Players:
Summary: A grumpy Shane and a stoned Mason try to help each other work through some of their issues.
Date: Monday, January 31, 2011. 11:34pm
Log Title:Can You Take Me Higher?
Rating: PG (Drug Use)
Xavier Mansion - Rec Room
What was once the Parlor has been turned into a Recreation Room for the students. A nice plush carpet meets the light blue walls giving it a homey feel. A pool table at one end, a foos ball table at the other, and entertainment center with video game systems, movies, and of course, cable TV. Big comfy chairs and couches surround a coffee table for comfortable loafing. Long glass windows with a pair of French doors line one side of the room bringing in plenty of light during the day. The main rule in here is to clean up after yourself.
So often, she's come into the rec room to find it occupied. Of late, it seems to be the case whenever Shane wants a moment by herself, which typically ends poorly. So a few hours ago upon finding that, for a change, she'd peeked in to find the giant-screen TV unoccupied, she'd planted herself down, slapped her earphones into the console, and hasn't moved much since. On the screen, undead warriors, flying monsters, and savage minotaurs are slaughtered in droves, the flickering light washing out her black hoodie and blue jeans, yet managing to throw the mousey brown 'skunk stripe' of un-dyed roots into sharp contrast with the neon-blue and pink streaks making up the rest of her hair.
Mason's life has been busy since classes start, but even though he has to study music all day long for Julliard, he still loves to do it in his off time. He wanders in, seemingly slightly off balance. He carries his keyboard with him, and haphazardly sets it up behind the couch, watching the game take place. He really hasn't recognized that it's Shane playing. Oh, now he has. He looks down, and cocks his head to one side, pondering the significance of her lack of anime costume. "Well, I guess that's good," he says aloud to himself as he unwinds the power cable to the keyboard.
If she noticed the teen star's entrance, it's likely she's simply doing her level best to ignore him. However, given the efficacy of her headphones and the concentration she's bending towards the bloody slaughter of the Evil Hordes of Something Or Other, it's equally likely she just didn't realize anyone came in. Slamming the buttons on the controller as though victory through intimidation were possible, she continues on with her game, her lips a thin, tight line.
Mason doesn't seem to think that he's noticed, and he starts to press the keys on his keyboard. Something's wrong. Oh, there it is, it's not turned on. Wait, it's not turning on. Oh, he needs to plug it in. His behavior doesn't seem quite normal. He's not drunk, just…acting strange. But he's feeling rather artistic, all the same. He finally finishes getting set up, several feet back from the couch, and begins to play an intro. The song? Well, he's never played this melody before, he's just improvising. It's not bad, but not nearly as refined as most of his works.
By the first few bars, it becomes apparent that other music is being played in the room, judging from the vibrations more felt than heard. Pausing the game, she lifts up one of the cups over her ears… And unseen from the back of the couch, her shoulders slump. Pulling the headphones off and tossing them to one side, she folds her arms, burrows into the couch cushions, and sighs to herself. "Little loud, y'know," she calls over the improvised melody. "Some people're trying to sleep."
A bewildered look crosses Mason's face. "What time is it?" he asks. "Did I wake you?" He suddenly seems to realize the absurd nature of the question. "Sorry, nevermind, I kinda feel weird right now," he tries to excuse himself with a knit of the brow, and quickly shifts gears. "How're you?" He doesn't seem to realize that he froze on a chord, it's still playing. Truly odd.
"…Are you high or something?" Coming from Southern California, the question isn't terribly unusual even for Shane, whether or not it's at all accurate. "You're *still playing.* Turn that damn thing off before someone gets mad and we're both screwed, will you?!"
Mason lifts his hands from the keys. "Sorry," he says. He walks over to the couch, and leans forward over the back, plopping head first into the other side, and turning so that he's sitting upside down. He stares at the screen. "I just wanted to cheer you up," he tells her. "Something must be up, you're not wearing one of your cosplay outfits." Oh snap! That was a coherent thought, we're cookin' with gas now!
Shane stares. Coherent, and uncharacteristically perceptive. Coupled with his current behavior, her theory seems to be panning out, and she narrows her eyes. "…You *are* high, aren't you." Not a question, for questioning would imply a lack of certainty.
Mason lifts his head and looks back at Shane. "I am not…" he seems to ponder for a moment. "…sure." He doesn't remember taking drugs at least. "Are you just trying to change the subject?" He reaches into his pocket, and pulls a rock out of his pocket. "I don't think I am." He flicks the rock upward, and it is fired at a rather unnatural velocity, embedding itself in the ceiling. "That wasn't supposed to happen."
