ArchivedLogs:Move to Canada

Move to Canada
Dramatis Personae Peter, Shane	2013-08-02 '
Location <NYC> 305 {Teenhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is 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 small living room. 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. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom. Furnishings are more in line with broke students than established adults. Cast-off couches and chairs provide places to sit, and the walls have been decorated in a frequently-changed street art style that combines bright, layered colors with exaggerated proportions and abstract shapes. Somewhere in the depths of Teenhaus, there is a tiny click -- followed by a hsssss -- followed by a sudden /surge/ of water surging up and out, splattering up, down, and across the tiled shower. A few seconds later, and there’s another sound accompanying it -- a ‘A-HA!’ -- as Peter emerges, an instant later, looking proud and smug. The teenage superhero-wannabe is currently clad -- in his armored /cooling/ suit! And not much else; it turns out to be enough, though -- it covers him from neck to ankle, shoulder to wrist! It is a dark red color with an unusual hexacomb pattern over its surface -- and two black plates on either shoulder. It’s /also/ now sporting very-hard-to-see nozzles next to those black plates, on his wrists, and also on his back! Peter has apparently just succeeded in testing the suit’s ability to /vent/ its coolant supply. In the showers. Because, hey! Why not. "Did you just splooge all over my shower, cuz you're totally cleaning that up." Shane is sprawled out on his living room floor; he's dragged a cushion off the couch to half-lie on, chest and elbows propped on it and his laptop in front of him. Open to YouTube. Leaving a comment on a video of Shelby's. "I mean, you look pretty satisfied." Shane is dressed in shorts -- nothing else, just yet, except for the collar that has become pretty much a mainstay of his outfits recently. “I did not--” Peter’s face threatens to tint violet -- but by now, he’s gotten /used/ to Shane’s comments. It’s probably starting to get more and more challenging to make him blush on the spot. “--splooge in the shower. I was testing the vents on the suit, t’make sure -- if it starts boiling I can vent it all out. What are you doing?” And now Peter’s moving toward Shane, just hopping down beside him -- kind-of-sprawled, half atop him, an arm snaking around his waist possessively -- a leg sliding to curl around his thigh, dragging him a bit more closely. The suit makes hugs a /little/ less comfortable; there’s a certain /inflexibility/ to the fabric, like it was made of scalemail. But! Peter is soon following up the snug by bringing his head down to kiss the top of Shane’s head, peering at the Youtube videos. "Yeah? How'd it work out? You gonna boil yourself?" Shane turns his head to look over Peter, scrutinizing perhaps for signs of boiling. "Because really, I think you'd taste better fried." He is hitting minimize on his browser window as Peter settles in beside him, and for a moment his screen stays blank (save for his desktop image -- an underwater city done in Jax's kind of surreal style.) For a moment, too, he doesn't answer, just curls in against Peter when he is dragged closer. "-- Looking at Shelby's shit," he finally answers. "You seen it?" “No, not really, I told her some stuff about setting up an account, but--” Peter shifts! Trying to get comfortable in that outfit against Shane; it takes some doing, but he’s soon lazing, half-sprawled across him, his hand shifting to squeeze at Shane’s bare flank, just at the point where his ribcage dips lowest. “--but I never watched any of her -- music. Is it good?” he asks, kind-of-lazily. “I don’t listen to a lot of music. I like yours, but...” Peter brings his head down for another head-bop. "Hers is really different." Shane shrugs, pulling the browser window back up. "She's mostly got a bunch of covers up. S'good. If you like indie type stuff, it's good." It is, as promised, a cover, "That's Okay" by The Hush Sound. Shane hits play, but then just nuzzles in against Peter, /his/ attention largely shifting away from the computer. "... best part is reading the comments, holy shit Peter some people are bugfucking nuts." “I thought /you/ wrote the comments,” Peter responds, though he’s grinning teasingly as he mentions this -- the grin fades around the edges as Shane nuzzles into him, Peter’s jaw sliding down along Shane’s temple, his chin nestled into his plastic-y hair. “Mmnyeah though internet people are -- kinda /scary/, sometimes.” He’s listening