ArchivedLogs:Normal Things

Normal Things
Dramatis Personae Hive, Shelby, Flicker	2013-05-19 Immediately before smoke break with Mel.
Location <NYC> 403 {Geekhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, though some of its occupants have left college behind. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the perpetually messy living room, a mismatched assortment of couches and chairs (and milk crates) surrounding the wide table in the center. The wall holds a range of posters; some political, some sporty, some from video games, and a string of white lights strung over the kitchen doorway might be a holdover from Christmas. The kitchen adjacent is just as cluttered, its table unfit for eating due to its perpetual covering of books, papers, cereal boxes, projects; the fridge is usually sparsely populated. Ketchup. Beer. Not a lot of food. There are two bedrooms here, split between the four people; the fold-out couch in the living room (often folded out!) suggests that at least one of them does not actually claim a room as their own. A promise to stay close and keep out of trouble means more time to fill. Time /not/ spent at the park, showing off her board tricks to the adoring younger crowd or casing the local convenience store for snacks or even setting out her hat and earning a few dollars. Shelby is /behaving/. Unfortunately, having never really given the matter consideration before, she's not quite sure how to reconcile behaving with her typical weekend routine. In short, it has been excruciatingly boring. After a mishap with the kitchen shears while trying to trim her hair--a disaster that ended with the left side of her hair significantly shorter than the right, she has given up. Ponytailed, khaki'd and t-shirted, she's fled the Holland apartment with a plate of caramel-swirled brownies, heading for Geekhaus. They, at least, have a TV. Video games. A Hive. When she gets to the door, she turns and thumps her heel against it, balancing the plate with care. "Brownie-gram!" "Ohmygosh." This is Flicker who is at the door in a heartbeat, unlocking it and yanking it open and /yoinking/ a brownie off the plate. "You're pretty much the best, you know that?" These words come a little more muffled, through his large mouthful of brownie. He's dressed like it is the WEEKEND. Shorts. A black shirt with torn-off sleeves with an orange and white TOUGH MUDDER logo on it. "Shelby is /adding/ to the party!" The party apparently consists of a giant stack of JUNKFOODS; pizza and chips and salsa and popcorn and chicken wings and cookies (from a BOX, not from someone's home.) Bottles of beer, bottles of -- Izze soda. The food is scattered around the crates that serve as seating; the table is occupied with some very large board game that is apparently frozen mid-playing, because the very many plastic pieces scattered around it are for a good many more players than just Hive and Flicker. Hive is perched on a arm of the couch, cracking open a beer. "Shit. Brownies." His smile slices quick and wide. "Thank Jax for me." "Oh my god," Shelby echoes, "The /best/? Does that come with a pay raise? Wait, what party?" Never mind that the answer is there before her. Stepping inside, she tilts her head at the bounty--and then the board game with its missing crop of players. << Shit, interrupted? Hey beer... >> A bottle of the stuff is snagged on the way to the couch, where an empty crate is found to serve as table for the brownie plate. "What, now? You trying to get rid of me?" Up go the eyebrows and a plaintive look is sent at...well, she's trying to target Flicker but he moves so damn fast. "Flicker, Hive's trying to get rid of me." "Like he can't thank him himself." Flicker does move fast, he's already asking this from over by the window, which he is opening to let in fresh afternoon air. Well, afternoon air, anyway; it's the city so /fresh/ is debatable. "Sure," Hive slides himself down from the arm of the couch to sit on it properly, patpatting at the cushions next to him in invitation, "we'll pay you twenty percent more than your current salary." He eyes the plate of brownies. But not for /long/; he's only eyed them a moment before Flicker is over by it, scooping one up to set it carefully down on top of Hive's /head/. "It's a party because," he says triumphantly, "even with crazy dragons and getting melted half to death I successfully finished another year of college." He sounds triumphant. "Can I take that in trade?" Shelby's mind is already ticking off suitable trades for her services, none of them fit for public consumption. Poor telepath. She opts to perch on the newly vacated arm of the couch, rather