"It's a convenient side effect," Shane mutters, eyebrow rising sharply as the rock becomes one with the ceiling. "You're either high or you're drunk. Or you've been playing chicken with brick walls on your off hours… Either way."
"Oh, I did do that the other day. It was so sweet. I love my powers." Yeah, he can win that game of chicken with the brick wall. His breath doesn't smell like alcohol, though. He pulls his feet around from the back of the couch to the floor, sitting himself upright. "Headrush." The boy blinks a few times. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to act weird on you," he says, fighting for control over his brain. So why aren't you wearing your outfits?" he asks again. The subject of what he's recently put in his system isn't one he wants to explore.
"Cause," is all the reply he gets in return. An evasion for an evasion, but if one looks closely and hammers their brain into shape, Shane looks markedly less chipper than usual. Which, given her default setting, says more than perhaps it should.
Mason doesn't respond, he seems to be waiting for the rest of the statement. His baby blue eyes ambiguously watch her as if she's still speaking, and he kicks his shoes off, drawing his feed up underneath him as if he were a child listening to a story.
Shane narrows her eyes at the boy for a moment, shoulders hunching slightly as she looks away "…..Didn't feel like it."
Mason frowns, "That wasn't a very interesting story," he says. "I think you left out a few parts." He adjusts again so that he finds himself sitting on his knees, and then stands on the couch. He looks up at the ceiling where the rock is. Still out of reach.
"Remind me when you're off the percocet," Shane snaps, "maybe it'll be more interesting *then.*"
"It wasn't percocet," Mason answers. He steps up onto the arm and the back of the couch, balancing as he stretches to try to get the rock out of the ceiling. Almost there… "I think it was the quartz. Does it have to do with the hole you made outside the kitchen window?" he shifts quickly back to her again. Hey, at least he's concerned?
Shane falls into a silence even more sullen than before. Clearly, untold depths of teenage angst are being plumbed within the girl's mind, as she pulls her legs up to her chin, looking away at nothing special. "Yeah."
Mason gets up to his toes, and manages to get a finger on the stone. He pulls it out, and suddenly starts to lose his balance. He waves his arms widely to try to keep his balance, starts to fall forward toward Shane, and then manages at the last moment to shift his direction so that he strikes the back of the couch, and then thuds onto the ground behind it. There is the sound of a crack as he strikes the back, but the couch seems to remain intact "Ow," he grunts. Suddenly, he pops his head over the back of the couch again. "So?" he asks, urging her to continue. Sober Mason wouldn't dare keep pushing the issue, but it appears that stoned Mason lacks that discernment. Then again, sober Mason would have been afraid to look in Shane's direction.
Shane blinks sharply as Mason falls, reflexively about to ask after his well-being… but then he pops his head back up. Frowning deeply, the girl pokes at the back of the couch. "…Did you just break something? …Like your spine, or this couch?"
"I'm fine," Mason says, a cheesy grin crossing his face. "Got the rock." He holds is up, and sniffs it. It has some sheetrock on it now. "So what's the deal?" he asks, leaning his arms over the couch and resting his head on them. It seems slightly less stable than it was before he struck it, but in no danger of falling apart. "I mean, you don't blow up very often. Somebody call you fat? Oh, did they make fun of your outfit?" That would explain why she's not wearing one, surely.
"*Yes,*" Shane hisses having had enough of the prodding and turning away. "Yes, okay? Not just anyone either, only that *Frost* lady who runs the place. Just drop it, okay?"
The instant that Shane turns away there is the sound of a loud crunch as he pops the rock into his mouth and chews it like candy. Did that just happen? "Okay," he answers with his mouth full, seeming to be satisfied. "Shane?" he asks only a moment later, still chewing.
Shane says, "What.""
"How come you complain about people always being ready to hurt you, but when someone tries to care about you, you get mad at them?" Mason asks, childlike demeanor still present, but the question seems serious enough.
The question brings Shane up short, and she falls silent, tugging her knees closer to her chest. Mason's behavior, for the moment, set aside. After a long silence, she closes her eyes. "…Y'know how you don't want to go anywhere people might know who you are? Because then they'll make up all kinds of stories about why you're there?"
"Yeah," Mason answers. "Sometimes."
"That's why," Shane says. "Only it's everyone. All the time."
"I just go anyway," Mason answers. "Because if I never went anywhere people might know who I am, then I'd never be anywhere." Wait, did that makes sense? He gives a puzzled look at nothing specific. He thinks it made sense. "Nobody here even knows you anyway, so you don't have anything to worry about." Except Mason knows her.
