht. Nobody's ridin' on /your/ paper airplanes. Clearly you're doin' it wrong.” Oh, good. Now the blushing isn't just sympathetic anymore. “Do I even want to know the rest of that question?” He giggles at the revelation. “No, I didn't know. But...gotta? He didn't volunteer? Seems a good enough choice except for. Well.” Micah brushes a fingertip across his cheek to indicate the redness. “He's even /worse/ about it. I hadn't thought it was possible.” "Maybe my paper airplanes are UAVs," Shane answers with a poke of his tongue out towards Micah. He touches the collar again, his other hand resting flat against his belly. "Definitely helps, but this set's --" Shane gestures towards his side, "bigger, eventually they start opening too even with these closed." His grin returns, bright. "Volunteer, shit, I think they make the teachers draw straws, come /on/ would /you/ want to teach me and Shelby sex ed? -- Y'know, he's weirdly not blushy when he's in, like, /dad/-mode telling me about sex shit. I mean he took me /toy/ shopping and didn't really get red at all. It's just talking about /his/ sex life that makes him fidgety." His chair drops back to rest on the ground properly. "Not sure what the end of the question /was/," he admits, "I just." He plucks at the collar once more. "Feel weird." Micah giggles, nose bunny-crinkled at the darting of Shane's tongue. "Just ruin all the fun that way," he says with an air of exaggerated sadness. "Well, we'll see soon enough. Can't imagine it'll take much effort for you t'get Peter t'visit. Then we'll see if the whole kit helps." His head tilts to the side at Shane's explanation that it's only /specific/ sex talk that makes Jax blush. "Huh. Well, I guess he's lucky in that way. I never...noticed. Though, I s'pose, usually ain't talkin' /academically/ at 'im about it." Micah's fingers drum on the tabletop for a moment. "You feel weird he's teachin' the class at the same time as you're in it, you mean? That's kind of...not unusual, I'd say." "We could make little paper dolls," Shane offers. "Tape them to the paper airplanes. And are you kidding, no way /that's/ not weird it's totally hot. -- And I wouldn't guess /your/ talks with him are all that academic. Unless academia's /way/ more fun than I've been seeing. Oh /man/ I'm totally asking Pa for hands-on lessons. I'm a /kinetic/ learner." His head shakes. "Shit feels weird with /Peter/ and I don't -- I mean, Pa's got more experience with this shit." He shrugs a shoulder. "And maybe you too. From the other side?" His smile fades back into a slight scowl. "Peter's not really visiting a whole lot. I mean he /could/ but I'm, like, not allowed to touch him if he's here so it's. Annoying. His folks," he explains with a /huff/, "don't want me fucking him in my apartment." It maaay not have really been such a /specific/ prohibition but that is totally how Shane is choosing to interpret it. “Mmm...tape would mess with the aerodynamics. I usually just draw 'em on the sides. Lookin' out little windows,” Micah explains, grinning broadly. “I regret to inform you, but I don't think that's /quite/ what is usually meant by high school sex ed., Shane. Usually it's more...reproductive physiology. Prevention of disease an' unwanted pregnancy. All that jazz.” His forehead creases faintly with concern. “What kind of weird? I'm not always good at guessin' what's weird to you, I'm afraid,” he admits with a sheepish sort of half-smile. “An'...that seems like a terribly specific edict. They're fine with it elsewhere? Usually it's 'no sex' or 'no sex with boys' or 'no sex under my roof'. Not...'no sex at his place'.” "I mean, I think it's that /too/. He has condoms and shit for us. Uh, like, in the /art room/ because he doesn't have an office? But if people need them they're there. Except I think his class is better because it's more like. Enthusiastic consent. And not just hey this is what a penis is like." Shane gets up, wandering out of the kitchen to head off towards /Spencer's/ room though he's still talking when he goes. "Cuz honestly? Most of us already /know/ how the parts work, I think making sure everyone is, you know, using them respectfully is -- better." There's a bit of rummaging before he returns with a stack of blank white paper and a box of coloured pencils, dumping both on the table and taking one sheet of paper to start folding it carefully. He shrugs again. "I dunno. They said he could stay over nights, here, but only if we didn't bone or anything. I'm pretty sure we can't bone at his place /either/." His tongue pokes out the side of his mouth as he folds. "-- What's weird to /you/?" “That would be preferable, honestly. Eh, what do I know, I went to public school in the South. You were lucky if they got to teach you more than abstinence blahblahblah.” This comes with an actual mime-talking hand! Micah takes his own piece of paper to begin the folding process. “Ah, that makes a little bit more sense. Is it the age thing or the boys thing or both, with them, d'you think?” Foldfold. “I can't say I've really gotten /exactly/ that reaction before? Usually, if it went badly with parents, it went 'don't ever talk to that