than the cushions--he's already warmed it for her. It gives her the perfect vantage from which to smirk at the brownie hat...before she takes pity on Hive and retrieves the brownie to offer it up properly. Then Flicker wins back her attention. "Seriously? Holy shit, congratulations, man! That's fucking impressive, especially with the melted part. How much longer 'til you're a master geek? In like, years?" asks she who has no idea of how college /really/ works. "And where is everyone? You guys should be doing keg stands or something, this is like..." She glances around briefly. "The quietest party." Flicker takes up the cushions, if Shelby doesn't want them, /sprawling/ down along the length of the couch to drop his head into Hive's lap. Bright green eyes look up at Shelby, his smile bright to match. "Yeeears," he says, with a wince, "two more of undergrad, probably two more for my Master's and then --" His nose wrinkles. "Actually, I can't think that far ahead." Hive takes the brownie in one hand. His other sort of reflexively smooths Flicker's hair -- unhelpfully down over his eyes. "Quiet party," he agrees, "S'a quiet kinda weekend. Dusk and Ian are out kind of spooking around the city like a fucking horror movie, probably. How've things --" His words are interrupted for bite of brownie. His head falls back against the cushions. "How've things been downstairs?" "Jesus, dude, you really like school. Guess if you get a party every year though...got one coming up at Xavier's. Spring dance or whatever. Don't think it'll be cool like this one though." Shelby scans the assembled party accessories while twisting off the cap of her beer. Said cap is thumb-flicked at the nearest plastic game piece. Fortunately she misses. She snaps her fingers, then consoles herself with a swallow of the stuff. And this is where Hive being who he is comes in handy--rather than answer, she just lets a stream of this weekend's fun pass through her thoughts. Jax, less decorated than usual, burning up and strangely quiet. A subdued Spencer, a mopey Obie. Quiet. Her own confusion, and hesitation to make waves, ask questions, suggest a change of pace--not her house, after all. She even cleaned up the hair she'd trimmed instead of leaving it in the bathroom sink. She's nice like that. Shelby leans to drape herself on the arm, elbow propped against the back cushions. She tilts a faint, crooked smile down at the two of them. "Could be worse, I guess. Quiet." << You could tell me what's going on though. >> "Crazy-ass motherfucker /wants/ to spend half his life in --" Hive is starting. Flicker cuts him off with a lazy upward swat to Hive's side. "/Like/ you can talk, you already /have/ your Master's." Hive actually colors faintly at this, like -- perhaps it is a /dirty secret/. He tips his head to the side, leaning it up against Shelby. Bonk. "Your weekend sounds like it needs more beer," he decides. "... my /life/ kind of needs more beer," Flicker grumbles, quietly, his eyes closing. An offhand joke, perhaps, but it pulls Hive's brows together in a frown. His smoothing becomes less reflexive, more careful. He takes another bite of brownie. "...Your school has telepaths," he says to Shelby, kind of oddly grumpily considering he /is/ one. "Master's? Seriously?" For all of her ew, yuck antics at school, even /Shelby/ seems to find this impressive. Hive is given a matching look. Perhaps it does not help with the blush--just another brick to add into the wall of reasons he curls her toes. Not that she /says/ this. Not that she has to. "Damn," she says quietly instead, resting her hand over his hair and curling her fingers to work them down against his scalp. "I'd let you have this beer but I already got my cooties on it." She demonstrates with another swig. After, the bottle is set on her hip and she returns to playing vulture above the pair of them. Grumpy oddness earns wrinkled nose. "...way to let me know it's a secret. That bad?" "In engineering," Flicker informs Shelby, like a traitor. "-- Civil engineering," Hive demurs, his eyes closing and his head rubbing up, kind of catlike, into the curl of fingers. He finishes off the brownie, licking his fingers clean. "It's --" He trails off. "It's not /good/," Flicker answers. "Dangerous," Hive says, "and your school is full of gorram morons who'd probably rush off and do something /hella/ stupid and get everyone killed." Shelby only /thinks/, "What's civil engineering?" but the question is going to have to take a number. She's busily puzzling over the implications of what they're both saying. "What, you mean like me?" she says, making a joke of it--because the biggest coward in the