ArchivedLogs:Spilling the Beans

Spilling the Beans
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Peter	2013-06-13 All the beans. Spilled. ALL OF THEM.
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- 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 living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late bright coloured sealife has made its way into being painted on the wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. 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. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. At /some/ point this evening the fire alarms went off but that was a while back; by now everyone who evacuated (or didn't) is long since past the disruption. Jackson's apartment is quiet. No blaring of fire alarms, no teenagers filling it with teenagerness; even Spencer is tucked away in his room. Jackson is in his own room; it's kind of a organized mess, cluttered but cluttered with neatly labelled boxes. First aid supplies. Spare clothes. Art supplies. The illusionist is not very illusiony, at the moment. No makeup. A /plethora/ of ugly pitted scars distorting the tattoos down his left arm, pockmarking their way up his neck and the side of his face. Too-pale, eyes sleepless-shadowed. He's /on/ his bed rather than in it, cross-legged at its foot in black terrycloth pajama pants and a ribbed red sleeveless shirt. His elbows are propped on his knees, his gaze fixed on the canvas opposite the bed. It holds a painting, not yet finished; a misty swirl smokey-shadowy around a black-framed mirror. Or black-framed portal; the figure reflected in it is reaching (climbing?) its way out. There's music playing, quiet. Ego Likeness. 'Breedless'. The steady knocking -- very tentative! -- comes first. Slow, at first, a little more rapid later; when no immediate response comes -- and when the strains of music reach the knocker's ears... it's followed by a careful test of the door -- click, rattle, click! -- and finally, by Peter, nervously creeping inside. The fire alarm threw Peter off, but only for a minute -- he wasn't one of the ones who ran, but he certainly /looked around/. When nothing came of it thirty minutes later, he returned to his room; now, after a few -- confused, semi-unhappy phone calls -- he's arrived to talk with Jackson. Peter's dressed in -- decisively /un/ Peterish clothes; a blank short-sleeved white t-shirt -- beneath that, denim-blue shorts and... two-toed socks. Unlike per usual, a good amount of Peter's chitin is exposed; calves, neck, arms -- he /gleams/ a little in Jackson's apartment. Like blue, oiled metal. He's also nervously fretting at his thwippy wrist things as he creeps down the hall, toward the sound of that music. Knocking, a bit louder, at the doorframe. "...Jax?" Peter asks, right before peeking around the edge of that door. "I'm sorry -- the door was open, um -- pleasedon'tbemad," he quickly adds. "That I'm. Here." Jackson twitches, at the sound of knocking. There's a sickly shiver of greenish light around him that vanishes a moment later. "Yeahhon --" is probably an absent greeting intended to cover Micah or Spencer both; he tenses again when neither of those voices comes. His head turns towards the door and a sudden flush spreads through his pale cheeks; he unfolds himself quickly to reach for a pink sweatshirt nearby. (It's been liberally adorned with patches in typical punk style. 'Not 'gay' as in happy, 'queer' as in fuck you'. 'Your heart is a muscle the size of your fist. Keep loving/keep fighting.' 'Cultivate Compassion'. And a lot more in that vein.) "I ain't -- why would I be mad, hon?" He sounds a little confused about this. "Is everything OK?" "Oh," Peter adds, pausing a moment to watch as Jax reaches for that pink sweatshirt; Peter's eyes widen at the brief glimpse of -- scars. Pockmarks. Criss-crossing those tattoos. Even extending up toward his face, and... ".../oh/," Peter repeats, shock melting into something softer, as Jax slides on the pink sweat-shirt, obscuring his arms. "I, I'm sorry. I shouldn't --" Peter's face plunges deep into violet, and -- he /rushes/ blindly forward, like a lode stone drawn to iron, scrambling toward Jax to hug him. "...you're -- amazing. Um." Breathlessly whispering it, as he roughly tries to /shove/ his head against Jax's torso. Just, WHUMP. Cheek squish. "--I'm sorry," he repeats, now a bit louder. "I, um. You told me not to come but I did anyway. Here. Shane -- he was. I thought he needed -- somebody. I just, ohman, this is awkward and dumb I'm