ArchivedLogs:YOLO

YOLO
Dramatis Personae Eric, Melinda, Shane, Shelby	2013-02-16 It's Saturday night in the city, heeeey!
Location Montagues, SoHo & Evolve Nightclub, Lower East Side
Montagues harkens back to the day when SoHo was filled to the brim with artists, with its mismatched furniture, all plush and decorated heavily with carved wood, but remains trendy enough to keep its newer patrons by making sure that furniture is clean, in good repair and inviting. The antique tables all have been reinforced to seem less creaky. The real draw of the cafe is the smell: fresh roasted coffee mingles with perfectly steeped teas. Spices from crisp pastries mingle with the tang of clotted cream but doesn't overwhelm too much the scent of chalk on the menu boards. Night of revelry, take two! Her last attempt did no go so well, so this time Shelby has opted to enlist help. There is no better help for parting than Shane, which has led her to the back alley behind Montagues. Going in the front risks running into Melinda; out here, surely there is less risk and at some point Shane is bound to emerge to be informed of the itinerary--because she's run out of minutes on her phone again, and has neglected to tell him beforehand. She's looking all right, all things considered. Recently showered and in clean clothes, a pair of street-baggy khakis with a cropped tank top that would bare her stomach if she didn't have her jacket on and zipped up. The sneakers aren't club-fare but they'll do for now. Leaned back up against the brick wall next to Montague's rear door, she is smoking a borrowed cigarette and watching the smoke she exhales twist for the slim patch of sky above. It disappears long before it even reaches the eaves of the surrounding buildings but she watches all the same, blowing longer and longer plumes to try to give it a chance at escape. Unluckily for Shelby, Melinda appears in the back alley long before Shane does, dragging out a large bag of trash, which she deposits a little down the road in a dumpster. She doesn't see her on the way out as she is mentally involved with the hauling of a getting ready to rip open bag, but as she heads back, her eyes are free to wander and take a really good look at the person lounging outside the cafe. Her footsteps slow. "Shelby?" Her voice is quiet and inquisitive. There really isn't enough time for Shelby to duck out of sight, and certainly no where to go--though she does give the open door a brief and wistful look, it isn't the ideal avenue for escape. So in the seconds before Melinda turns back around, the teenager pulls on the cigarette again and throws it off to the side. The barista is thus greeted with a last puffy exhalation and the sight of Shelby leaned back, one foot up against the wall and her hands in her pockets. "Hey Mel. Just waiting for Shane to get off," she says, cheerfully enough. "Not /off/ of but y'know what I mean. How's it going?" Melinda pauses and tilts her head to one side. "Off of work, you mean?" She draws in a deep breath and considers. "It's going okay. I heard you were in school." She stops walking when she is near enough the door and Shelby. "That going okay?" "Off work, yeah." Shelby is briefly amused by her own word play but it doesn't last long. She tilts her head, ducking it forward a little to let the shadow from her jacket's hood veil some of her expression. She seems hesitant. "Same ol' shit, different day. Just in a prettier place, y'know? Word gets around fast, huh? /I/ heard the party was pretty crazy, celebrating me heading off somewhere else," she says, vying for a grin. "They got the good champagne and everything." "Party? If there was a party, I wasn't invited." Melinda rubs her hands together briefly, dusting off some of the mess from the trashbag, before fishing a towel from the back of her apron strings. "I take it that you weren't invited either?" "Nah but I just made it up, so..." Shelby lifts and drops her shoulders. The grin is a fail. "So," she repeats, eyes flicking from apron to door, "your boss didn't fire you, huh? I'm glad." "No, and the cafe didn't get fined either. Shane still has his job, too - so, everything's fine." There's an edge to Melinda's voice, one that offers an opposite mood to the declaration of 'good.' She exhales, letting go of her tension and half turns toward the door. "I'll go tell him you're out here." "Good." More repetition from Shelby. The school does not appear to have done much for her vocabulary yet. She's silent as Melinda turns but at the last minute, before foot hits step, she says, "I /am/ sorry, Mel. I dunno what else I can do but say it, again. I'm sorry and I'm trying not to be such a huge fuck up anymore." Melinda pauses, hand resting on the doorway, turning to look back at the young