ArchivedLogs:Meet the Folks

Meet the Folks
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane, Uncle Ben, Aunt May	2013-07-07 Shane meets Uncle Ben and Aunt May.
Location
The Parker home is small, as far as suburban houses go; it's a two-story twin homes -- the kind that shares a wall with another house. It's quite neat and fastidious, with very little clutter -- a nice big glass dresser filled with nick-nacks (crying hobo statues!), walls decorated with pictures of Peter (still with pink skin! And ridiculous hipster-glasses!), and numerous signs with sayings like 'GOD BLESS THIS HOUSE', or 'LAUGH OFTEN, SMILE DAILY, LOVE FOREVER'. Before they even step foot inside of the carpeted interior, Peter's seizing hold of Shane's collar, squeezing with reassuring tightness: "Nothing that'd upset your /grandparents/," Peter tells him with a sharp firmness -- right before quickly darting over to give him a silent, stealthy peck. And, with a hint of darkening violet: "--love you." And then he releases the collar, and... Hello! The door opens, exposing that quaint, previously mentioned interior -- and Uncle Ben. The man looks a bit like Rodney Dangerfield, minus the bug-eyes and half the stress; he's dressed in a white buttoned shirt with a flannel coat on top of it -- dress slacks under that. He smiles -- warmly! -- at Peter, then -- /politely/ -- at Shane. "C'mon in," he tells the two of them, stepping aside to -- make room! "May's just about done the roast beef." Shane can probably smell it; infused with onions and a hint of garlic. Potatoes and gravy, too. Shane still smells like the beach! A saltwater tang to his skin, although he's at least /changed/ out of swim trunks! Into dark slacks with a white dress shirt; he's actually sort of /layered/ his vests today, a black one slightly open (though held semi-in-place by a chain connecting its two buttons) over a grey houndstooth that has been neatly buttoned closed. And his red collar; he quirks a quick-bright smile as it is squeezed. "-- /everything/ upsets my grandparents," he answers with unreassuring puzzlement, "they still haven't even gotten over /Pa/ dating gu--" "--Hi!" His smile when the door is opened is /bright/! Wide. Extremely Toothy. Possibly disconcertingly so, although (for all you can /tell/ past the verysharpteeths) it is happy-warm rather than fierce. "Hi," he says again, and, "-- /wow/ that smells good." He bobs up a little bit onto his toes, then steps in through the door. "-- man your house /looks/ great, too, uh --" His hands fold behind his back like he is in a /museum/ where he is not supposed to touch! And his black eyes sweep up over Peter's Uncle. "-- I mean, everything in here is gorgeous." Peter's hand /darts/ back away from the collar when the door is opened and Benjamin Parker arrives; his cheeks are immediately flushing violet. "Hey, uncle," Peter responds, his tone much more subdued than Shane's -- he steps in behind him, following close, resisting the urge to sneak out a hand and grasp his shoulder as he walks inside. "This is, um. Shane Holland." "Yep," Ben quickly agrees, with a slight smile: "We've met. Back at his grandparents' farm." There's something -- very /careful/ about the way Ben regards Shane, offering him a maybe-tense smile as he speaks -- a quick, careful nod. "Thank you, Shane." He sounds like a man who is attempting to dissect a neutron bomb that's five seconds away from detonating. "That's a /heck/ of a sharp jacket you've got there," Ben adds, a hint of sincerity creeping into his tone. "C'mon, I'll show you to the kitchen." As he turns and walks, he fires a glance back at Peter -- before, to Shane: "How long have you known each other?" The kitchen is much like the rest of the home; orderly, neat, a little /cramped/ -- yellow-and-white lineoleum with floral patterns decorate the floor, with an off-green pastel oven and fridge. Aunt May is there -- curly, golden hair laced with steel gray, clad in a white-and-pink flower dress; she's got oven mitts on and is in the process of opening the oven right now -- the thick, heady smell of a roast emerging. Also, one blessed detail Shane might notice as he enters the kitchen -- the house is equipped with a /very/ powerful AC unit. Which is currently on at full-blast. "Thank you! My -- other -- exdad -- made it," Shane explains with a slight brush of blue fingers down over his vest, tugging for a moment at the chain. His smile, at least, stays bright-warm even with Ben's tenseness, and his hands fold behind his back again afterwards. He trots along in the others' wake, eyes darting around but his hands staying