building is always the first to rush off. A joke that is a clear diversionary tactic, to put them at their ease while she figures out how to get this secret /from/ them. She cannot not know. So the rake of fingertips against Hivescalp grows slower, more relaxed and more relaxing. Massage-like. "So...must have something to do with the twins, huh? Or maybe Peter? Or you wouldn't be worried about the kids at school." She pauses for a beat. "You know what happened to them." Hive exhales slowly, and he does seem to be relaxing under the head-rubbing, his posture slumping sideways in a boneless melt against Shelby's side. He gropes for his beer, wedged into the couch in between where he sits and the arm, and sips at it. "Yeah." Just yeah. "-- Maybe," Flicker hedges. "OK, yeah, maybe," Hive amends. "Have a pretty strong lead, anyway. Still checking it out." "How much is it going to kill you," Flicker wants to know, softer and kind of serious, "not knowing?" "All the way dead. But...I'll get better." Who better than she to know what snoops telepaths can be? Shelby's answer is only a little reluctant. She wants to know. She /direly/ wants to know. So demurring sets off an entirely fresh brand of trying to distract herself. Unfortunately for Hive, this involves tormenting /him/. Her fingers wander, rubbing softer still through his hair until each touch is a caress--a /ticklish/ caress, the lighter her touch becomes. What? Squirming is distracting. "S'worse, sitting here knowing shit's going down and I can't help. Drinking beer, getting to...to hang out and...have quiet time," she admits, "but if you guys can get them back... You /can/, right?" "S'worse," Hive agrees softly. And doesn't answer that last question. He is, in fact, silent for a very long time. Slowly draining his beer in one long and steady pull; his head tips back a little bit farther underneath her fingers the lower the level of his bottle gets. Flicker's quiet, too. "Ian's out -- sort of. Checking in on --" "Have -- friends," this word is a little reluctant, "who've kind of gone to scout," Hive admits sort of grudgingly. "But. Kind of. Waiting. To see if they --" "-- to see what they have to tell us after," Flicker cuts in /firmly/. "So..." Shelby stops there--<< this is a fake party >> continues on in spite of her desire to nip that comment in the bud. No. Distractions. "Okay," she says instead, levering herself up straight again and leaving Hive all mussed. She takes a nice long chug from her own beer before sliding off of her perch to set it on the table. /On/ the board. Non-geeks have no respect for games. "Let's get some music on in here, huh? One've you can ask me to dance." "It was a real party," Hive says wryly, and -- the edge of laughter in his voice is sharp, kind of /manic/ in its raggedness. "But then we got the call that --" "Hey, I still finished another year of college. Ian did, too." Flicker's eyes close. He turns his head, /wincing/ as Shelby sets the beer on the board and instantly rolling off Hive's lap to swipe it away from the board. He lifts his shirt to wipe the perhaps-imaginary ring off the playing surface with its hem, and then sets the beer back down, next to the board instead. "You want to dance?" His smile comes at a delay, but it's warm. "You forgot the music," Hive grumbles. He starts to sit up, but then just collapses back against the chair. "Though you know, enough beer is a good substitute. For music." Oh. << Oh. >> This deflates Shelby's diversion attempt, slightly. Just a bit. She catches her lip between her teeth, looking from Hive to Flicker. "I like dancing. But...we don't have to. Drinking's good too, especially when you're waiting, huh?" << ...was going to ask. Not the time. /Never/ the time, fuck. >> "So," she tries again, wandering around the table as if she'd meant to casually wander all along. La, la, la! Like a cat. Who's fallen into a bath tub. And now is sauntering over to the open window like, I meant to do that. "Pretty smart of you guys to plan the party at home instead of going out to the clubs. That kind've worked out, huh? Who was supposed to bring the music?" "Well, we were at an arcade before this is just like party /continuing/," Flicker explains, because at an arcade is SO MUCH less dorky than board games at home. He glances between the other two, then slips into the bedroom to unearth Hive's laptop, bringing it back outside to set it down on a crate (on top of a bag of chips) and turn it on. "Don't -- really know how to dance," Hive admits, eying Flicker suspiciously. Flicker is unlocking the computer! And turning on MUSIC. "You don't need to know how to dance," he tells Hive. "You