to the music, too, his eyelids drooping a little lazily. “--mmmnsnice,” he decides. "I only write /half/ the comments," Shane says, and then with a grin, "Bastian writes the other half and /he's/ goddamn nuts. -- okay, no, we only write some. The rest of the people, holy crap, what the fuck is wrong with the internet?" He tilts his head back, kissing softly along Peter's jaw. "Yeah. It is." “Mmmnnyou’renice,” Peter adds, as Shane begins kissing along his jaw; his eyes drift closed, head tilting back into the pressure of his mouth, exposing his throat -- the arm around Shane’s waist slides up, drifting along his ribcage, toward the back of his neck -- a finger hooking into the familiar space behind his collar. “--are you,” Peter suddenly asks, a certain firmness creeping into his tone as he gives that collar a tug, “passing all of your classes this time?” Tug, tug. Tinytug. "I'm nice?" Shane says this with a hint of puzzlement. He breathes out a quiet happy sigh when Peter's fingers hook into his collar. His kisses move downwards, pressing to Peter's throat. Very lightly nipping. "...uh. I don't even remember what classes I'm in." “...” Peter’s mouth opens, a moment, then closes. And then there’s a breathless little laugh that Shane can feel in Peter’s throat as he kisses and nips, followed by a semi-/fierce/ pull -- two knuckles sliding into that tight space, /curling/ -- creating a sharp, sudden pressure both at the back of Shane’s neck and more generally across its front, the collar digging in. “--ohmyGod you seriously don’t, do you?” he says, before, a little more gently: “Yes. You’re -- /ridiculously/ nice,” he tells him. “To me.” "You deserve all the nice," Shane answers, soft and a little strained around the sudden tightness of his collar. He shivers, pressing in closer against Peter. "... I don't know, I think, math? I guess." “You’re good to the people you love,” Peter says, after a moment of thought -- not easing up on the pressure against Shane’s collar. He shifts, closer, too -- more of him sliding up against Shane, eclipsing him in size and height. “I /bet/ you won’t flunk Jax’s class,” Peter says, half-grinning -- even as he reaches with his other hand to tug at the zipper hidden in the flap of fabric at his throat, slipping the outfit apart just at his sternum; exposing a little more chitin. “--I dunno I get worried you’re just gonna... like, a decade from now,” Peter kisses along the edge of Shane’s face, slow and steadily circling it, “where do you think you’ll be?” "We helped Jax fine-tune the syllabus, I can totally ace fucking class. Especially if the teacher asks for hands-on demonstrations." Shane's kisses continue down towards Peter's chest; he doesn't even pause in this to answer -- casually, really -- "Dead." “--nngh,” Peter responds to this answer almost violently; there’s a possessive /edge/ to the way his fingers curl into that collar -- threatening to, for a moment, genuinely choke Shane with a sudden surge of strength. The collar’s fabric actually /creaks/, though the sound is so tiny that only Shane might hear it. “No, Shane, you--” He immediately releases that pressure; there’s a tightness in his chest. His voice much softer: “No.” Nothing else; as if he can’t figure out what else /to/ say. Shane's breath catches with a soft choked sound; his hard swallow rolls stiffly down against the collar. His eyes close once the pressure releases, his head dropping to rest against Peter's chest. "Have you /looked/ at the world lately, Peter?" His voice is slightly rough now. "A decade? I'll be surprised if all of us make it to fucking /graduation/. And even if we do, what do you imagine I'm going to do with my life? Get shat on and try not to die, same as now." That flash of possessive anger in Peter has evened out to something more level-calm; he’s certainly not tranquil, but the edge of panic in him has given way to a weary tension. Peter’s hand slips through Shane’s hair, palming his skull, releasing his collar entirely. He pulls Shane closer -- as if he’s going to sneak him /into/ the outfit. “We will,” Peter says, though it is not with the upmost confidence, “make it to graduation. I --” In response to Shane’s last comment, Peter’s mouth cements somewhere just below his hairline, tilting close. The next bit is whispered, much more /fiercely/ and with more confidence than his previous statement: “--spend it with me.” "Peter, this year alone we've been shoved into cages by cops, shot at by soldiers. The cops shot me! Killed one of my best friends right in front of me. You got kidnapped by a horrible bloodmonster. And some terrible green monster. Do