carefully! folded. "Oh! /Um/," Shane has to think about this! For a moment, before answering, "Um, I think he broke into my house first back in February. -- Hi," he chirrups again brightly to May. He exhales an /enormously/ relieved sigh when he enters the cooler kitchen, weight relaxing back down onto his heels. "Ohmygod, I think I want to just live here." Peter tenses /hard/ as Shane mentions breaking into his house; his hand darts forward to catch the back of Shane's collar and give a quick, delicate /squeeze/. But then, as Ben's gaze swings around to /stare/ at Shane, Peter's hand retreats. "--oh, heh, I--" "/Broke/ into his house?" Ben repeats, his own brow crinkling in a way reminiscient of Peter's own eyebrow pinch. "What does he mean--" "Oh, hello! Shane, right?" May steps back from the oven -- the large metal basin that holds the roast in hand -- setting it down atop of the stove. She's then closing the oven with a creak, the mitts being removed, one after the other -- stepping toward Shane! With a cheerful smile. "Pleasure to meet you, young man. You look /quite/ dashing in that suit of yours." "--what does he mean, /broke/ into your house?" Ben repeats, a little more sharply, /peering/ at Peter. Who's just, ah. Tugging away at his own blue collar shirt. There's a briiief widening of Shane's eyes with that tug, but it fades into a /puzzled/ look. "I just mean he came to talk to my pa," he says, more /carefully/. "And I didn't know he was coming! I think I get startled easily. Hi! Yes. Shane. We met. Um. In Georgia?" JUST IN CASE May has forgotten all the potential places she might have run into blue sharkkid. He rocks forward a step, offering a hand (claws carefully retracted!) out to May. "Oh! Thank you. I was just telling Peter and Ben how /everything/ here looks amazing. Thank you!" For a moment he looks /proud/ to have remembered! to say this, "-- for having me. For dinner. I mean not /for/ dinner but -- for dinner." Peter relaxes with an almost-audible slump when Shane clarifies, his hand reaching to squeeze Shane's shoulder appreciatively; still, Ben's peering at Peter with a /suspicious/ look -- like he's not quite buying it. But, for now... For now, May's taking Shane's hand and /squeezing/ it warmly -- before promptly using it to pull him closer! For a quick, impromptu hug! "I remember you," she tells him, "and your brother -- Sebastian, I think? And that's very sweet of you," she adds. Her nose wrinkles at that last comment, eyebrows quirking up, her mouth threatening to spill open into a smile -- managing to stifle it half-way. "You're quite welcome, Shane." "Mmmph," Ben responds, a little less /cheerily/, pulling out a chair and plopping right into it -- arms draped down on the table in front of him, folded. Now peering a little more closely at Shane. "So. You're dating Peter, now." "Benjamin," May starts, turning from where she's started preparing to bring the roast beef to the table. "Don't be /rude/." "What?" Ben fires back. "It's a factual statement. They're /dating/. You're dating, /right/?" It definitely sounds like -- an /accusation/. "Oh!" Shane's eyes widen; there's a brief press of motion at his collar that suggests his gills are ineffectually /trying/ to flare, but he returns the hug with a quick squeeze. "Yeah, Bastian's my brother. Spencer, too. He's the --" He gestures at smallchildheight! "-- not blue one." He rocks back a step once hugtime is over, and he at least doesn't seem overly bothered by the question, accusative or no! In fact, it pulls his smile juuuust a little wider. "Well," he says lightly, "we haven't /exactly/ had real /dates/ yet." "Ohyeah we haven't, um," Peter admits, violet creeeeeping up into his face, "like gone out or -- uh, anything. I mean, we hang out, a lot? But--" "When did you realize," May asks as she brings the roast beef down atop of the table -- now on a plate! It's more or less just a chunk of browned meat; cooked through and thoroughly tenderized -- at least seven slices have already been carved off, each around a quarter of an inch in thickness. She goes back to fetch the gravy and potatoes. "--that you wanted to -- ah. I mean." There's a flicker to Peter, a slight twist of her mouth as she returns with the food. "--be together?" "You probably shouldn't go out on a date right now anyway," Ben grouses, reaching up to help May with the potatoes -- placing them down. They're small ones; elliptical shaped spheres of slightly beef-infused starch. "What with the city being like it is -- wouldn't be, mmn. Safe," he says, that last word launched pointedly at Shane. "Well -- it's never