woman, studying her expression. "I really appreciate your apology," she begins, her tone lighter. "It's going to be a while before I can trust you again, but I do forgive you." She turns back around to look at her. "Does that make sense?" "Sure," Shelby says with another roll of her shoulders. "Someone fucks up, you don't just jump back in their lap again. Or whatever. Hell, I'd do the same. I /have/ done the same. S'why I'm up here, the whole fucking state of Florida is on my watch list, y'know?" "Well, maybe that's what you get for jumping in the lap of gaters in the first place," Mel responds dryly. She turns toward the door and waves the girl in. "Come on. Shane's busy, but I'll make you a coffee." Shelby pushes off of the wall and steps up to slide past the other woman. "My mom used to say beggars can't be choosers, y'know," she says as she enters. The hood is pushed back, the air sniffed. "I can pay for it, anyway. I got an allowance. Next week, I'm getting new clothes, it's pretty sweet." "Good. Your wardrobe was a bit... layered not for chic, but to cover holes." Melinda leads Shelby through the back to the front of the store, gesturing that the girl get on the customer side of the counter as she moves to the backside. "So, what exactly did you want? Extra, extra caffeine to keep you up all night? You got a three day weekend?" "Derelict chic," Shelby says with a mock-defensive huff. She folds her arms on the counter and casts an eye over the board. "Tell me I didn't totally rock that look. Hmmm." She draws out the mmm. "Something to keep me awake would be awesome, yeah. And a double-shot of French vanilla? I guess there aren't any classes Monday but they don't got me in any classes yet. I don't really start 'til after exams. I gotta take classes with /freshman/." Her disgust is palpable. "Hey, at least it's high school. Can you imagine going in with fourth graders?" Melinda moves behind the espresso machine and starts the process of whipping up her drink: four shots of espresso, triple pump french vanilla, steamed milk and, "Did you want whipped cream?" She starts prepping someone else's order because she hijacked the machine and multitasking is a barista's best weapon. "Hell yeah I want whipped cream. You got sprinkles? I want sprinkles too." Shelby is just as greedy when she's flush as when broke but at least this time she /can/ pay. She straightens up and produces a mass of crumpled fives and ones from her pocket, sorting and smoothing through them while Melinda works her magic. "I think if they'd stick me with fourth graders if they could but I'd be, like, a bad influence or something." "Well, that is true." Melinda finishes off Shelby's drink with chocolate sprinkles. She finishes the other drink and steps seamlessly out of the way while the barista on duty steps back in. She keeps both cups with her as she heads to the register. "Okay, four eighteen." She sets Shelby's cup on the counter and drinks from the second, enjoying the thick taste of steamed milk and coffee. "You'll live through this. Besides, it's best to get the really embarassing shit out of the way when you're young. No one will care about your age after a while, but they will care if you can't do basic shit." Shelby slides a five across the counter and pockets the rest, waving off any change. She wraps both hands around the cup for the warmth and the aroma curling up within the steam. "I can /do/ basic shit," she claims. "I can change a tire or an oil filter, I know how to tell if a motel's a fleabag or if someone's gonna haul off and punch you in the face. They oughta teach /that/ shit at schools, it'd be more useful than algebra or whatever. I could even be the professor." "Okay, then just learn some other stuff so that no one can ever make you feel stupid." Melinda shrugs and unties her apron. She washes her hands in a sink behind the counter before moving toward the back, and loosening her hair. She grabs her coat and her purse and heads into the customer part of the cafe as well. "And then become professor of street smarts." Shelby starts to follow after until she realizes that the detour is but temporary. She reverses, backtracking out into the comfier customer area. A convenient place to sit is scoped out. "I dunno...I bet someone could make /anyone/ feel stupid about /something/, even if they were like, the smartest person in the world. It's just people who know a lot of book shit like to go around acting like that /matters/, y'know? But Professor Shelby would be pretty kick ass." "Well, fine. Have logic on your side." Melinda follows Shelby to a comfortable couch and sinks into it, enjoying the hot beverage and her time off the clock. She lets her eyes close as she melts a little. "I'm sure you'll learn something despite yourself