ArchivedLogs:What Matters

What Matters
Dramatis Personae Hive, Shelby	2013-06-05 '
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. Think fast! There's a Shelby coming! As she steps off of the elevator, her mind is busily shedding the concerns of the day--the biology final (maybe passed); the algebra final (BOMBED); Ivan's continued disappearance (wtf); Jim's "vacation" (least he's not dead). All of that and more, all a-muck in her head. It reflects in her clothing, or maybe this is simply her gothic phase, the black skirt, the boots, the black Minny Mouse t-shirt except she's replaced Minny's coyly smiling head with a cartoon mouse skull topped with a pink bow. The skateboard is missing, the guitar is slung on a strap over her shoulder. There's a six-pack of cheap beer dangling from one hand but even with the other free, she still kicks at the door. "Avon calling." "Why don't you have a key?" Hive is /grumbling/ behind the door. Eventually he actually gets up and answers it though! He has, evidently, been /hard/ at work judging by the computer set up with its two monitors attached -- oh, no, wait. Those screens are displaying a spaceship, a menu with a multitude of options. He has been hard at playing. Somewhere in the background there is music, Chili Peppers spilling out from an almost-closed bedroom door. "Where's my makeup, then?" he demands as he lets Shelby inside. "No key, no makeup." Shelby wastes little time once she's inside--the guitar is set down and she rushes, /rushes/, to the couch. Like a cat racing for the warm spot, she pours herself over the arm and stretches along the cushions. There will be come difficulty in sitting down again. "You kinda have to /give/ me a key. Jax did. I think Jax likes me better," she says as she folds her hands behind her head and crosses her ankles. A look tilts towards the screens. "Jesus...I've been busting my ass all day and you've been playing video games? I wanna be an architect." "Have you /met/ Jax, dude, I think he likes /everyone on earth/ better." There is no difficulty sitting back down because Hive elects to just sit on /top/ of her. Maybe uncomfortableness sitting back down, admittedly, because skinnybony shins make a worse perch than couch. "Yup. S'all I do, all day long," he answers. "Nonstop video games. You wouldn't believe how much they pay me just to sit around vegetating. I highly recommend architecture." Oof. Shelby's heels drop to the cushions as she discovers herself with legs pinned. There might be wiggling but that soon stops because bony butt is a match for bony shins any day of the week. She is left to eye his exposed flank, contemplating a pinch attack--and dismissing it because, yeah, she figures he heard that. << Are you ticklish? >> "So that's a no on the key, huh? Asshole." And yet she finds assholery a comfortable thing. If it were a blanket, she'd be wrapping herself in it. Be snarky s'more, Hive. Do it! "...you hear about Ivan?" "No," Hive says, with a reflexive /tensing/ and shifting slightly further away from FINGERS that suggests very much: yes. "Freakish weirdo bugkid, yeah?" He leans forward to grab his mouse, starting his game up again. As video games go it is eminently uninteresting at the moment, he is managing some /trading/. "I heard that there were freakish weirdo bugs." He glances over towards Shelby uncertainly. "You two close?" Shelby might not go for the tickle but she is tempted, imagining it instead. Pinch pinch. She has a very vivid imagination. "Not...really? I mean. He's kinda...one of the good ones. <<(too sweet)(for me.)>> Weird though, yeah. It...I guess it happened right outside the school? Right outside the fucking /gates/. Just...gone. Poof." She should have stuck with imagining tickling Hive; the thoughts summoned by picturing this security breach are much more of the brooding sort and leave her looking at the screen without really seeing it. "Next it'll be /in/ the school, I don't have to be a goddamned psychic to know it." "Think so? Figure if someone had the wherewithal to break into that place he might've disappeared from /inside/ the gates. Outside means they knew better than to fuck with that." Hive /twitches/ at the imagined pinching, a slight jump of muscles almost as responsive as if she /had/ pinched. "Good ones," he echoes this a little skeptically. "Guess that's kind of subjective." His attention looks pretty focused on his game, but the crease of his brow suggests a worry that has little to do with his fictional economy. "-- You seriously worried about that?" "Yeah. Not really." Both. Shelby rolls her head back to straight, looking down at him. There is a brief attempt at crooked smiling for his flinching--and an equally brief segue into imagining wrestling, rather than pinching. "I just...it happens so fast, right? Can't even catch our breath. I been thinking about that. All this shit...I don't wanna fuck around with