safe," Shane answers this with a small furrow of his eyes, "I don't think it's ever going to /be/ safe. At least it never has been. But later there might at least be places that won't kick us out /immediately/ cuz that kinda kills the mood for dating, you know?" Shane's eyes widen when the roast appears on the table; for a moment he is quite distracted with a deep hungry inhale. /Staring/ at the meat like he can will it into his belly! He shakes his head slightly as he returns his attention to the others. "Oh! Uh -- when did we --" Shane has to consider this, too, eventually answering, "-- Man I thought Peter was hot right when I met him but it wasn't until that crazyass -- um, wasn't until murdercam -- /um/, wasn't. Till. More recently. That I think we actually." Now he looks at a /loss/ for finishing this sentence, looking instead to Peter as he clamps his mouth shut. Peter's arm extends rather rapidly for Shane's shoulder, suddenly /clasping/ it very firmly; he gives it a reassuring squeeze when Shane stops, and smiles, just a little bit: "Um. It was when we were in, that place. I guess. That we started --" Peter squeezes again, fingers drilling into Shane's shoulder. "--um, I mean. Seeing each other?" he tries, hopefully. "I mean I guess we always /saw/ each other, I mean, like, with our eyes, but--" Regrettably, Peter's probably much worse at digging himself out of holes than Shane. "--when we were in there. He --" Peter looks from Shane, back to his uncle -- then his aunt. Then, down at the table. "--helped." "Help yourself," Ben tells Shane, a slight upward twist at the corners of his mouth when he sees that look toward the roast. Ben's already scooping himself out a healthy portion of potatoes, followed by -- three slices of the roast! And then May's coming back with the last item on the menu; 8 buttermilk biscuits, set out besides a small container of butter. Ben listens to Peter for a moment, quietly bobbing his head as he reaches for one of the freshly arriving biscuits, too -- and then mentions, voice suddenly quiet: "Mr. Holland came by a few weeks ago, you know. To tell us about the video. The one they didn't show." May stiffens a little in her seat, looking up to Ben with a worried frown. Ben, however, proceeds to calmly split open his biscuit with his fingers -- and reaches for the butterknife. "I saw what you did." This is directed -- not at Peter, but at Shane. Peter squeezes Shane's shoulder again. This time, much more /fiercely/. Shane is edging down to take his seat, a little more /relaxed/ under that tight squeeze; his hand lifts to touch his fingers lightly against Peter's. But then there is meat to take care of and he -- looks at Ben's plate first! Before taking three slices. He doesn't take any /other/ foods. Just the roast. "Oh! -- oh," Shane's eyes /widen/ at first at the mention of the video, "-- Yeah, Pa said he was -- going to --" But this trails off at the last words. He falls silent, brows creasing and his eyes fixed on the roast on his plate. His head turns slightly to the side, cheek pressing for a moment against Peter's fingers. "S-- sorry," he ventures tentatively; he sounds very uncertain about whether this is the /appropriate/ response. "Ben," May speaks, her voice treacherously soft. She doesn't continue after this, though; she just reaches a hand out for him -- gripping the back of his knuckles. Squeezing. And then looking to Peter and Shane, wearing a sad little half-smile. "Sorry?" Ben asks, before -- "We saw the /other/ videos, first. On the news." Now his own hand reaches out to grip May's back. "Well, /I/ did. May didn't--" "I couldn't--" May begins, eyes turning back toward Ben, who just -- nods his head. A little grimly. "They were a hell of a thing to watch. But," Ben continues, "you saved him. Peter. /Thank/ you." "You know," Peter begins, his hand suddenly sliding off of Shane's shoulder -- an unusual /edge/ entering his tone. He's yet to put so much as a potato on his own plate. "--people give them a hard time, now -- because of those videos. Because nobody sees /that/ video. They just see all the other ones." "Peter," Ben begins. "We couldn't--" "People are even giving them a hard time at school," Peter adds, anger starting to creep into his voice. "Maybe if they saw -- /that/ one. They'd realize. They aren't monsters." "Sorry," Shane agrees again, "I mean those were kind of terrible, you shouldn't've. Had to see them, it was -- we were --" His brow furrows deeper and, at least while Peter's hand is on him, it's easy to feel that his shoulder is tensing hard enough to tremble. "-- I guess I'm supposed