person again' badly. And if I could've just stopped existin' entirely, that would've been a bonus.” He gathers a few pencils and, true to his word, start drawing little windows down the side. “That is a very wide-open question,” he answers to the 'weird' inquiry, with a bit of a chuckle. “When I asked, I just wanted to make sure we were talkin' about the same thing. About /which/ stuff felt weird with Peter.” "I don't know. I haven't actually talked to them. I think Peter did. And maybe Pa? I don't know. It was sort of really shitty all around cuz it was just like. The city was going to hell? And Peter didn't want to be far away I guess. But he had to explain to them. /Why/ he was /extra/ worried about me. And that's sort of a crappy way to --" Shane's cheeks puff out, and he lets out a sharp breath. "Like hey the world's going hell and I might get shot and /by/ the way I've been boning this dude." He stretches out a leg again, to scrub his toes against Obie's fur; the dog is getting fidgety now that people's attention are on /airplanes/ and not him. "-- Why would anyone ever want you to stop existing?" This sounds like a rather /genuine/ question; he looks up at Micah kind of startled. "You're like. One of the nicest people I've ever /met/." “Yes, I can see how that would be rough. It's a lot...to process at once.” Micah quirks his lips over to one side as he starts filling elaborate little stick figures into the plane's windows. “Mmn. The nice thing kind of works against you a little bit when your partners keep decidin' it means you'd be the best first boy to bring home to mom'n pop. /Girls'/ parents like me well enough, usually.” Pencils get changed out frequently to make a /rainbow/ of people on the plane. “Boys' have more than once been convinced that I was some kind of horrible witch of make-people-gayness.” He smirks up from his drawing. “It's contagious, you know.” "Yeah, I can see that, you've infected your /plane/." Shane finishes tucking and folding his airplane, holding it up. Unpassengerladen. "I can't blame them, /I'd/ bring you home to pa. I mean. Uh. If you weren't already fucking him. "/Do/ you make people gay? I mean, I don't think Peter was into any dudes before me so maybe there's. Like. Something /to/ it -- I did bite him." His brow creases abruptly. "Oh god I probably /did/ infect him." “Shane, I was /joking/,” Micah reassures about the infectious gayness. “I think him not liking any guys before you has more to do with the fact that he's sixteen? And also people tend to default to societal norms in who they like before they /really/ figure out who they like. Though some people do figure it out earlier than others, that they like something else.” He shrugs. “I mean...I never thought that you shouldn't just love or want /whoever/. The rest is all...bits an' pronouns an' whatnot. /I/ don't care. But...that's not a typical response to the world, apparently.” He reaches across the table to pat the back of Shane's hand. “You gave him somebody to love. That's never a bad thing.” "I didn't default to -- I mean I don't know, the first person /I/ boned was --" Shane sinks down in his chair, abruptly oddly quiet as he gives apparently intent scrutiny to his airplane. "The world has some dumbass standards," he says eventually. His hand turns over, when it is patted, fingers curling up against Micah's hand. "-- I don't know what the fuck I gave him," he says, a little bit more stiffly. "I think it might be a bad thing." “Not everybody, hon. Just a tendency to mimic what is presented.” Micah squeezes Shane's hand gently at that turn. The stiffness in Shane's voice has him scootscooting his chair closer again, abandoning the little plane of rainbowpeople to put an arm over the teen's shoulders. “What makes you think that?” "Because he's really --" Shane hesitates. A long moment. Kind of tense, kind of uncomfortable-fidgety. "He's just. He's." His teeth drag against his lip. "-- He's really. Reallyreally /good/." “And...that's...bad?” Micah looks legitimately curious, brows attempting to meet one another toward the bridge of his nose. He rubs at Shane's shoulder comfortingly. "/Yes/," Shane insists. "I mean. Shit. He. He's /so good/ and I'm like this fucking. Monster. Who eats people. And talks about fucking my dad. He'd /never/ fuck my dad." His tone actually sounds genuinely upset, here. "And then he's brilliant and he's nothing but really /thoughtful/ /all/ the fucking time and --" His hand lifts, again, touching at the collar snug around his gills. "I don't know. Next to him I'm just a goddamn mess. But he's /good/ and I feel like --" He hesitates, head ducking down towards his shoulders. "I feel like I'm going to /break/ that." "Honey, /no/. You are /not/ a monster. That...thing that happened with the tentacle guy? That reflects on the people who /starved a kid/ and then /threw him in a ring to fight a guy/. Just /hopin'/ that that would happen. That wasn't you. That was /them/." Micah pulls Shane into an actual hug with that. "An' lots of people talk about sex with your dad. He's kind of hot. Just sayin'," he adds in a lighter tone. "But. You're kind of a mess. He's kind of a mess