ArchivedLogs:Mark Your Territory

Mark Your Territory
Dramatis Personae Shane, Shelby
In Absentia	2013-05-24 '
Location
The trainride was followed by a carride, kind of a long one in rented vans upupup into the mountains. The carride was followed by a /deluge/ of hug, at least from Jackson's mother; it had been a while since she had seen her son /or/ adopted grandkids and, well, the circumstances call for hugs. Undoubtedly there has been an enormous dinner, solid hearty veryfresh food likely recently picked and it is clear where Jax gets his cooking skills from. His parents are -- proper. His mother warm and /motherish/, his father taciturn, gruffer, but remarkably patient with the sudden deluge of oddball visitors. Eventually, though, greetings have been greeted and food has been fooded and people have been shown to their respective rooms and given brief tours and unleashed to relax or explore as they will. The farmhouse itself is a large one, quintessentially farmlike in its large white expanse, huge wraparound porch, simple homey decor. /Quaint/, might be the word. The /farm/ itself is a large one; the approach to the house is lined with orchards up the long drive, peach trees flowering, now, not yet fruited. To the side, fields of corn; the vegetable garden out back is not a small plot but two /acres/ of crop, some for family consumption and others sold at market. There is a barn, though animals are not the main focus here. A few dairy cows, some chickens in their coop, a crotchety old rooster prone to hiding under the house's front stairs and pecking at ankles. Horses in the stables. Beyond the farm, stretching back away from its property, trees: they climb high up; where land stops being farmable in this little valley and starts being rockier and steeper they start to be less treeful. More scrubby. The climb here gets steep in places but the /view/ increasingly rewarding. As dark falls Shane is wandering off! Because it is wanderingoff time. He's not dressed for /intensive/ wanderingoff, grey slacks, pale pink dress shirt, grey vest. Grey newsboy cap. Black oxfords. But he's wandering, off the property following a small stream that cuts through it and wends back into the woods. A dog pads at his side. Not Obie; this one is a giant /monster/ of a mutt, patchwork fur in white and black and brown, some odd amalgam of Bernese shepherd and mastiff that comes out looking just like /pony/dog. But for all his size Skittles is pretty much a lamb. He pads quietly because oh! Is it exploringtime? Sniffsniff. Sniffsniff. Shane just.. walks. Takes his shoes off to leave them under a tree and roll his slacks up, path dipping into the shallows of the stream. He doesn't walk /far/ before he stops. For a smoke, standing still in the shallow cool water. It should come as no surprise to anyone that Shelby is not a country person. No, really, she isn’t. Her experience with country living is limited to seeing the countryside roll by while hitchhiking her way up the coast. If she was /really/ lucky, she was on a Greyhound bus. Therefore it should also come as no surprise that she has not strayed far from the house after arrival. Sure, the other kids might have scattered to explore but uh uh, she will stay near the running water and flushing toilets and bug zappers, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. But. This being something of a special occasion and having spotted Shane slipping away from the pack, she is compelled to step outside of her comfort zone. After spraying herself with a liberal dose of bug repellant and scoring a spare flashlight from the kitchen drawers--just in case it gets dark and she ends up lost in the wilderness--she sets off after him. Slowly. Where are the sidewalks, augh. She will be heard long before she appears at the stream, stumbling around as city slickers are wont to do. Dressed as she is in denim cutoffs, gold leggings and a black-and-white checkered t-shirt large enough to hang from one shoulder, she looks the part too. “Shane oh my god I swear if I get ticks,” she is saying as soon as blue skin is in sight. But that trails off. Shelby squints into the dusky gloom, then toes her shoes off--no socks!--and gingerly wades out into the water to take up a position at Shane’s elbow. /Her/ elbow bends, cocks out, gives him a wee nudge. “Hi.” In greeting Shane offers his cigarette. "You'll get ticks," he says, so reassuringly. "Just got to strip down when you get inside. Have someone do a thorough tick check. Bet Bastian would oblige." He isn't looking at her with the cigarette offer; he's staring somewhere ahead. His other hand is absently scritching at Skittles's head. "It's quiet here." Even the prospect of a Bastian patdown doesn’t improve Shelby’s outlook to the tick issue. She shudders, dramatically--and then accepts the cigarette with nary a quiver. She’ll live. Probably. “I know, it’s fucking creepy. Your grandma said you can like...see the stars at night?” What a novel idea. She squints up at the sky dubiously, then puffs industriously away at the smoke. “You ever catch any fish out here?” One foot lifts to slapslap lightly at the running water. Someone should explain the difference between “stream” and “river”. "Bajillion stars," Shane agrees. "It's pretty great. I don't miss a lot about my parents -- the blood ones -- their home, but fuck. You could see a lot of stars." His own webbed foot skims across the surface of the water. Skittles splashes out deeper. For a given value of deeper; the stream is still pretty shallow. "There's fish if you go far. Farther. It joins up a real -- river if you go down one way. There's a lake thing the other. We swim a lot. Long walk, though. Short ride." Only now does he peek a sideways glance to Shelby. "Pa says you were half living at our place." “I like neon better,” Shelby admits, but it’s with the start of a grin. “I guess it’s nice though. Kind’ve...like paintings. Or whatever.” The next look she shoots at the sky is a little more appreciative. The cigarette is offered back to him once he’s done with the splashing. “Couldn’t stay out of school the whole time but...yeah. Didn’t make your bed either. Asshole.” She makes this the /fondest of names called/ by reaching out to (carefully) loop her arm through his. “How you doing?” Shane answers this with a -- long drag on his cigarette. His eyes close, and his weight shifts, leaning slightly into Shelby's arm. "Alive," he answers, offering the cigarette back. And then, kind of softer: "Not always sure I --" This just cuts off, teeth gritting. At length his expression relaxes. "Should've slept in Bastian's bed, he /never/ makes his." Shane always does. Very /crisply/. Hospital corners. “Yeah.” Just as soft, this simple acknowledgement of what was said /and/ unsaid. Shelby takes the smoke and puffs /deeply/. The filter is left pinched between her lips. It bobs as she speaks up again. “I got this...kinda like a superstition, y’know? Don’t light a smoke when you’re waiting for a bus. Don’t flip off the cabbie ‘til you’re on the curb. Don’t fuck with Shane’s bed ‘less you want him to show up and bite you.” A slow plume of smoke is released skywards through her nostrils. “I maybe moved around B’s bone statues too.” "Should I bite you?" Shane wonders, lips peeling back in aaaalmost a smile. Mostly just /toothy/. "Bastian might, he's finicky about those bones." His brow furrows as he watches Skittles futilely snapping at minnows. "Though maybe he's had enough of biting people for now." His arms curl across his chest, hugging himself tightly. "... so, uh." He frowns down at the water. "What'd I miss?" Shelby adjusts the position of her arm, this time stretching it across Shane’s shoulders. She’s grown a little, maybe a quarter of an inch since December. It makes that positioning easier. “Guess you guys’ve maybe had enough of biting people for a /lifetime/,” she says sagely, making her voice something lofty and authoritative and nasal--in other words, making a joke of it. Because she follows it up with, “Unless they piss me off.” The question stymies her, however. She lapses into silence, brow furrowed and lips pursed. What /has/ he missed? “Uh...well. Mostly it was people freaking out ‘cause you and B and Peter were gone. I kind’ve...got in some shit but it’s a long story. Ivan and Rasa /maybe/ had sex. Oh, and ze’s got a tail now. From Kurt. S’kinda cute.” "Ivan and Rasa -- cool." Shane leans into Shelby's arm, his own snaking around her waist. He has sadly not grown. "I kissed Peter," he says, "but, uh, he doesn't want his folks to know he's maybe-a-little-queer yet." He quiets, looking at Shelby a while. "Some shit?" “A /little/ queer,” Shelby echoes, mildly amused. “Should’ve known, he freaked out way too much about my tits. Is it...I mean, are you guys...? Or was it just...?” She slants a look at him, curious at first before fading into casual. “Just street shit. Oh, one of the art teachers is gonna enter something we did into an uptown art show. Big prize is like five thousand.” "I don't know. Things in there were fucked up as hell. But he kissed me /more/ when we were out. -- Maybe a /little/ queer, I don't know. He kinda gets blushy around Desi, too." Shane shrugs uncertainly. "Street shit?" he presses, and then. "Holy shit. You could get so much good weed with that." “Kinda got in the middle of a turf war between dealers, y’know?” Because that’s such a common occurrence for any teenager. Shelby has shrugged it off though. Her grin is too-bright in the deepening dusk. “I know, right? If we win, I gotta split it with the dude but a couple grand...I say we throw the biggest fucking party anyone’s ever /seen/. You gotta help me plan it though, yeah?” "Uh -- waitwhat?" Shane isn't shrugging this off. "A turf war -- I don't know if that's badass or just, um." His brows crease. "I mean, the fuck? That. Sounds -- dangerous." His teeth dig at his lip. "Well, sure, yeah, party." It's lighter than before, if not much so. "Bastian's better at /social/ shit though he should help, too." He is fidgeting, weight shifting as he watches the dog again. "Bet we could commandeer a good chunk of my building for partying." “Oh sure, totally badass!” Shelby blusters, grinning and giving him a little shake. “C’mon, you know I can handle myself. Tell you what, when we get back I’ll tell you the whole thing, huh? Right now though...” She trails off, some of that sparkle dimming--and thereby proving it was a bit of a put on. She studies fidgety Shane, glances at the dog, worries at her own lip. “...or, y’know, whatever you wanted to do.” A pause ensues. “How...how /are/ you doing? I mean. Do you...wanna talk about it? Forget about it? I mean, I’m mostly...I’m good at pretending like shit didn’t happen but I can listen. If you want.” Shane's ridged brows raise, when that sparkle dims. His gills flare, and he looks downwards, toes wiggling into the mud of the streambed. "I want to sleep for, like, ten years," he says with a crooked smile. "I want a whole crate of smokes and a whole bottle of vodka." The crooked smile widens. "C'mon," he says, too-lightly, "you know I can handle myself. When we get back I'll tell you the whole thing." His head turns; he rests his face up against Shelby's side, too short to make chin-on-shoulder, he settles for pressing his cheek to her arm. There's a long stretch of silence before he speaks. "...Walters is right," is what he says, when he does, "I'm pretty much an animal. I think I do better in cages than I do at the school." Shelby knows what to do with flaring gills. When Shane turns towards her, she raises her hand, curls her fingers, and strokes them down again. She continues to do so even after they’ve stopped their fluttering. Anything to soothe him, in light of what is so quietly said about himself. “/Fuck/ Walters,” she says stoutly. “They suspended her for the summer, y’know. ‘Cause of everything, she’s not allowed to do teacher shit. You don’t gotta worry about her, so when you get back, I’ll /get/ you a crate of smokes and some vodka. I’ve got the cash, okay? We’ll climb up on the roof and piss off it. If you wanna be an animal, you gotta mark your territory, and dude, the school’s /yours/. You’n’me, we’re the coolest kids there, right?” The girl bonks the top of his head with her chin. “...or, y’know, we could get you a sweet collar. One with spikes. Let Peter walk you around on a leash. S’pretty kinky.” Shane closes his eyes, starts to breathe again, those gills flattening when they're stroked. He relaxes, arm squeezing around Shelby's waist. "-- They did?" This makes his eyes open again, wider, his tone notably surprised. Not in a bad way. It's followed by silence again, though. But the silence is broken by a laugh, a grin. "-- He bites hard," he admits, "I wouldn't mind the leash. Dai actually gives /orders/, though." The grin is short-lived. His other hand drops when Skittles returns, a bit damper, no minnows to show for his efforts. He leans against the teenagers' legs, and Shane draws claws lightly against his broad head. "It's just -- sometimes." His voice is quieter, and his hold a little tighter. "Sometimes it's easy. To forget. That we're not human. Bastian -- never forgets. I don't know if that's better or worse." “Yup.” Just that at first, to confirm Walters’ leaving. Shelby does not try to pet Skittles. Not that she doesn’t like big dogs, but after she slips her other arm over his shoulders, she’s pretty well settled into hugging the shorter teen. Or at least, she will be until her feet start to go numb from the water. So far so good though! “I forget all the time. About you guys. I mean...you’re not /not/ human.” Whatever the proper word for that is; she hasn’t gotten that far in English yet. “You’re just /more/. Like. Layers. You’ve got more than most people have, right? ‘Cause I really don’t think someone who /wasn’t/ human’d be standing here hugging me and talking about feels. Just sayin’.” She tenses her arms around him to punctuate this statement. “You’d have to treat me pretty shitty for me to think you belong in a cage.” "Bastian tried to kill Peter," is Shane's quiet answer to this. "Is that shitty enough?" “That’s what they were making you guys try to /do/,” Shelby counters, undeterred. “I’ve known ya’ll for a /long/ time,” because six months is forever in teen years, “and not /once/ have you made me think you might hurt me. Hell, Bastian wouldn’t /touch/ me for a long time ‘cause he was worried about that.” Shane's face turns in against Shelby's arm, possibly to hide the sudden crumpling of his expression. This doesn't help much, given the noticeable wetness of his eyes as they press against her. His hand lifts off Skittles's head to wrap his other arm around her, too. "It was," he says, a little muffled against her arm, "exceptionally shitty." His gills flutter, and then quiet. "I think it was kind of worse cuz Peter -- I mean me and Bastian, it's not the first time we've -- he's just so /good/, you know? And there was this other kid, Anole, I think you'll meet him, we told him to come. To the school. And they've never had to -- be anywhere like -- it's just shitty when it's /good/ people who --" His words hitch again with another flare of gills. "Fuck," he says, "I think I could use that vodka now. Jax's parents don't fucking /drink/," he complains, "think his ma might have some shitty cooking wine around though, want to see?" Shelby’s hands remain busy, soothing down every flutter. She is surprisingly sturdy to lean against and surprisingly willing to just stand there in silence, while he gets it all out. Once Shane’s finished though, and seems ready to move onto other topics, she’s also very good at going with the flow. A kiss lands on the top of his head. “Totally,” she assures him. “I can make a distraction, you go in and grab the bottle.” Any port in a storm, right? Even if that port is afloat with shitty cooking wine.