stupid shit, if it's just...I wanna do what /matters/, you know? The important stuff. In case /I'm/ next. And I could be. I almost /was/, with that...drug stuff." This time, Hive actually pauses his game. Or at least brings up a menu screen so that he can shift his attention over to Shelby, his frown slowly deepening. "... you almost were," he agrees, seeming kind of disgruntled at this reminder. "Shit. The world needs a fucking pause button." He scowls over at his frozen screen, slouching further down on the couch; it drags his bony ass away from her shins to the edge of the couch though now his back is leaning across her legs, shoulders slumped at the back of the sofa. "What matters, then? How do you decide what matters?" "Yeah, or a reset button. Maybe someone out there's got those genes. Wish I did." Her knee digs for a moment into his back as Shelby adjusts position. She pulls herself up, drawing her fore leg over his lap and draping her arms along chest and shoulders. Sideways hug, no pinching. << Already know. You. Music. Doing what I want, when I want it. Bein' me, >> she thinks at him while saying, "I wanna drop out've school for the summer. Maybe...get a place here. At the Lofts. Do some shows, record a few tracks." << No more back and forth. >> "Isn't summer already vacation time?" Hive asks, puzzled. "I mean, why would you have to drop /out/ I thought summer was the time to -- not have school." He doesn't really sound /entirely/ certain. His hand drops to rest on her shin, fingers drumming against it. "You'd need roommates, this shit's expensive," is a more /practical/ matter. "Would you go back?" "I got a lot of years to make up for," Shelby says as she sets her chin on his shoulder. "It'd be easier to catch up if I went summer term too. Remedial everything." Her mouth twists at this in a not-smile, followed by a puff of breath against Hive's neck. "I'm not really /good/ at the school thing. Never was. Maybe I'd be a better rock star...and I got the five grand I won at the art show, to get set up, right? I could just...try it for a few months. See how it goes. If I'm shit at it, I'd go back." "Mmmn." Hive curls an arm loosely around Shelby's waist. "You should go back," he answers, "college is one thing but not finishing high school these days is just kind of dumb. I mean, take the summer, whatever. Fuck classes for a while. Do the music thing. But." His head shakes. "Go /back/ afterwards, for sure. Hanging out with Ryan too much'll fuck your perspective up, making a living off music is hard as hell. And finding work to tide you through'll be easier with some school behind you." His lips twitch upwards slightly. "I mean, shit, you know, five grand seems like a lot when you don't have bills to think about but, uh. That wouldn't /even/ cover your apartment for the summer if you're not splitting." Shelby pulls another face. "Fine, I'll go back." Quick and easy agreement; she doesn't think it will come to that. More troubling is the prospect of five grand going poof before she's had chance to really sink her hooks into real life. Her frown lingers even as she enjoys a sideways study of his smile, focusing on his lips. << It's easier out there. Not digging in. That'd last me a year if I was careful. I could...maybe...I don't know. Don't mind /crashing/ with people but living with them's different. >> "Go back. Being out there /forever/ is kind of a shitty deal." Hive drops his head back against the couch. His fingers stop drumming, just resting against her shin instead. "-- Living with people is different," he agrees, and it's kind of wry, "not as much /take/. Little more /give/. S'worth trying out." "I guess, yeah. Don't wanna end up a bag lady." Now there's a funny thought. It's enough to make her smile again, a smile that disappears at the thought of /give/. Ugh! "I feel for anyone who shacks up with me," Shelby mutters as she wriggles in closer. She's wrapping herself around him, one leg hooked around his hip, the other raising, knee against chest. It brings her in near enough to nosebump his ear. "Maybe Ryan'n'Horus could handle it. Just for a few months. Then I'd be downstairs." "Could /you/ handle it? Takes some adjusting, I guess," Hive still sounds a /little/ wry even after the nosebump, "having to give shits about everyone else every day." His arm tightens as she wriggles herself closer, holding her against his side. "Their apartment's vegan /and/ kosher. That's like one step stricter than Jax's. I mean the twins at least bring meat in, you can't even use his dishes down there." His head tips the the side, resting his temple against her forehead. "-- Bet Doug's looking for a roommate still." He says this with, admittedly, a sort of /snort/ that implies he is maybe not entirely serious about this suggestion. "Probably not," Shelby has to admit. "Visiting's fine but...yeah. S'weird, he's so picky about food and he'll put any