ArchivedLogs:Shooting Down

Shooting Down
Dramatis Personae Hive, Shane
In Absentia	2014-02-23 (Set shortly after chatting in Happy Cakes.)
Location <NYC> The Unicomplex - Village Lofts - East Village
In contrast to the messy apartment outside, this room actually tends to be fairly neat. Clothes in the two laundry hampers, books and clutter relegated to the bookshelf or the desks. It's set up for two, Flicker's neat-made bed on the left wall and Hive's generally unmade one on the right; the shared closet is large, on Flicker's side of the room, the shared bookshelf on Hive's side packed full. The back wall holds a pair of desks side by side, both with their own desktops. The walls are eclectically decorated. A replica of Arya Stark's Needle, a few bright-colored but anachronistically somewhat morbid paintings of Jax's, a Mega Man X poster, a stained-glass suncatcher hung in the window and a collage of feathers framed on one wall. There's been sugar, and there's been stars, and some while after swinging by the Clinic for Jax and wending an erratic scavenger-hunt-guided path home, Shane is here. Walking Hive back up to his apartment, offering more of a /shoulder/ to lean on than an arm at their height discrepancies. He's quiet, outwardly, though internally his mind is churning, a tense storm of discomfort and unhappiness that has been mulling over What To Do With His Life. He lets them into Geekhaus quietly, setting the bag of pastries down on the gaming table and leading Hive off towards the bedroom. By the time they have finished all this wandering, Hive is in fairly sore need of his small blue crutch, none too steady at all on his feet as he stumbles along at Shane's side. He collapses down gratefully onto his bed once they reach the bedroom, just lying there in shivering exhaustion for a moment before he even remembers things like shedding his shoes or coat; even then he just sort of struggles upright for a moment and then slumps back down, legs hanging off the edge of the bed. << Could talk to your dads about it. What to do with yourself. >> His eyes are closed, tired voice thudding anvil-heavy into Shane's mind. << They're kind of there to help you figure shit like that. Out. >> Shane snorts at this suggestion, gills rippling in reflexive flinch at the slamming pain crashing into his mind. He crouches down beside the bed, tugging off one of Hive's sneakers and then the other to line them up neatly by the bedside. "Right. So Ba can give me more bullshit advice about. What. Fucking /internships/ and. Staying in high school so -- what. Because /all/ the fucking colleges are going to be lining the hell up, right? They're not even going to want /B/ and he's a goddamn genius." Hive pulls his legs up onto the bed, curling onto his side with knees drawing in towards his chest. "The world," he agrees, lapsing almost immediately back into tired mental bludgeoning, << is pretty much just a pile of bullshit. Nobody's saying it's not going to be a steep-ass fucking uphill slog, man. Just you've got people. There to help -- I mean, the fuck do you even. /Want/ to do with yourself? >> Shane slides upward to perch on the edge of the mattress beside Hive. He loops an arm beneath Hive's bony shoulders, scooping the older man up rather effortlessly to work off his coat. The question earns a wistful mental pang; in his head there's a bright swell of violin music as his lips curl, faintly. "Fuck does it matter what I want to do." He eases Hive back down to the mattress, leaning over to drape the jacket on the back of the telepath's desk chair. << I /am/ pretty fucking good, >> is a defensive silent addition. "People there to fucking help, what. Ba's got so many goddamn stars in his eyes he can't see reality when it punches him in the damn /face/. He thinks they're going to build me some rosy fucking future on the power of /love/ or some crap. He just --" Shane's teeth clench, fingers dropping to grip at his knees. "Doesn't fucking /get/ what it's -- he's never /had/ to fucking /live/ like -- I got fucking /arrested/, Hive. For goddamn -- being a freak." "Mngh." Hive does not resist this de-coat-ing, ragdoll-limp in Shane's grip and ragdoll-floppy when he's returned to the mattress. His eyes scrunch slowly closed, teeth grinding in hard. "Matters because you're sure as fuck not going to /do/ it if you don't even decide what. The fuck. 'It' is." The grinding of his teeth stops, briefly, his own lips twitching at the music playing in Shane's mind. "You /are/ good. You going to do something with that?" His eyes crack open again, and he rolls slowly over onto his back. "Course he doesn't -- fucking get it. But he's trying, dude. And you shooting him the hell down all the time isn't really going to help him understand." "/Me/ shooting -- khhh." Shane hisses in annoyance, moving off the bed to sit down heavily in the desk chair. Voices echo in his mind -- Micah's saying he's too young overlaps with Sebastian's explaining quietly how it's better to just keep your feelings to yourself because admitting them only gets you in trouble anyway. "He's the one who -- fuck." He scrubs his hand against his hair, and tips his head back up towards the ceiling. "I don't fucking know. Doesn't really seem like there's a lot of point. I mean, I love it. I'm good at it. And I'm really fucking sick of school. Just, god, everyone flipped their fucking shit over Ryan, you really think /I'd/ get anywhere." He props an elbow on the table, eyes drooping half-closed as his mind fills with violin music again. The small curve of his smile is a little wistful. "Be nice, though." << Jegus fucking /Christ/. >> Hive's words hammer into Shane's mind harder and heavier than before, his tone sharp and irritable. << Stop being so fucking /teenage/ holy fuck you have filled your gorram whining quota for the night. >> His palms clamp against his temples, eyes screwing tighter closed. "He didn't even. Fucking. Mean it like. /That/. You want to run a fucking business it /is/ going to take you more work than it would if you were -- were --" He trails off with his palms rolling slowly inwards, breath hissing out quietly. "When the fuck have /either/ of your dads just. Shot /any/ of you down for any gorram thing you want to --" Again he breaks off, hands slowly falling to his chest as his head rolls to the side. "I mean, /I'd/ shoot you the fuck down that place has been bombed once already this is stupid as fuck. But if you stop having a goddamn /tantrum/ for two seconds and go have a conversation with your dad like an /adult/ fucking person I bet he'd be glad to try and. Try and." << (help) >>, finishes in concept more than in words. << (nobody) (in your family) (wants to) (hold you back) >>. Shane's mouth opens, and snaps closed hard again. His gills flutter rapidly, a sharp irritable hiss escaping him when they finally still. He scrubs his hand against his eyes, pushing the desk chair slowly back and forth in one direction and then another. Eventually he leans forward, reaching to scoop Hive's laptop off the desk and wheel it over to the bed. "Here. Turn this on." He's powering it up already, opening it towards Hive to input PASSWORD. "I think I have some research to do."