staying at a school. Plus, you're trying to not be such a fuck up anymore, right? Maybe pretending book learning matters takes up enough of your mental space that fucking up doesn't happen." Maybe? "Maybe." Telepathy? No, just skeptical agreement. Shelby isn't convinced but she'll keep the peace about it. She drops into the couch and promptly tucks her feet up beneath her. "I figure I'll just learn enough to make everyone get off my fucking case about being out on my own, then apprentice with Jax or something. People who hang out at tattoo shops, they don't give a shit if you know how to consummate a verb." She has nooo idea what she just said. "Shelby, consummate means to have sex to ... make legal a marriage. Conjugate is what you do to verbs." Mel rubs at the bridge of her nose. "Maybe you should just use this book learning time to figure out all the different ways to refer to sex." She takes a long drink from her coffee then sets it down on a side table. "Seriously? Man...if you /could/ consummate verbs, English would be a helluva lot more interesting." Shelby and Mel have occupied a couch. Both have their jackets, both look comfy, both have drinks. The teenager is sipping from hers, getting whipped cream and sprinkles dangerously near her nose. "I got a friend I bet who could do that though. Doug, he's like a whiz with words. Languages and stuff. I could just get him to print me off a list or something. It'd make coming onto people a lot more fun too, can you imagine?" She is delighted. The door to the back swings open. Shane is /damp/. He's usually a good deal damper after doing dishes than is really /necessary/. But he seems to enjoy the damp, absently patting one wet palm against his cheek. He is dressed more casually for dishing than he tends to be on his own time; no button-downs, no vests, though he does at least have pinstripes on his black jeans. A plain grey t-shirt. He has a cable-knit sweater slung over one arm. "Jeez, you have some kinda verb fetish? That's a little weird even for me." "I don't exactly want to," Melinda admits, inhaling deeply as she looks up and over at the newcomer. "Hey, Shane. Nice work today." She toys with her glass of coffee quietly before musing, "I have heard people wax poetic about how much they love words, but I don't know if anyone's ever admitted to wanting to have sex with words. How would you?" And then she's silent for a little while. "Shane!" Shelby points at him--blue boy spotted! "You're coming out tonight with me. Last night was...Jesus, man, who's got pinstriped jeans? What's /wrong/ with you?" She quirks her eyebrows at him before turning a very curious look at Melinda. "Y'know, you got a /way/ dirtier mind than I used to think you did. All you have to do is sit on a speaker, with the bass turned up." "Fuck you, these jeans are awesome. Pa made them for me. They're like the one thing in his wardrobe I was dying to have." Cuz Sebastian already stole the rest. "Where're we going?" He ambles over to take a seat on the armrest of Shelby's couch, reaching out a finger uninvited to swipe at her whipped cream. "Thanks, Mel. Uh. I dunno, I've heard people talk about how music can fuck you but words -- well. Hm. I guess if it's a /really/ good book that's, like, as close as Bastian ever gets to fucking." Melinda's cheeks pinking a bit when she realizes why Shelby is teasing her. "Actually, no. I was thinking about words as concepts instead of sounds, but thank you very much for that mental thought." She straightens up and glances over at Shane and shrugs. "Don't knock books too much. Or not having sex. It's a life style choice." "Drinking'n'dancing. I tried last night but shit got weird," Shelby says as she dances the cup out of the way of Shane's swiping finger. The whipped cream remains tantalyzingly just out of reach, held hostage to his answer. "You in?" Of course, holding the whipped cream hostage doesn't work so well when you allow yourself to be distracted. She looks over at Melinda and grins. "Hey, it works. Just gotta make friends with someone who has really /big/ speakers and a decent amp. It doesn't even count as sex, 'cause speakers aren't people." "Weird like how weird." Shane leans /further/ when Shelby is distracted by Melinda. POKE. The whipped cream is just too tempting. But given that his answer is, "Sure, yeah, I'm in," it's possible he'd have resolved the hostage situation anyway. "Hey, I'm not knocking it. Bastian's fifteen." As though he /isn't/. "He can have all the not-sex he wants. Ryan's got a killer amp and ridiculous speakers. Is /that/ what you've been up to at his place all the time?" "I am not going to discuss my sex life or nonsex life with you," Melinda says at length. She takes a long drink from her coffee and gets to her feet. "I'm