old shit in his veins. Or bed. You /totally/ called that one, warning me." She closes her eyes, lips curling with a smile that seems more inclined to sticking around. "I want some place I can bring you. Alone, maybe. Dunno that Doug's place'd be great for that. Parley's already got the weird dude in with him...Jax could probably use the cash but no spare bedroom. Same as here. Fuck. Think I'd fit in your closet?" "Don't think he's picky about food, think he's picky about, uh." Hive's eyes lift towards the ceiling. "Killing shit. -- Wouldn't want to do anything around Parley's place anyway, all /three/ of them up there are fucking mind-readers." He grumbles this like it's kind of a terrible burden. Damn telepaths. The question earns a snort out of him, though. "/Fit/, sure. You don't want to live here, though. Even if you could. We'd hate each other before the summer's through." His fingers start drumming again as he considers. "Jax's loft's pretty much as big as our bedroom, wouldn't take too much to throw a wall up there. If you could stomach living with your teacher." "They got another one? Huh. That'd get old." Shelby is less certain of how she'd feel by end of summer /here/. The closet thing might have been a joke, but the response it earns causes her to open her eyes, to tense briefly against him. "You think so? 'Cause of you being you or me being me?" When tension doesn't fade, she squirms to push herself away enough to free the leg trapped behind him. Swinging around, she sits as normal people do and lets her head settle again on his shoulder. "Be kind've crowded. That way. Lot of people there already." "All of them are mind-readers /sometimes/," Hive amends, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. He wriggles up to sit a little straighter when Shelby shifts, one leg lifting to rest out on the coffee table. "Both. Living with people's hard as fuck. Four months in Flicker and I were ready to fucking kill each other." Which is saying a lot given their general bromance. "You're not used to being a roommate and /I'm/ an asshole. It'd be disaster. Close-but-not-on-top-of-each-other leaves a lot more time for hanging out, a lot less for stabbing each other in the eyes." Shelby reaches for his nearer hand to lift it between hers, intending to toy with his fingers. Curl one down, straighten it, curl another. Even she, quick to prickliness and being defensive, has to agree. "I'm pretty good with a knife," she boast-lies. "You wouldn't stand a chance." She smiles down at his palm, turning all four fingers in towards it. "I guess that means either stick with school, or try out Jax's place. I'd...maybe have to talk to Bastian. About it." Hive looks back down, fingers wiggling for a moment before settling to acquiesce to this fiddling. "I am so shitty with a knife. You'd have to get me in my sleep though, or I'd totally see you coming before you ever have a chance to make with the stabbing." His hand drops after she curls his fingers in, resting in Shelby's lap. now. "Twins are both gonna be in school all summer anyway. Don't know if that's an argument for school or argument for stealing their room while they're not home. Think it'd be weird with B?" "I don't think you're supposed to give me pointers on how to kill you, dude." Shelby slides her hand over his, trapping it there, and turns a smile up at him. "They'd be home on weekends, anyway. And...I'm not gonna do anything. With him. Where you can hear it. I don't think he'd be weird about that, but...I don't wanna /make/ it weird either. Y'know?" "Why, you planning on it?" Hive's mouth turns up into a crooked smile. It fades somewhat as he answers: "Heard it before. I think I just get used to, uh. Kind of -- tuning it out?" He shrugs. "Maybe easier for me than for him though. People tend to like their -- privacy." "I'd just be thinking about you. Trying to tune it out. It doesn't seem right. And...I dunno." << I want you more anyway, >> comes in under the bar, layered under Shelby's verbal shrug. Dunno indeed. She grimaces, gives his hand a squeeze and then releases it. "I'll figure it out. /Without/ killing you. You're not allowed to go anywhere. Everyone else is but you can't." "Yeahok that'd be just a little bit awkward." Hive exhales a quick heavy breath. "Without. Good, cuz I like my eyes. Intact. Unstabbed." Even once his hand is released, it stays resting in Shelby's lap. "Everyone else?" This draws a frown out of him. "I thought you didn't even like the bugkid." "Not just him. The twins, Peter, everyone else those assholes grabbed. The twins /before/ that. Jim..." Ouch. Shelby had been doing her utmost to ignore /that/ topic but the name just leaps from her lips. She dodges it again by turning towards Hive...and nuzzling nose and mouth against the side of his neck. A deep breath follows, warming and then cooling on his skin as she exhales. "Just. Don't, okay? I can't. I just