just kind of move." Hive regards /this/ advice suspiciously, too. He drains his beer. Wedges the empty bottle between couch cushions, and looks over at Shelby and her sauntering. "-- You want to dance?" Nooo, not the chips! "Seriously, white guy dancing is just swaying along. Asian guy too, I guess, although you got in your genes to be amazing," Shelby says with a twist of semi-distracted humor. Somehow it feels wrong to partay knowing people are out there. Doing things. That she is /not going to ask about/, nope nope nope. "It was Asian guys who came up with those Dance Dance games at the arcades, right?" How sad it is, the number of things wrong with that question--and her cluelessness about every time one of them? As for Hive asking her, she shakes her head at him. "You don't have to if you don't want. We could just /listen/ to music. It works that way too, right?" She pauses. "Although, if shit is a little more normal by the, uh...31st...that's when /the/ dance is happening. At the school." "Dance? Like a school dance?" Flicker sinks down onto the floor beside the crate. "-- Will you put Hive in a /tux/?" "The fuck." Hive's smile at this suggestion is thin. "... /also/ the fuck, those games aren't, uh, dancing anyway but --" He just kind of squints at Shelby. "-- The 31st. Are you. Asking me to your dance?" "If," Flicker repeats, "things are more normal by then." "Shit," Hive snorts, "You can't make it conditional. Shelby, when the fuck are things /ever/ normal?" "It's not a big deal, really," Shelby is quick to say. She curls herself /into/ the window, butt on sill, foot wedged into the opposite corner. Maybe she intends to shimmy out to the fire escape before things get super weird. For the moment, she just sits. "It's pretty stupid, actually. Everything going on. Feels kind've dumb to...y'know. Even think about that sorta thing. Right now. So...yeah. I'm /not/ asking you to a dance." She plucks at the knee of her khakis. Hard wear is threatening to split the fabric and she is not helping it along. "And he wouldn't have to wear a tux anyway. It's not a /formal/." How quickly they pick up the parlance. "When're you supposed to hear back, anyway?" "Everything going on," Flicker says, "and we were having a party." "Lose your fucking mind sometimes if you don't, uh. Still do the normal shit." Hive sinks back again, nestling back into the corner of the couch. "Shame, though. I bet he'd rock a tux." Flicker tips the laptop up slightly so he can reach below it and pluck a chip out of the bag. Then set the laptop back down with a crunch. "Five hours." "Gave us five hours -- not /too/ long before you showed up," Hive elaborates. "If we don't hear from them after that, they're probably dead." He says this with no particular extra weight to it. "Kinda different now though, huh?" Shelby points a finger-gun at Hive--overlooking the irony--when he says the D-word. "Not that I wouldn't /love/ to get him in a tux, or /out/ of it," she goes on, adopting a surface-deep and crooked grin. "But. Y'know. It kinda puts shit in perspective." But not so much so that she doesn't ooze out of the window just moments after settling there, to return to the couch. She steps onto the cushions to get closer to Hive, then tucks herself up into a ball with shoulder leaned up against his. Wait, she /might/ just have a decent diversion. "So, Eric came by the other day." Flicker's eyes shoot over to Hive. Hive's meet his for a moment, quick-sharp, but then return to their previously lazy-lidded state. "Yeah?" It's -- maybe /too/ casual. His arm curls up, around Shelby's shoulders. "Yeah. He was all bummed and frustrated. Guess the hot guy he'd hooked up with didn't really work out." Shelby, a /little/ distracted by Flicker. Her eyebrows shoot up. He knew too? She swings her head around and drops her chin on Hive's shoulder. << Don't think anyone's ever done anything they /hate/ before, for me. >> This answer relaxes Flicker's expression kind of abruptly. No more surprise. Just a faint smirk. He eats another chip. Hive has had a shiver of tension running through him, but it, too, fades, at this. His lips curl upward, slowly. "-- Oh. Right." One eye scrunches up, and /he/ drops his chin to rest against Shelby's head. "/That/ asshole. How frustrated could he have been, I got the impression he doesn't go half a day without sticking his dick in /someone/." His fingers squeeze briefly at Shelby's shoulder. "... didn't really work out," he agrees with less amusement. "But it might. Eventually." Tension /easing/ was not really expected. Color Shelby puzzled, and then suspicious. Damn him, for pinning her in and making it impossible to