to say you're welcome or something," Shane's hands slide off the table to rest beneath it, in his lap. His eyes are still fixed on his plate. "Except I don't actually -- I mean, I think about that fight every fucking night and I still haven't really worked out which. Of them I --" His nose crinkles, head ducking: "... sorry I'm not supposed to say fuck, uh." Muscles are flexing at his neck again, but the collar keeps his gills closed. He looks up at Peter, /his/ voice dropping quieter as Peter's grows more edged. "Peter, it's -- /okay/, you don't have to. It's /fine/, we're used to --" A small smile curls at his lips, a brief twitch that fades soon, "-- anyway we might kind of be. A little bit monsters." "I think," Ben responds to the apology over the word 'fuck', "we can make some exceptions. Considering the subject matter. Some cursing seems -- appropriate." Peter's hand darts back out to grip Shane's shoulder; he scoots, in his chair, closer. Until the edge of his knee is bumping up against Shane's. Still frowning a little, even as Shane tells him that: "It's /not/ okay, it's not /fair/, you..." The words dwindle off to nothing. He just frowns, staring at his still-empty plate. "It's not fair," Ben agrees. "But what's fair has got nothing to do with it. Peter, you're --" He frowns a moment, sets his biscuit down (to give the butter sufficient time to melt!), and turns his eyes over to Shane: "--can't even begin to imagine what it's like, to face down a set of choices like that. And /somehow/, you found a way. To get him /and/ your brother out -- alive. Whatever the hell you are..." "You're not a monster," May says, her own voice muted, tense, slipping into the conversation like a sharp, deft knife. "Not, at least, from where /we're/ sitting." "--for Christ's sake, Peter. Put /something/ on your plate," Ben grumbles, now reaching for the gravy. "It's /not/ fair," Shane is /snapping/ this almost the same time Ben says it, too. He quiets, still /shaking/-tense, and he continues quieter but harshly /edged/: "-- It's not fair but screw fair, Peter, /we're/ already used to -- those videos will make a lot of life weird and shitty and complicated and you shouldn't /have/ to deal with that I don't want /you/ to have to --" His teeth click together sharply. He swallows, looking back up at Ben and May finally. "-- Bastian's not a monster, either," he says, quieter and a little defensive. "He's /not/, that whole thing was just. They /starved/ him, we were /dying/, he -- if he'd -- he'd never have been able to live with himself if." Shane frowns. Down at the table, now. He lifts up out of his chair to TAKE another slice of roast and put it on Peter's plate. Then some potatoes! Then a biscuit. Shane's food-plopping manages to get a snort out of Ben; he looks, for a moment, supremely /amused/ by the boy's actions. May's half-smile struggles to 3/4ths, threatening to spill all the way into the whole numbers. Peter, meanwhile, just /peers/ at the food, eyebrows crumpled together, like he's debating how /not/ to eat it. But then he reaches for the biscuit, splits it open, and proceeds to add butter to it. Somehow, he manages to make this look like an act of /defiance/. "I believe you," Ben tells Shane, his smile slowly wearing down back to a slight frown. "I don't know how this," he gestures at Shane's body, "stuff works. But I'm pretty sure you aren't hanging around Peter just to /fatten him up/ for winter." "/Benjamin/," May snaps. "What? It's a joke. I'm trying," Ben brings a hand to his chest defensively, "to lighten the mood." Peter's just flushing, now, buttering that biscuit /so/ hard. He then reaches for the gravy boat and proceeds to /drown/ his roast beef slice in it. A little for his potatoes, too. Then, fork. Then -- CHOMP. CHOMP. CHOMP. Very focused. Shane settles back into his seat once Peter starts eating. "He -- doesn't fatten easily," Shane says in mild distraction. He's apparently forgotten that his utensils exist; his gleaming black claws are lengthening and he spears a slice of meat on the end of one. /Chomping/, too. His brows draw together, looking at Ben quizzically. And then down at himself. And then back up at Ben. "-- You don't know," he says, veeeery slowly like puzzling this out, "-- how. -- Oh god, no /wonder/ you had no clue about," he is saying to Peter, but then looking back to Ben to tell him, /very/ seriously, "My pa is teaching the human sexuality class at our school now, I think if you wanted he'd probably be happy to talk to you about how it works." There is a strange, extended silence that settles around the table at Shane's