"That's the *point,* idiot," Shane says, sighing. "They're not *supposed* to. But that doesn't stop them from saying things anyway. Robyn called me a stuck-up bitch."
Mason leaps back over the couch, and lands next to Shane, his dense body causing the cushion to cave toward him. He's definitely within the bubble. "Well, just say who you are louder than they do," he suggests. "If they know who you are, then they won't need to make stuff up." Whether welcome or not, he reaches out to wrap his arms around the Shane-ball on the couch. Apparently high Mason is also very cuddly. And smells a little like potting soil.
Shane writhes out of the grip, slipping off the couch and standing, glaring down at the terrakinetic. "God, what are you *on?* Seriously…" Turning, she stabs the Off button on the TV, following it up with the console. "Not like it matters what I say, anyway. No one ever listened, remember? No one ever does."
Mason rolls over into the place where Shane was previously, and looks up at her. "Sorry, I'm not sure why I did that," he says. "I listened," he continues, returning to the previous topic. He may have screwed up the relationship pretty badly, but listening wasn't where he went wrong. He's listening now, too.
"Yeah, you did," Shane admits, shrugging. "So something else had to ruin it. And now you're on drugs, so yeah, what's that say."
Mason goes quiet again. "It says I hurt, too," comes the answer. Not having a good grip on himself, his eyes begin to quickly well up. He quickly wipes his eyes , sitting up and grunting at the display to try to clear them.
Shane blinks, spinning around to face Mason, a deep, puzzled frown on her face. "…What do *you* have to hurt about?" Despite the words, there's almost no venom in her voice; the question, an honest one.
Mason looks up, his eyes clear, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks almost amazed that she wouldn't know. His blue eyes stare unflinching into the girl's. "Shane, I have you to hurt about."
If there was any answer Shane expected, what Mason actually spoke would have been far from it. Her head rears back, eyes widening for a moment. "…Seriously? But I…" Trailing off, she realizes that she has, in fact, nothing she can say in the face of this, and just closes her mouth, shaking her head slowly.
"I wake up every day," Mason tells Shane, "And I think to myself: Mason, you can never take that back. I just want to make it stop hurting, even if it's just for a little while." He looks down at the floor, and shrugs.
"That…" Shane searches for words for a moment, finally settling on "…is the *stupidest* thing I have ever heard. And I had *Lauryn Campbell* in front of me for French." Letting out an explosive sigh, the girl shakes her head. "Look, I *told* you already. You can't take it back, yeah. Also told you you can make up for it. Why're you only listening halfway?"
"What, you're going to be the counselor now?" Mason laughs in a slightly hysterical manner. "Maybe you think I can, but I'll just find another way to screw it up. You know why? Because I don't know how to be a good friend. I go to all of the biggest and coolest parties anybody could want. Everybody knows my name, but nobody knows me. Not even me. None of them are my friends, they just want to get a piece of me, either what's in my pants or what's in my wallet. Everyone here? They look at me like I'm some space alien. So no, I can't make up for it. I don't know how."
"You really *are* on drugs," Shane observes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "…All right. Look. Knock it off, okay? Jesus. You've got enough to deal with, beating yourself up over me's just pointless. And whether I'm mad or not… you don't need to be tossed out on your face for drugs. Christ. That'll be big news."
Mason giggles a little, apparently something in her tone was amusing. "Okay, whatever. All the famous people do it," which of course makes it okay. "Wait, when'd we start talking about me?" he asks. The conversation moved too far for him to keep following. "And why would you care anyway? Isn't this what you want? See big bad Mason Steele fall? It's poetic, isn't it?"
"No," Shane says, "*No.* I never wanted your life to be ruined. I'm *not* a bitch, Mason. Just angry. *Huge* difference. Told you that before, when I said I wouldn't tell anyone *why* I'm angry at you."
Mason waves his hand and gets to his feet. "I'm hungry, I'm gonna go to bed," he says. Probably not quite the phrase combination he was looking for. "Just.." How does he want to close the conversation? "Eat your vegetables. Not everybody is out to get you. I'm not saying you gotta talk to Ms. Frost, she's kinda creepy, but try saying hi when you see people, it'd be a nice start. You do that, and I'll stop doing quartz." What exactly 'quartz' is, who knows. "I think. I'll try."
Shane grunts. "….I'll try too," she says after a moment. "…And hey. I meant it. Never wanted your life to suck cause of me. Okay?"
Mason nods. "I never wanted yours to suck either. "So I guess let's both stop sucking," he says in a sober moment. It's broken again by a giggle. "We both just said suck," he observes. How mature.