in his own way. Everyone is. You aren't gonna /break/ him. If he's so good...a little extra mess nearby shouldn't hurt that." He hugs a little tighter again. "Besides. Havin' people gives folks somethin' to be good /for/." "I didn't have to. Do that. /Eat/ him. I just get so --" Shane shudders, and then leans closer to Micah, hugging back tight. "I didn't have to do a lot of things. Pa would never -- but he's good, too." He closes his eyes, cheek pressing against Micah's chest. It's easy to feel the shift of his cheek into a grin. "-- He is way more than kind of hot I don't even know which of you to be jealous of when you're --" He looks up, then, though his arms still curl around Micah. "What are /you/ good /for/?" "Eatin' when you're starved an' fightin' when you're threatened are pretty hard-wired instincts, Shane. Maybe, theoretically, you could have not? But it's completely understandable. What happened, given the circumstances. It does not make you a monster. You're not snatchin' babies off the street for a snack. You were put in an extreme stress situation an' responded to it in the way that an extremely stressed person would." Micah goes back to petting at Shane's hair, just holding on to him loosely. "Lots of folks. Always been my momma since I was little. Friends. Lovers. Patients. You guys." Another tighter hug comes with that. "I think you're a lot better than you give yourself credit for. That you sit an' think about these things so much. Means you care." "-- Do you know why Pa lost his eye?" Shane asks, quiet and sort of /tired/. He squeezes, a little harder -- a little /too/ hard, maybe, but it's brief before he lets go to slump back into his chair. "Peter broke both his ankles saving a bunch of people on a train. /I/ just --" He snorts, reaching for another sheet of paper. "I love him." The admission sounds /glum/. “I got the general idea of the how, but I don't s'pose ever a real why, no.” Micah chews at his lip for a moment. “Peter...has a /little/ bit of a hero complex. To a degree that isn't entirely healthy,” he says as diplomatically as possible. Even the glummest of declarations of love earns a smile, though! “That's good, hon. Love is good. You told him yet?” "He got it because he's good. It wasn't even part of any of their tests. They /did/ fuck with his eyes for some of them to see if he could still illusion blind but that wasn't. /That/ time it wasn't a test it was just a. Threat. Because he refused to /cooperate/ when it meant hurting other people. Because he wouldn't fuck over the rest of us to save himself." Shane's claws are creeping outward, but then they slide back. "-- Bastian and I killed pretty much every fucking person they told us to kill. Except the ones who were stronger." He says this kind of dispassionately, but there's tension curled tight through his posture. It evaporates with a sudden snort. "Yeah no Peter's a total fucking moron," he says much less diplomatically, "a total fucking moron with a gorram death wish but he /helps/ people." He pulls one leg up onto his chair, chin dropping to rest on his knee. "I told him. I tell him a lot. Shutting up is pretty much not a thing I do," he says wryly. "But no yeah I tell him. I told him when he --" He touches the collar lightly again. "-- I feel like this is weird, too," he says, very quiet. "I pretty much spent my whole life in cages and collars, I shouldn't /want/ --" His eyes shut tight. "I don't think he did anything like /that/ before me either." “"Mmn... You'n 'Bastian are still /kids/. Back then...even /younger/ kids. It's. Harder. Different." Micah just shakes his head rather than trying to explain further. "That's good. It's good to tell people." He smiles another small sort of smile. "It's not weird at all. There's such a big difference in... Bein' forced into somethin' and /choosin'/ it. An' havin' been forced into it before, havin' the choice taken away? Sometimes it makes the choice that much more appealin', in a way. It's like... I had a friend. With a high-level spinal cord injury from early childhood. Pretty much paralysed in all four limbs. Loved bein' tied up. Because there's that difference between /not bein' able/ to move. An' /choosin'/ to let someone make it so that you can't move. It's takin' control by givin' it up. You get what I'm sayin'?" He laughs just a little at the last comment. "Hon, he just turned /sixteen/. You're gonna be sayin' that a /lot/ about him not havin' done stuff before you because there's just a lot of stuff he hasn't done." "/I'm/ sixteen," Shane protests, "he's barely a month and some younger than me!" His brow furrows, head turning to press his cheek to his knee. "Yeah," he agrees, quietly, "I get -- I get that. The choice. Thing. With him it just feels --" His cheeks flush, "-- safe," is mostly mumbled as he reaches for another sheet of paper. "-- What about from the other side? I mean if you're. Tying someone up or hurting them what do /you/ --" He huffs out a quick breath, folding his paper. "Fuck, I'm doing it again." “You've had a rather /unique/ childhood, Shane. I think you been through a /lot/ more than most kids your age.” Blush receives answering