announcement. Suddenly, he's subject to three stares -- May, Ben, /and/ Peter. The first is puzzled, the second is suspicious, the third is /horrified/. A hand /snaps/ out for Shane's shoulder, squeezing it several times over: "--he meant. The shark thing, Shane," Peter says, /very/ quietly, with a deep undercurrent of mortal terror. "He doesn't understand -- the /hunger/ thing. He--" Eyes sling back toward Ben and May: "--he thought you meant. Um." There is probably /no/ good way to back out of this conversation. "Um," Peter repeats, before quickly adding: "I'mworkingonsomeawesomethingsatStarkTowernow." He is fighting the overwhelming urge to deploy WEBSHOOTERS and ESCAPE with SHANE. "Oh --" Shane is back to looking deeply puzzled. "But he said that -- oh." His brows knit together, and, a little /defensively/, he protests: "-- I wasn't /really/ talking about sex, I mean, I was talking about /class/ that's OK, right? They teach it in /school/." -- He lifts one hand, claws still extended, to rub the back of his knuckles against his eye. "The hunger thing is because we're. Kind of animals, we --" Knuckles griiiinding in hard. "-- Look, I'm sorry," he tells Peter's folks, "I'm just really shitty at Parents." He slumps back, a little, in his chair, the claws of one thumb and forefinger slowly tearing a chunk off one of his slices of roast. "What are you working on?" he ventures, as if this slick change of subject might fix all the things. Poor Peter! At the word 'sex', he turns a /dark/ indigo -- and immediately /sinks/ into his chair, as if he's trying to burrow his way through his seat, under the table, and out of the house. "OhGod," he whimpers, face dropping into hands. "--talking about sex," Ben repeats, his eyes drifting from Shane to Peter -- and then back to Shane. "Oh," he says, as if a light-bulb just fired off. The comment about being shitty at Parents seems to have given him the piece he needed; he reaches for his knife and fork and begins digging into his food: "/So/. Peter tried to /coach/ you." "Have you two--" May begins, a /slight/ hint of coloration on her face; her nose wrinkles, glancing over to Ben -- then back to Shane -- her brows rumpling with worry. "--did you. Use -- protection?" "OhmyGod," Peter /squeals/, before adding: "A program for the thermoregulator's microprocessors, to properly monitor and respond to temperature changes." This is stated as if to say: 'Can we PLEASE talk about THAT instead?' "Yeah," Shane agrees, /glumly/, at the mention of coaching, "but I'm not /good/ at it -- you should've brought Bastian instead," he tells Peter and actually sounds like he's seriously regretting /not/ doing this! "-- he's good at /everything/ and he learns well and he'd /remember/ things like don't say fuck or talk about sex or hit on your uncle." Which he hasn't done yet! He sits up /just/ the tiniest bit straighter when he remembers that he has only failed at /ninety/ percent of Things instead of a hundred. Shane even, actually, looks brighter and prouder /too/ at May's question about protection -- it's clear from the brightening that he thinks! that here is a question he has the /right/ answer to! "Oh," he assures May more cheerfully, "yeah, we totally! Every time." He straightens in his seat, glancing over at Peter at the squealing, "-- That's /cool/ is your thing going to be like. Is Stark Industries going to -- /sell/ it?" "OhmyG--" And now Peter's hand isn't reaching for Shane's collar, it's reaching for his /mouth/ -- clamping down on top of it with a tiny-squeak! Eyes as wide as saucers. It comes just after Shane asks about whether or not they're going to sell the thermoregulator. "--hit on his--what?" Ben says, eyebrows /flying/ up. "--/every/ time?" May echoes, her own eyebrows -- also soaring. "Wait, how many times--" "Do. Not. Answer. That." Peter hisses, his voice just a tiny, tiny whisper. Eyes flicking back toward Ben and May, nervous apprehension flickering into his gaze. Hand not moving from Shane's mouth. "--I can. Explain--um." Peter spends a whole second trying to think of a way to do just that. "...we. Sometimes. Have--" Peter's hand retracts from Shane's mouth. Reluctantly. A sort of slumped-shoulder surrender. Ben's brow crumples; he reaches up to rub at the bridge of his nose, in a gesture reminiscent of Peter's own agitated fidgeting. "Nngh. Peter." Shane's eyes widen, huge as dinner plates, dominating his pixieish face when that hand clamps over his mouth. For a second he fidgets! And then he sinks back, slumping down into his chair with a slow wilt of shoulders. His eyes dart between the others at the