can't," she says without moving. "Yeah, but they're back now --" Hive's words cut short abruptly, teeth clicking back together at that name. Against Shelby's side, he stiffens, tense. The fingers in her lap curl tightly into a fist. His eyes close, neck flexing slightly with a hard swallow, and there's a brief press of mental weight against her mind that squeezes down and then withdraws. "I bet they'd all be glad to have you downstairs," he says when he finally speaks again. His arm squeezes a little too tight around her. Shelby might not be a telepath but she knows body language. /Would/ know it even if she weren't pressed right up against it. She closes her eyes too and hangs onto him every bit as tightly. That push, mind to mind, taps a spring of guilt. It comes bubbling up, fast as light. << I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't've called, should've just. Watched. Everyone takes off/made him take off. >> "I can ask, anyway," she says over these thoughts. "Worst they can say is fuck off." "It wasn't /your/ fault." This comes out quick and almost growled in its sudden harshness. "He fucked up. Not you." Hive's tension is not easing. He leans forward to claim one of the cheap beers Shelby has brought. "... everybody fucks up," is added as he opens it. "Dude got kidnapped and /tortured/." When he shifts forward, Shelby flops back. "He needed /something/. I should've let him have it. /I'm/ the fuck up. How many times have I messed things up? You don't have to /say/ it but I know it." Come to think of it, she might have one of those beers too--though she ends up rolling it between her hands instead of opening it. "I mess up, Bastian takes off. I mess up, Jim takes off. Shit, I was doing it as a /baby/, when my dad took off. I...don't wanna do that. With you. That's all." "Fuck that bullshit," Hive answers sharply. "I don't give a fuck what anyone's been through, it doesn't give you license to be a goddamn jackass. He needed something and that something /wasn't/ diving back into a fucking /bottle/." There's another press of weight against Shelby's mind, and Hive stands abruptly, not actually drinking the beer yet. "/You/ did the right thing. And it isn't your fault that people in your life have been fucking /assholes/." Her lashes flick down, her head dips, all a vain attempt at hiding the wince that comes with pressure. Can't hide from a telepath. "That's what boozehounds /do/," Shelby mutters at the bottle she's still cradling. After a moment, she glances up to watch him, eyes fixed on his back. "I'm sorry. I know he's like...<<yours>>." "That doesn't make it /not/ fucking stupid, he shouldn't have --" Hive breaks off with an irritated hiss of breath. "-- It wasn't your fault. Sometimes the world is just shitty." His wiry shoulders are corded up tight, and they stay that way as he moves over to the windows, slumping with one shoulder against them and his head dropped down against the glass. His jaw is clenched tight. "No. Motherfucker isn't anyone's but his own." << You know what I mean. >> Shelby continues with the eyeballing. Waiting until he's settled. Springloaded, but settled. Then she leans forward to leave the beer on the table--beside all of that oh so delicate electronic equipment, yeah, she's not a geek--and stand. "Pretty fucking shitty," she agrees as she crosses the floor. There's no escape, just her arms sliding around his middle and her cheek resting between his shoulder blades. Short of shaking him, that's what she has to help untense the current running through him. That and, << Like I'm yours. >> Hive exhales a ragged breath at this. << Mine. Yeah? You gonna take off without a fucking word, too? >> The pistolwhip snap of his mental voice is no less painful than it usually is. His shoulders stay tensed, hard-clenched and faintly trembling agains Shelby's cheek. "Fffu. I can't -- I need a smoke," he grumbles, though without moving. Shelby's arms twitch tighter around him with every single word slammed into her mind. Maybe she's trying for the suffocation method, over eye-stabbing. Feelings? They're equally stung. She drops her arms, steps back. "So go smoke. And remember /I'm/ not a fucking mind-reader. I was just..." << Don't make me /say/ it, asshole. >> "G'wan. Maybe I won't erase your game while you're gone," she says, moving to take her place on the couch again. This time she /does/ crack the beer open. But good news: she makes no move for the keyboard. << ... just didn't expect him to disappear, >> is heavier, more tired as Hive slumps further against the window. Aloud: "You better not, that /would/ be cause for eye-stabbing." It takes him a while before he pushes away from the window. << ... I know. >> It's a brief acknowledgment, his eyes slipping over her and then to the ground. He grabs his pack of cigarettes and a lighter off the kitchen counter, posture still drawn tight and tense as he heads out.