just going to let you two go have fun. I'm going to head home." She starts slipping into her jacket, hair pulled out from between the layers of clothes when she is finished. "Maybe he just doesn't know how to ask for it," Shelby suggests, as an alternative to choices. Shane is rewarded with the cup coming close enough for that poke to end up in whipped cream, but she's got her other hand up against his ribs to keep him from toppling on her. Mention of Ryan's place gets a grimace--and retaliation. "Or doesn't wanna rip people up, Mister Sandpaper. You'd like, need a whole body condom and I don't even wanna know how you pull off kissing without biting...home? You sure you don't wanna come out, Mel? A few drinks, some dancing..." "Evolve's great on a Saturday night, Mel," Shane says brightly. And then flashes a sharptoothed grin at Shelby. "Hey, kissing is easy when you've got practice. It's been a while since I bit anyone who didn't /want/ to be bit. Sex, uh, takes practice. I met this dude who heals, like, /wicked/ fast though. Holy /shit/ is that useful. What's the grimace for, Ryan is /hot/. I'd do him in a heartbeat. -- C'mon. You're really gonna spend your Saturday night at home?" "I'd consider going out with you two if you weren't going to talk about sex the entire time, but who am I kidding. You're teenagers. Isn't that all you think about?" Melinda raises an eyebrow and puts an elastic in the bottom half of her hair to keep it tame. "Sorry guys. Maybe next time. I'm kind of wiped and think some time in the bath tub with a ... oh, you know what? I just not going to describe it." She rolls her eyes and heads toward the door. "Yeah, I heard about that guy," Shelby says with a /tone/. It's an eye-rolling tone without the eye-rolling. She hands the cup up to Shane so she can slide onto her feet and rezip her jacket. "I haven't fucked Ryan, anyway. He's hot but Hive said he's got crabs or whatever. Y'know double-bagging doesn't work, right? So I /practice/ and I /look/ and I'm going out /tonight/ to have /fun/," she says, challenging the universe to put a wrench in those plans. About half a second after Melinda walks off, she adds, "Huh, I didn't know they made waterproof ones." "See ya, Mel!" Shane jerks his head up in a nod as Melinda heads out. "He doesn't have crabs, Hive's just jealous Ryan actually gets laid, you know, ever. -- Dude, of course they do, have you never /been/ to a sex shop?" Shane takes the cup so that Shelby can get her jacket on, but he takes the opportunity to steal another slurp and another swipe of whipped cream. "Shit, I'm /so/ not dressed for clubbing. We're stopping by home, okay? Plush I need to get some shit. But /then/, all the dancing." "What, seriously? So he, like, sabotaged me? That bastard." And yet oddly, Shelby seems more amused than not. "It's his own fault, I totally offered." Because going out is like getting laid? Or something. She /is/ prone to exaggeration. With the jacket zipped, she makes a grab for /her/ coffee. "Sure, we can swing by there. You think your dad'd let me borrow something hot? I got some shit we can take too, before we head out. Strike the right mood, y'know? C'mon." And as Melinda did, so too will Shelby head for the door. "Yeah? Sweet. I'm fresh out this weekend." Shane relinquishes the coffee without a fight, largely because he needs to tug on his own sweater and jacket before following after Shelby. "Uh, pa's --" His nose wrinkles. "Gonna be at work anyway. I don't think he'd care if you borrow his shit, Bastian does all the /time/." And he heads out, too, buttoning up his peacoat as the first blast of chilly winter air hits him. Star Wipe! Owned by the same people as the coffeeshop below, Evolve's nightclub, much like its cafe, draws many of its clientele from the mutant community. Aside from the club/goers/, it is much as many clubs are. An abundance of thumping music, a host of guest DJs for the different parties each night, an abundance of various intoxicants legal and not to be found each night. The bar stretches wide along the back wall, well-nicked wood surface contrasting with polished brass fixings. The balcony overlooking the dancefloor carries a host of eclectic mismatched seating, and the dancefloor is usually packed. The room has a more industrial feel than the cafe below, exposed beams of ceiling catching the multicoloured lights oddly, bare walls host to a range of graffiti encouraged by the paint markers hung around the walls by chains. Nightlife! People! Lights and music! Shelby handed out the brain-candy on the way to the apartment, so it's had plenty of time to kick in--she has conveniently forgotten about Jax's rule of "be naughty if you must but be naughty at home". By the time she and Shane get to Evolve, her pupils have