table. He is silent! Because hand-on-mouth, presumably, but even after it moves off he's still just watching. His claws slowly retract, hands folding beneath the table. "-- Oh," he says, and it's /very/ small, all of a sudden, "... I screwed it up." His gaze fixes on his just-barely-touched roast; his eyes are still huge-big, shifting intermittently from bright-black to a tiny bit milkier with the slow alien sideways blinking and unblinking of his second clear eyelids. "I'm sorry," he tells -- maybe Peter or maybe his folks but the words, quiet and sincere, are directed to his /plate/. "I'm still kind of learning how to -- be a. Person." "Oh," May responds instantly to Shane's sudden softness, "no, dear, it's--" Her lips start to form the word 'alright', but stop part-way, her mouth twisting into an unsure frown. "--we aren't--it's just. This is, ah, very -- /new/ for us. All of it. So much, and..." "You're too young to be having sex, Peter," Ben tells him, a deep, tight /tension/ in his voice. "And you're sure as hell too young to be making decisions that could alter the course of your life. You have no idea what you're going to be doing five, ten years down the line. Or who--" "Ben," May cuts in, "/stop/." There's a certain force to this word which manages to silence the older gentleman; May's eyes drift back toward Peter and Shane. Peter's arm, meanwhile, is now under the table -- reaching for Shane's hand. To squeeze. "You said," she comments to Shane, "that you used protection. Every time. Do you always practice safe sex?" Ben stiffens at this question, but does not /challenge/ it. "Yes," Peter answers, for Shane. Face still burning indigo. Shane stays slumped, even after May speaks; he sinks down a little further in his chair when Ben does, with a distinctly discomfortable tensing of shoulders. When Peter's hand reaches for his, his ball together tighter; after a moment, though, one of them lets go so that he can turn it upwards and very gently return the squeeze. "Yes," he finally answers, even though Peter has, "I always --" He swallows. "-- at least ever since being with Pa, he. Told me. It was important." "Alright," May responds, and when Ben looks like he's about to say something, she lifts her hand up to silence him; TALK TO THE HAND. Benjamin glares, but settles, arms folded across his chest. "This is something we're going to have to talk about, Peter," she tells him, and Peter squeezes Shane's hand /harder/ in response. "--but for now. If you've both been careful. And I presume -- /your/ father knows," she adds, "that you're active. Alright. We're just going to -- leave it be. For now. Alright?" "Leave it be?" Ben begins. "May, he's /too young/ to be having sex--" "He's too young to be stuck in a cage /fighting monsters/," May fires back, a little abruptly, voice hitched. Her eyes immediately flicker toward Shane after that word: "--I'm sorry. I don't mean--" Back to Ben: "I think," she tells him, "there are a /lot/ of things we need to talk to Peter about. But for now, I /don't/ think this has to be one of them." At this, Ben seems to -- reluctantly -- relent. "My Pa -- knows, I tell him --" Shane hesitates, but finishes quieter, "-- everything." And then silence, as he listens to the back and forth between the adults. His hand squeezes Peter's tighter still. He actually /flinches/ at that word, twitching back in his seat with a quiet whisper of fabric as his gills flutter against his crisp dress shirt. "I'm -- sorry," he says again, finally, unhelpfully /not/ leaving the subject be. "I didn't mean to --" His teeth scrape against his lower lip, and he continues: "-- I just love him. Kind of a -- lot." Peter feels that flinch; he shifts, then, the hand squeezing Shane's moving to wrap around his waist, /squeeze/ at one of his flank-gills, tugging him -- closer. Frowning. "...okay," May responds. "That's -- okay. Ben--" "--okay," he repeats, a little tired, a little weak, but with a slow, forceful nod of his head. "Alright. Just--Jesus Christ." He closes his eyes, hand returning to the squeezing of his nose-bridge. "We love him too. We'll..." "...work from there," May finishes. "We just don't want him to get -- hurt. And I don't think /you/ do, either. So -- we have something. In common." A small, hard smile. But it's a smile! "...Shane you should eat," Peter says, now, very softly. His other hand reaching out to nudge Shane's plate toward him. "He needs. To eat a lot of meat he's. Carnivore," Peter explains, very weakly, even as he continues to squeeze at Shane's flankgill. Shane's eyes have largely /been/ fixed on his plate, but now he