you really think our track record is leading up to dying of /old age/?" Shane sounds tired, more than anything, tucking in very close against Peter. "And dead or alive, this world isn't built to let us /succeed/." At the last fierce whisper, he tips his head, pressing his mouth firmly to Peter's. He holds the kiss a long while. "I'm not going anywhere. Not while we're both /alive/." Peter doesn’t respond, at first, to Shane’s assessment; he only tightens his grip around the boy as he speaks. The tightening reaches a peak when Shane tips his head up to kiss -- Peter returns the gesture, strong and hungry and /ferocious/, mouth pushing against his until it’s almost uncomfortable -- until Peter can /feel/ Shane’s teeth through his lips. “--mmnn. We could,” Peter says, a moment after the kiss is broken, “run off to Canada.” He offers this idea teasingly, before adding, maybe a bit more seriously: “--just, like. Live by a lake or something eat fish all day ignore everything in the world. Bring a bunch of people and just...” The words trail off to nothing. “...I’d kill people,” Peter says, then -- whispering as his head sinks closer to Shane’s ear, as if he is sharing some terrible secret. “--to save you. If it came to that. Is that --” Peter sighs, not finishing the thought, just kissing along the side of Shane’s face. “Mmph --” Shane returns the kiss fiercely, and afterwards he just burrows his face in against Peter’s neck. “Sometimes I’d like to,” he admits. “Run off. Live -- somewhere safer. Somewhere away. Take Pa and Bastian and Spence and -- /you/, all of you -- get everyone somewhere -- else.” His voice drops lower as he admits: “-- I don’t think /Pa’s/ going to make it another decade, and that scares me worse.” Peter’s admission pushes him into quiet. A long quiet, his arms curling around Peter and squeezing, tightly. “The world is pretty fucked up. Sometimes it takes some fucked up shit to survive it. But I hope -- fuck, Peter, I hope it never comes to that.” “God,” Peter says, a little weakly, at the mention of Jax. Pushing Shane hard against his chest -- so hard he might start /mooshing/ his face a bit, against his sternum. “I saw all those scars and, /God/, yeah, he. You know I told him, once, about -- there was a girl at our school? Who could actually -- /heal/ scars? Maybe even regrow his eye. I told him about it, like, just in case... he wanted to. And he--” Peter kisses, instead, up against Shane’s maybe-mooshed face. “--me too. It’s kind of scary, sometimes. Realizing -- the stuff I would do. To protect you. Sebastian. Jax. Even -- the school. Any of us.” “He has a lot of scars,” Shane says in an unhappy whisper, “-- and he got pretty much all of them helping -- nngh. I get scared. This last thing with Micah he --” There is another stretch of quiet. “-- That’s just it, maybe. He could’ve just killed people and gotten them out fine but. Hhah. Fuck. Do you think /we’re/ bad people? I would’ve killed those motherfuckers dead sooner than risk your life or Bastian’s or Anole’s /or/ mine. If we’d had to. It -- it is scary. I don’t /want/ to have to. I don’t want /you/ to ever have to.” “--I don’t know,” Peter answers, still /squeezing/, fingers flexing against Shane’s jaw, palm pressed against it, cupping it. “I always -- want to find a way to get everyone out alive. But, but--I couldn’t--” Peter finishes by just burying his face against Shane’s shoulder, then. And giving a quick, jarring bite. As if to smother the next words. And yet, still, they come, kind of warbling: “--I would have too, Shane, I mean if. I don’t want to do that. But--if any of you were gone, it’d just be. /Bad/,” he finishes, voice rough and tiny. Along his sides, Shane’s gills flutter, at that bite. Flutter quicker and longer at Peter’s ending tone of voice. “-- it’d be really fucking bad,” he agrees. His mouth presses to Peter’s again, /harder/. “Maybe we /should/ move. To -- some fucking lake somewhere. Just get the fuck away.” His arms squeeze Peter closer, and he follows this sentiment with another fierce kiss. “... maybe,” he decides next, “for now we should just move to the bedroom.” “Maybe,” Peter agrees, receiving the kiss, his head tilting into that hardness, /responding/ to it, savoring it. “--yeah.” The second kiss gets a nip of Peter’s teeth, a faint crawling flush of violet that begins to swell up from his throat to his cheeks; at the mention of the bedroom, Peter’s teeth snap down again -- biting just above Shane’s collar. One of his arms coiling around his waist, even as he starts to tug and wriggle at his own suit. “...yes,” Peter decides, rather firmly. “Let’s do that.”