sorry." Violet plunges into indigo. "Wh--" Oh no SUDDEN HUG! Jackson's eye widens. "Oh gosh I ain't --" His arms curl around Peter tightly -- kind of suddenly /fierce/ in the embrace, his head dipping to rest his cheek against the top of Peter's head. He falls quiet. Squeeze. His eye squeezes shut, too and there's a moment where his breathing is -- nooot quite steady. It takes a few deep breaths before he speaks again. "Shane. Did need somebody. I just. It ain't -- do your folks know where y'are? Do the school?" "...yeah. I called -- the school," Peter responds, a little more quiet, as Jackson returns the hug, heart hammering. The hitches in Jackson's breathing only seem to give Peter ideas; for a few moments, /his/ breathing starts to rock back and forth -- but then he squeezes a little tighter, as if Jackson were a life raft. His breathing steadies. "...and my uncle. He's, coming. Soon. To pick me up. Um. Probably take me home. I -- I want to stay. For break. I can't -- I'll explode. With all this going on -- if I can't. Be there. For him. For them. I --" Peter's head proceeds to try and /burrow/ against Jackson's torso, as if intent on drilling his way inside of his chest cavity and hibernating for the summer. "...kinda love him." Jackson doesn't seem particularly inclined to let go, either. SQUEEZE. Thankfully Peter's durable. Today he is not even uncomfortably warm to hug! Normal-human-temperature, even. For once. "You -- oh." Quiet. Then, a little bit more surprised: "/Oh/. Peter, y'gotta know it ain't -- real safe to -- if anything --" His breath catches again, briefly. "Your folks live in the city. If you was there it wouldn't be so hard to come --" But then he stops, grip tightening. "-- Oh. I guess. It might be. A little hard." His hand lifts, curling against the back of Peter's head as he burrows. "Your folks'll want you there with them, don't you think? With everything goin' on, they're gonna want to know you're safe." "I know," Peter responds, a little wheezy, a slight dampness smeared against Jackson's chest. His head bumps up against Jackson's hand as it curls around the back of his skull; Peter mumbles dejectedly in response. "I know. They were happy when I told them -- I was staying at the school for break. Now they're -- I'm going to tell them. About, uh, Shane. And, ask them if I could -- I don't know what they'll say. Probably no. But, if they -- said yes. Could I--" Peter /tries/ to peel his face away from Jackson's chest to affix him with a pair of puppydog eyes, but -- it's just not happening. His face is thoroughly /glued/ to Jackson's sternum. "--stay here. For a week." Jackson's fingers just press a little harder, curling into Peter's hair when he feels that dampness. His breathing shifts back towards shaky again. "You're going to tell them about --" This sounds confused, initially; realization dawns with a quiet, "-- oh. Peter, I --" His grip loosens but -- only sliiiightly. Hugtime might last a while, tonight. "... I guess I do have an extra room." He swallows. "/If/ your folks are OK with it -- an' /if/ you /promise/ me you ain't gonna go disappearing nowhere off on your own. I don't think I could take --" There's a slight crack to his voice and he hesitates again before continuing. "But /if/ they say s'alright an' if you don't go vanishin' without telling me /first/. I'll hafta talk to them 'bout it, though." "I won't," Peter agrees, and the next words are kind-of rushed out, smothered against Jax's torso. "I won't, I won't, I'll do whatever you say I /promise/." The intensity of his squeezing inches up, then; but it's followed by a little choked sound, and -- his grip goes slack. Just kind of leaning, propped up against Jackson, a little wheezy, a little tired. "...did Shane. He said he told you, um. Everything," Peter says, voice strained, muffled. "Did he tell you. He saved me from doing terrible things. He saved my life. Couple of times. I --" One of Peter's arms slings around, now, jamming it between himself and Jackson, close enough to just wipe at his eyes with the back of his hand. "--would have died in there. If they hadn't -- been there." "N-no, he told me --" This is as far as Jackson gets. Around Peter his arms briefly tremble. He draws in a shaky breath, and then there are drops of wet trickling down his cheek to plop into Peter's hair. "-- oh gosh," Jackson's hold finally slackens, eases, drops away as he turns his head to press his palm against his eye. "Ohgosh, I'm sorry." "He /did/," Peter says, and there's a hint of anger in his tone, or at least what little anger the teenager can manage to rustle up; it's not a lot, but it's there. "He /saved/ me and he should have /told/ you--" But at the hint of wetness on his head; at Jax's own sudden shakiness -- and at his arms dropping away -- the anger vanishes. Peter stares at Jax, eyes glistening and rimmed with red, looking -- shocked. Before he reaches forward, very slowly, /rising/ up on his knees to try and bring himself to Jax's height -- arms reaching to -- try and scoop behind Jax's head, behind his shoulders -- and pull his face down, toward his chest. Kind of wide-eyed and skittish as he does so. Like, 'am I allowed to do this?'