swallowed her irises and she is in a /happy/ frame of mind. It helps that happy pretty much sums up Jackson's wardrobe, and she's appropriated shades of pink and yellow for herself, with mesh gloves and wispy bits of gauze everywhere else. Because tonight...tonight she is a fucking /fairy/, man. A fairy with the cover charge for both of them. "Oh my god," she's yelling above the music as she hauls Shane towards the dance floor, "Nothing blew up on the way here!" Shane's pupils are never visible, black-on-black as his eyes are. It makes it somewhat less immediately noticeable, but -- not /entirely/ less noticeable, given his /bright/ toothy smile and the way he kind of /drapes/ an arm around Shelby's shoulders as he's hauled. He is more staid than Shelby, somewhat. Blue vest, grey shirt, grey trousers, and he seems well pleased with life. And Shelby paying the cover charge. And the music. "-- Do things usually blow up?" He's looking upwards, as they get onto the dance floor, rather fixated by the lights above. "I mean, that can be pretty. I'd be down. You wanna blow shit up after?" "They did last night. Murder-drones. A kid who could almost fly. He saved me from pschewwwww." Shelby drags the explosion sound out slowly, because it's funny. And also because, when she glances up to see what Shane is fixated on, she's left in a dreamy stare of her own. Dancing, in this state and this crowd, consists mostly of bouncing with her arms up, curled over her head. "I'm down though...fireworks. That's what we need is fireworks. Man...we need some of that glitter from the dance. That was awesome." "My pa fireworks. Sometimes. At night. Lights up the city. Pschewww," Shane echoes Shelby's explosion sound. And then doubletakes, "-- Pschewww? /Murder/drones? What the /fuck/ that's not the good kind. Don't get murdered. Stick with fireworks. They're --" He is looking up at the lights, too, swaying back and forth in his own dance more gyrate than bounce. "-- colorful. Not murdery. What the fuck?" Although this second what the fuck comes with a laugh rather than horror. Shelby joins in laughing. It's the repetition of the explosion sound effects--she can't help it. "You sound like you got a lisp," she accuses, almost fondly. "It's the teeth, huh? Mm...it was crazy. They were in toy helicopters, the kid said he's helping some dude get info and bam...murder-drones, trying to stop him." Somehow, she accomplishes a spin in spite of the crush around them, timed to 'bam'. "They made this big white light, like whoa," she goes on, hands lifting in an expressive arc. This is interpretive dance of the destructive variety. "I do not /lisp/," Shane says, maaaybe lisping a little with the emphaticness of this. "/Toy/ murderdrone helicopters that sounds like some comic book shit are you high?" This question makes him laugh even more. When Shelby spins, he does too, around her to end up on her other side. "Really though that's crazysauce. Why were they murderizing? What did you /do/?" "I bit my tongue!" Shelby calls, because damned if she's going to turn around when she's got her groove going right here. She ends up grinning over her shoulder at him, doing the rumpling her hair with her arms thing that girls are wont to do. "When he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder like Superman! It was totally comic book except I guess he was breaking and entering?" She is fuzzy on the details--on reality, truth be told--but it is a happy fuzzy. "I mean why did you get murdered by the helicopters?" This might not be the /exact/ correct retelling of events, given that Shelby is here dancing in front of him, but it is what Shane asks. "Were you breaking and entering /too/?" He's quirking a smile over /his/ shoulder, at a lean young man dancing shirtless nearby him, but it's Shelby his attention returns to as he dances in lazy-spinny circles. <Xavier's> Sebastian has disconnected. "I was in the way! I don't break and enter, they were trying to murder him!" Probably. Maybe. Shelby's laughing as she pivots on one heel to face Shane--and catches a glimpse of the guy he'd been smiling at. "Oh, nice," she approves. "Man...you need to give Bastian some lessons." On what, she does not clarify. Too busy curling her arms up and fixing her dilated gaze on the ceiling because lights. Dressed in a black mesh shirt and a black leather jacket with black pants, the only real color on Eric's body is the shimmery silver eyeshadow on his eyelids and neatly around his eyes. He is somewhat sweaty, having been dancing rather vigorously on the far side of the crowd, but now he breaks out of the crowd and steps along the edge of the dancing to get to the bar and grab a drink. He leans against the counter looking thoughtfully out into the crowd. A predator, hunting