looks at it as if only just remembering that it has /food/ on it. He swallows hard, shifting a little closer to Peter when he is tugged and then settling his weight into the hand squeezing at his gills. His hand slowly lifts from under the table, claws extending to slice off another bite of meat, skewer it, and carry it to his mouth. "-- This is," he says -- tentative! Uncertain. Like he's still -- not quite exactly sure /what/ words are a /minefield/, "... really. Good roast." May's hard little smile extends a bit wider at the mention of the roast. Though she watches the claw-skewering with slightly widened eyes. "Thank you," she replies. An hour or two later -- and after a long night of discussing only the most trivial topics possible -- Peter is walking with Shane out of Uncle Ben's car, back into the Lofts apartments. Peter is to drop Shane off and /return/ to the car, where there are no doubt DISCUSSIONS to be had; by the fluster of Peter's face, these are not going to be /pleasant/ ones. But -- the moment they're out of sight of that car, stepping into the Lofts lobby -- Peter is turning, reaching to seize the back of Shane's head by the collar -- /pulling/ him back toward a wall to pin and kiss. Hard, fierce, and with a few tiny, quick gropes. His voice soft and wheezy immediately after: "You did. Good." Shane's eyes widen, his breath catching, but he returns that kiss just as hard and just as fierce. His arms curl around Peter, squeezing him tightly. He sounds /confused/ afterwards, though. "... I fucked up like. Every single thing I was supposed to not fuck up. Are -- are you going to be in trouble?" he wonders, apologetically. Though not so chagrined that he is not still /burrowing/ forward, face nuzzling against Peter's neck. "--dude, I was terrified they were going to--/exile/ me. To Antartica. To keep me away from you." Peter continues, fingers weaving through that collar, dragging it tight and taut, before -- kiss, kiss, kiss, along the jaw and limps and just. /Pushing/ Shane against the wall, compressing his chest against Peter's own. "--I'm probably going to have," Peter admits, very flustered, "a long and boring and exhausting talk with them. About sex. And why I shouldn't have it. And, um," Peter nips at Shane's chin. "--tomorrow, when I see you at school..." "They aren't -- exiling you, are they?" Shane asks -- a little more breathless-strained as the collar pulls tighter -- with a genuine flare of worry. He relaxes against Peter, eyes closing under the kisses, not trying to return them but just /squeezing/ Peter tight against them. "... are you going to stop having it?" He sounds less concerned and more thoughtful, but follows it up with: "-- Tomorrow I'm still," slightly tighter squeeze, "coming by in the morning to wake you up. Unless you're in Antarctica. You should bring your thermoregulator if you're banished there." "No," Peter says, rather firmly. To the Antartica question? Or the sex question? He doesn't clarify. Maybe /both/. His palm relinquishes that tight grip on the collar; he breathes out, a little raspy: "--I have to go. But. Yes. I will..." His cheeks shift toward violet, again. "...see you in the, uh. Morning. When you--" Violet turns to indigo. Another kiss, this one slower, directly on the lips; his head tilts into it. "-- Good." To either question, Shane sounds relieved. His hand slides further up Peter's back, curling against the back of his neck. His fingers press down gently, holding him close as he returns the kiss softly. "I love you," comes with another soft kiss, another nuzzle against Peter's neck, another tight squeeze of hug. "See you in the morning." This is accompanied by a quick bright smile. "-- I bet," he adds lightly, "that Pa really /would/ teach your uncle! He has some interesting things to say. About when it is OK and not OK to fuck." "Me too," Peter says, mmnphing into that returned kiss, eyes closed, head dropping down against it -- the squeeze gets him to grin. The mention of Shane's pa teaching his uncle makes Peter blush a quick violet, though. "I dunno," he admits, "if my uncle would /take/ that class. Um. But I would." Oh-so-reluctantly, he's retracting his arms from Shane; stepping back, looking at him -- with tiny little throat-whine! -- before moving to return to the car, where Uncle Ben is no doubt waiting, wondering /what the hell/ is taking him so long to say /goodnight/. Shane stays where he is, leaned up against the wall as Peter heads off. Only once the other boy is out of sight does he turn, heading into the stairwell and taking the stairs two at a time up to the third floor.