. "I saw --" Jackson admits this in a shaky whisper in answer to this anger, "We were looking for evidence for what happened and there's /videos/ and I /saw/ --" His palm still presses to his eye, his shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry," he says again, "Ohgosh. I'm." His breath catches again when Peter scoops at him. For a moment he /is/ scooped, pulled sort of damp and shaky towards the teenager. But he straightens quickly with another hitch of sob. "Ohgosh I'm sorry I shouldn't -- I don't -- I'm sorry I." He /scrubs/ at his eye with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "When is your. Uncle. Going to be -- here." "You -- saw?" Peter begins, a hint of confusion creeping into his tone, followed by shock, and-- "You -- /saw/?!" When Jax straightens, Peter scoots back; wide-eyed and struggling not to whimper. "...I," he starts, before just, wiping at his own face with the back of his hands, "I called fifteen minutes ago. I guess -- ten minutes, he was. He was leaving right away. You -- shouldn't have watched --" He struggles with the next few words, raggedly breathing. "...there's videos? Of -- I -- we nearly /died/. Why would anyone--" He struggles for breath; he doesn't look like he's about to start crying again, but -- he's dizzy, swaying a little. "--they weren't -- they starved them. Jax they starved them that's why they -- Sebastian would have rather /died/ than, than..." Peter steadies himself on the backs of his hands. Closes his eyes. "...my uncle's gonna get here and I'm gonna be a mess. I need to -- okay. I'm okay." "I -- saw. Just -- just /tonight/ I saw -- I might've." Jackson's cheeks flush a little. "Might'veburnedthestairwell." His head turns, wiping his eye against his shoulder though fresh tears are forming near as quickly. /His/ breathing gets more under control, though, when Peter sways. "Oh -- oh gosh, honey-honey, I'm sorry, I --" And he's moving back, wrapping Peter in another hug that is as much /steadying/ as affection. "OK. It's okay, it's okay. Can I -- do something can I get you. Something." "You -- burned the stairwell," Peter repeats, and now -- there is a choked, hitched giggle hiding there, just an edge of manicness behind it. "You -- is that. Was that the fire alarm. A while ago. Oh man. I was wondering --" When Jackson wraps him in that hug, Peter responds, squeezing back. "No," he says, a little breathlessly, head pushing down to Jackson's shoulder, face pushing. "I'll be fine." Then, with a little more ferocity, the squeeze intensifying: "Your scars are /wicked/ awesome you shouldn't hide them." "Yeah. Um. Sorry." Jackson's cheeks flush. He presses a cheek down against the top of Peter's head. To HIDE IT. "Was an accident." He exhales heavily, the breath ruffling Peter's hair. "OK. OK but if /you/ don't need nothin' and your uncle'll /probably/ say no too then. Who. Do I feed." This might be a /serious/ conundrum. "My scars? They're -- I mean. They're. Kind of." His head shakes. "... can't right now anyway." Peter laughs, again, kind of breathlessly, at Jax's conundrum. "Feed the twins." Then: "They're -- kind of scary. But awesome." Twins? Or scars? Peter doesn't clarify. "He'll probably say no," Peter says, a little sad, a little tired, yet with a manic sort of cheer under there. "But, um. Thank you. You're -- thank you." Squeeeeeze. And then, with great reluctance -- and /very/ slowly -- Peter's starting to pull away. "You, um. /You/ saved me too. I, I should clean myself up." Jackson presses a kiss to the top of Peter's head. Then lets him go. "-- I'll feed the twins," he agrees, wryly. "An' Shelby an' Dai, too." But not -- just /yet/, apparently. Because at the moment he's just settling back where he'd been sitting, curling his legs in cross-legged and flopping back against the bed. "'kay. Y'know where the bathrooms is. Jus'. Get me. When your uncle's here."