gauge his expression. She cuts a look at Flicker too but there's nothing there to help figure out what just happened. "Eventually," she echoes. "That'll be a good day." There is another pause. Just a teeny one. "Sooo, should I not ask why you guys looked constipated when I mentioned his name?" "Yeah, it will." Hive's head turns, his cheek rather than his chin resting at the top of Shelby's head. Flicker is unhelpful in answering this, quietly just scrolling through Hive's music. "Constipated," Hive echoes. "Yeah, OK, that's pretty much like how that motherfucker makes me feel. /Tell/ me that asshole doesn't skeeve you at least a little?" "He's...I dunno. He likes me. I mean, maybe I wouldn't fuck /everyone/ the way he does but I've fucked a lot've people, right? Not really my thing to call him skeevy for that." Awwwkward. Having mentioned it brings things to the surface, ugly little aspects of self that Shelby would /much/ rather stay squashed down around her current company. So she rests against Hive, outwardly relaxed. Inwardly, she is grape-stomping. "...he's maybe a little. I dunno," she repeats. "Possessive. In the sack." "I've, uh." Hive's voice is a little wry. "Seen. All of you." This comes with a kind of awkward rub at the back of his head. "Man, I have nothing against being sex-positive, you should /see/ the parade Dusk brings through here. Sex is kind of awesome. But." He grimaces. "But Shane --" He trails off, his eyes closing. It's hard to tell if he is listening or not to this bubbling-up of thoughts; he just quiets, squeezing at Shelby's shoulder for a moment. "It's sometimes just hard. To find the line." "...yeah. I'm, um." Embarrassed? It could well be the first incidence of that very thing that she's suffered in...awhile. Shelby's cheeks are coloring. She shifts against him. If Flicker were to glance over, he'd see red-faced cuddling. Because she is /moving this conversation to private mode/, thanks. << I'm sorry. About that. And. Bringing you up. In the middle. There. That was kind of an assy thing to do, but I thought it'd be...I kind've. Wanted to say sorry to B, y'know? Shit went a little over the top. >> Her lips quirk in a faint smile. "I didn't even know there /was/ a line. Maybe you should highlight it. For me." << Don't be sorry. I -- don't /mean/ to hear. And I'm sure as shit not going to tell people who to screw and not screw just because I can hear. >> There's a slow tension creeping back into Hive's form. Gradual, but there, shoulders tightening, fingers curling harder against Shelby's shoulder. "I don't know. Be easier if it was a /clear/ one. But, shit. He's just a --" His teeth /click/ together when he bites this sentence back. His hand rubs, slowly, down against Shelby's arm. "... It's hard. After people have been through hell, especially. To know where's /fun/ and where's taking advantage. Where's enjoying and where's just -- escaping. Sex is awesome. Doesn't mean it's always healthy. I don't know where the fucking line is. I don't think he even looks for one." Shelby's eyes scrunch shut, her cheek turning against his shoulder. Once the initial wince has passed, however, she uncurls that stroked arm to drape over Hive's stomach, drawing it snug. << S'different. You hearing. 'Cause we can't...yet. >> She breathes out slowly then, the wrinkles in her forehead smoothing over. "He won't fuck you if you're on anything. Or drunk?" Surely that is a line. "I dunno if I ever had healthy sex. It feel any different?" "That's a start, I guess." Hive doesn't sound /intensely/ reassured by this, accepting the information grudgingly. "... it feels different." That's all he is saying on that matter. He turns slightly, kissing the top of Shelby's head but then wriggling out of her grip and standing. "I'll be back in five," is his curt announcement. "And when I get back we are eating all those fucking brownies. And I am kicking all your asses in Smash Brothers." Because they're still failing at party. "Yeah?" Count Shelby as intrigued. She accepts the kiss as her due, and only pulls on his shirt a little bit as he fights to get up. "Big words," she scoffs at the challenges. "Maybe Flicker'n'me will eat them while you're out." She scoots closer to the roommate in question, playing the part of all's well. But she does toss a glance up at Hive's face and thinks a brief, << Be careful, huh? >> "Nah. I'm pretty sure it's against his religion to eat /too/ many tasty things in a day, they like to ration their fun." Hive ducks into his room to grab his phone and pack of cigarettes, and then heads out. << Always am. >> Flicker's roll of eyes (and reach for another brownie) sees him out.