blush. “Yeah. That...security. Is a thing people say they feel a lot.” Micah laughs a bit at the question, though he also takes on a bit more red about the face and ears. “You're assumin' people only ever come at those things from one side. Needs ain't always the same all the time.” "I'm not -- assuming that -- I mean, shit, when I'm with /Eric/ I want to beat the shit out of him but that's different. I just. Wanted to know for /you/ what --" There's a brief pause, and Shane shakes his head, creasing his second airplane sharply and then lifting its wings outward. "Fuck it," he says, toes nudging at Obie again, "let's go fly planes before you have to join your geek squad. I think," he sounds hopeful, "Desi might even be stopping by even /if/ Lucien won't." Micah outright /giggles/. “Oh, I wouldn't do any good explainin'. My whys are always changin'. Downright fickle creature, I am.” He nods, looking down at Obie. “Yeah, he's been waitin' real patient, poor pup. Do need to get him out before folks start rollin' in. S'Desi play? She's never come by before...” He scoops up his rainbowpeople plane. "-- But then that just means you have so many /more/ things you could be explaining!" Shane says with a grin. It fades, with a slight shrug. "Desi likes all kinds of games." He folds the wings down on both his planes and then stands. "But I think mostly she just kind of wants company lately." His brows furrow at this, a brief heaviness settling into his expression. He chases it away with a crooked smile. "So I /guess/ I'll have to choke down some geekery." “Oh, yay! We get a Desi an' a Shane! Try not to hurt yourself with all the /not havin' fun/ playin' games. Desi havin' a hard time lately, or just kinda in a be-around-people phase?” Micah gathers his shoes and Obie's leash for outdoor excursions. "I am going to have /so/ much not having fun you have no fucking idea." Shane grabs a plastic bag from under the kitchen sink, tucking it into his pocket. But then he just stops, /staring/ at Micah at that question. Blink. "... hard -- time," it is a slow kind of /bemused/ answer. Micah looks up from clicking on Obie's leash, stopped for a moment by Shane's manner in speaking. “Oh...did I...miss something? Is Desi okay?” Oh, there it is. Worryface. "Did you not -- I thought Lucien would --" Shane stops. Bites down on his lip. His brows furrow. He drifts closer uncertainly, lifting a hand towards Micah's arm and then dropping it to his side. And then lifting it again. "I mean, no, she's --" The furrow in his brow deepens. He sneeeeaks his arm around Micah's waist in PREEMPTIVE hug before finally just finishing: "Matt died." “Oh.” Is all that manages to slip out of Micah's mouth before he presses it shut tight, squeezing his eyelids to match, silent for several beats. Fingers just clench white-knuckled around the leash. “When?” "Like -- a week ago. Or -- two. I don't know. The weekend before last, I -- fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't. Know that. Shit." Shane steps in closer, his other arm wrapping around Micah too in a tight squeeze of hug. Micah's free arm wraps reflexively around Shane, the other seeming to have frozen in its task of holding the leash. Like it is a /ludicrously difficult/ thing to do. "Before last?" he echoes softly. "That explains...why he hasn't answered his texts in so long. I thought. He was tired. Sometimes he doesn't for a while." He opens his eyes for a second to look down at Shane, thinks better of it, and closes them again. Remembering seeing Lucien /since/ then. "Ohgosh. I am an /ass/." His fingers force themselves to loosen their grip, and he clears his throat softly. "We should. Send some food back with Desi." There is a nod, as if this decision sort of /settles/ everything. "An' we need to take Obie out. Said the W-word. Put the leash on. He's gonna vibrate into component atoms." His weight shifts, as if to move toward the door. "Yeah. I know cuz it was /right/ after Pa's birthday and Desi was -- not. Happy. Um. Also maybe really worried about Lucien? They were the closest." Shane hugs Micah tighter, rising up onto his toes with this squeeze. "Why are you -- you're like the /least/ assy person." Another squeeze, and then he steps back, though he keeps a hand looped through Micah's arm. "Yeah. Obie. And we made paper airplanes to fly and everything. I bet he'd like food. I just -- shit. I'm sorry I -- didn't mean to --" He shakes his head, and squeezes Micah's /arm/ this time. Micah nods. “Just. Went to see Lucien on Saturday. An' I didn't know.” He actually manages to return the hug before Shane moves away this time. “No, don't apologise. It's good. People should know. When someone is gone.” He nods again, finally moving to open the door. “No, we should. Go. Walk Obie an' fly planes.” "You and Pa are so much alike sometimes." Shane squeezes Micah's arm once more. "Maybe you guys should go see him. I'm not sure he --" But Shane stops, and shakes his head. "People should know," he agrees. "C'mon. Before Obie pees himself out of /excitement/." He stretches up onto his toes again -- this time to peck Micah on the cheek! -- and then heads out the door.