his prey, he does not immediately notice Shelby, nor Shane. He does spot something that he likes, clearly, because he hammers back his drink and presses back into the crowd, dancing, not too far from Shane or Shelby, but with his back turned to the two teenagers. "All Bastian /does/ is study he doesn't need more lessons," Shane says, very emphatically. "Nice-nice. There's always pretty here. Why were they murdering him did he die? Was he cute?" These questions are given equal weight. "Oh, man, his friend is hot, too. Perfect. One for each of us." Except he's not moving towards them. He's tipping his head back, too, his smile wiiide for the colourful lights above. "He had this stupid mask on. With bug goggles. The Spider or something, I dunno." Shelby is dragged briefly from her contented contemplation of the lights above, in order to make a face--she does not like not knowing if he was hot or not. But she does brighten quickly enough. "I got his phone though, changed the ring tone. He's a geek. /Totally/ into comics." Which must be funny because she laughs, tosses her head back to gaze ceilingwards...before gravity and E-affected reflexes have their way with her. She quick steps back two, three paces and bumps into Eric's butt. "Whoooa, muscles!" "Easy ther'." Eric drawls, turning at the familiar tone of voice. He blinks, rapidly, as he takes the sight of the two teenagers in, and surprise shows clear on his face. "Shane. Sharon." he says, stopping mid-dance move. "Heya. Easy there, before you fall over and get trampled, huh?" he says, eyes twinkling. He turns his head back in the direction he was dancing, look for his prey, but he must have lost them in the crowd for his eyes sweep the crowd as best he can with the limited visibility past writhing bodies. "Bug goggles? What the fuck? Uh. Mask." Something in this draws Shane's brows together thoughtfully, but whatever thought he is /trying/ to have eludes him. Instead he focused on the lights overhead, and then focuses on, "Woah, muscles." This comes with a sharptoothed grin, as he twirls his way around to Eric's other side, resting a hand at the man's hip. "Why're you stopping, looked good." "/Shelby/," the girl insists, blowing her own cover. She rights herself, smooths her hair down and turns to blink. A blink that transitions smoothly into brightness as Shane swoops in. "Oh my god, muscle pony to the rescue /again/! How do you /do/ that, show up just when I'm looking for..." Her eyes flick down to the blue hand against black leather. "Oh, it's like /that/, huh?" But she's grinning, resuming her own gyrations at a slower pace. "He's right, y'know. No stopping allowed out here." Eric blinks for several seconds, the gears in his head taking a few moments to plow through the vodka he had just drank. "I seem to recall that I had some title of nobility in there as well. I'm not just any common muscle pony." he says, winking at Shelby, even as he resumes his dancing, making no more to get closer or farther away from Shane. Shane is certainly moving to get closer to Eric, his hand sliding around the man's waist as he steps in closer. "No? Lord Musclepony? Duke musclepony? /Viscount/ musclepony?" This last makes him laugh, and he tips his head around Muscles to peer at Shelby. "He's the /guy/," he tells her, "and it's okay, we can share, oh my /god/ there's enough muscles for everyone." This might come with a squeeze. Shane is not the most appropriate at the /best/ of times. "/Princess/ Muscle Pony Thor McNoshirt, Esquire," Shelby recites in a breath, "except you've got a shirt on, dude." Sort of. She reaches out to pluck at the mesh while lifting her eyebrows at Shane. "Wait, /the/ guy? Holy shit." Eric is viewed with a new appreciation and perhaps a touch of confusion. Small dancing steps bring her in closer to flank the man on his other side. "I have heard a /lot/ about you," she solemnly informs Eric, "but the one thing no one's told me yet was how good you were in bed." Eric grins as he dances, tossing his head back. Sadly, his hair is not long enough to have the requisite hair-fluttering-cape that is so popular on the cover of pulp novels. "Well, that's because Shane here is a good enough man not to kiss and tell." he says, ruffling his hair ineffectually. He does not seem particularly bothered by the attention, though he does look back and forth between the two of them with a faint look of confusion as he continues to dance. "But, I'll give you one guess." "Princess, okay, that works. But I've never met a Viscount either, can we find one of those?" Shane is pressing up closer, unbothered (or perhaps encouraged, judging by his grin) by Shelby on Eric's other side. He leans around in order to confide to her, "-- /really good/," which maybe nullifies the not kissing and telling thing. And then, "You should try for yourself. And /you/ should not have a shirt." Poor Eric. Mobbed by grabby teenagers. Shelby is likewise encouraged to play me and my shadow with Shane by mirroring his movements--and finding it /hilarious/, because she's laughing as she leans around to get the 411. "See, I /thought/ so but..." The shirt thing remains offensive. She plucks at it again, letting it snap back against a muscley torso. "I think he's saying you should totally come home with us," she says, making big eyes up at Eric. "/Without/ the shirt. We almost /died/ yesterday, isn't that worth oh my god, Shane, Princess Thor was there too! He was totally going to fuck those things up!" "It's barely a shirt. Mesh and everything. Doesn't it look better than nothing?" Eric protests. "And... /only/ really good? Not fantastic?" he pouts down at Shane. He turns and laughs. "Those things would have fucked /me/ up real and proper if they hadn't decided to blow themselves up. They had bombs, I had a trashcan lid." he says, twisting underneath their hands as he spins in a neat little circle. "Iiii don't know nothing looked pretty damn good." The twisting just encourages Shane to press his hands to Eric's muscles as they rotate. His smile is /bright/. And afterwards he tugs at the shirt, pulling it up higher over Eric's stomach. "/Fantastic/," he agrees easily enough, "oh my /god/ you were there? With the murderdrones? Did you get blown up tonight at all cuz /we/ didn't get blown up and that's totally a /sign/, right? You should come home." Thus is high logic. Shane is nodding emphatically to Shelby's come-home-with-them suggestion. "They wouldn't! You grow back." Which triggers /something/ in Shelby's memory. The guy. The guy who she sympathized with Sebastian about being /horrible/. But he's also right there in a mesh shirt and oh my god Shane is not helping, nor is spinning, nor the drug in her system. Her fingers creep towards the exposed abdominal muscles, flirting near the belt-line. "Maybe we should go to /your/ place," she suggests, proving that a hint of conscience remains--the sort of conscience that says it is far better that Jax and Bastian never find out about this. "It is a sign! Celebrate life, right? We could have /died/." "My place? I'm crashing on the couch of one of my co-workers at the moment." Eric drawls, bemusedly. "How about I get us a cab back home?" he offers, leaning into the touch first on one side than on the other. He looks down at Shane, then at Shelby, and something seems to click in his face. There is the briefest of frowns, a flash of - disappointment - and then the smile is firmly back in place. "Or we could just keep dancing." "Home's good," Shane says. Conscienceless. His hands are sliding up higher as Shelby's creep lower, mesh shirt riding along with as they skim up over Eric's chest. His head tilts back, suddenly enthralled once more by the lights above. "Dancing's good. Home's good. It's all life. You should celebrate. No dying. Did the murderdrones want you, too?" Here he laughs, wondering, "-- Were you breaking and entering, /too/? Bad cop." "Dancing is really good," Shelby hums her agreement, content to lean and move and touch. The spike and dip of E are leading her into a light-dazzled dip. "But he's a good cop...he let me leave. Leave when the mutant cops were coming." Her head tilts to rest against Eric's arm, her dreamy smile aimed at Shane. The sing-song statement that follows jars oddly, tone from content. "That's what the Spider said. Murderdrones only want mutants." Eric seems to come to some decision. "Come on, let's go." he murmurs, wrapping an arm around the shoulders of the two smaller dancers and slowly pulling them in the direction of the edge of the crowd. His hands settle on each of their shoulderblades. "The Spider is being looked for by the FBI, and for his sake, I hope we find him before they do." he mutters, darkly. "Wait, they only want us??" Even through his haze, this is enough to cut right through Shane's laughing. "Well. Fuck." He leans into Eric's side maybe more than is really necessary. Possibly the shock of murderdrones is getting to him. Possibly MUSCLES. "You shouldn't get murderer. Or FBI'd. Don't be a spider." He's walking along at Eric's side. Leaning into Eric's side. Whichever. Shelby is happy to be tucked beneath an arm, her own circling Eric's waist and her hand resting against Shane's shoulderblade. He's subject to a light pat and the occasional prickle from idle fingernails. "Or a murder cop," she agrees in sage tones as she's led along. "I had his phone...we could totally call him to hang out. He said I was pretty." Or something like it. After that, talking goes sideways because there are lights and sounds and /celebration/.