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om_main2013-01-24 07:22 pm
om_upstart) wrote in om_main2013-01-24 07:22 pm
Damon and Shinobi, Thursday Evening
Damon meets his new roommate. What more could possibly need to be said?
So, this was the Xavier Institute for Something-or-Other, hmm? Well, the music blaring through Shinobi's earbuds certainly suited the plush decor.
"--never live like common people,
you'll never do whatever common people do,
never fail like common people,
never watch your life slide out of view ..."
Ugh, this suitcase was damnably heavy, and getting damnablier and heavier with every thumping step up. Was "damnablier" even a word? Who could possibly care? All Shinobi knew was that he was perishing of fatigue already, and this was only one piece of a matched set of eight. It would take a million lifetimes to haul all of his things the hundreds of thousands of leagues between the foyer and the room he'd been assigned. Not even the denasal caterwauling of Jarvis Cocker could lend bounce to his step, under such awful circumstances.
"... and then dance, and drink, and screw,
'cause there's nothin' else to dooo-ooo-ooo ..."
Not that he was going to stop singing. Because nothing could stop the fucking singing.
Finally, after interminable aeons of hiking through the bowels of the House that Freaks Built, he located the configuration of numbers designating that this was, indeed, where he would be spending the next several ... well, years, probably. A lifetime, if Daddy had his way. But that was hardly worth worrying about; they hadn't built a sideshow finishing school yet that could hold Shinobi Shaw. And, for the moment, it promised to be an absolutely delicious diversion. The possibilities set him near to shivering with anticipation.
Without knocking, he peeked his head through the door--literally through it, his face peering suddenly through the solid wood. Nobody seemed to be home, but whoever nobody was, at least he had decent taste. Not impeccable, but not so unspeakably awful and pedestrian it made Shinobi want to eat his own eyes. That was something.
Only one bed, though. That could be problematic. Or not, depending on how tasty his new cohabitant turned out to be.
Abandoning the suitcase, he phased his way inside, gave a dramatic turn before the bed, and fell backward onto the mattress with a decisive plop.
"I wanna live with common people, I wanna live with common people ..."
Two minutes later, Damon stood outside the door to his room, eyeing the suitcase with a great loathing. It was part of his punishment, surely, that they'd finally decided to give him a roommate. He'd gotten the slip of paper from Lensherr while he was downstairs. Just one name. Shinobi Shaw. Damon hadn't even realized that billionaire corporate giant Sebastian Shaw had a son, but he knew it wasn't a coincidence. Not if Worthington was here.
No, Shinobi - and what idiot came up with that one? - was Shaw's son, no doubt. Another spoiled brat. Not that Damon could throw stones. His family had always been wealthy enough, but in an old-money way. Never over the top or known worldwide.
Damon gave another roll of his eyes at the luggage, listened to the singing coming from his room, and decided that that, at least, needed to stop. He opened the door, stepping over the luggage as though it were a dead animal, and strolled toward the bed. He hadn't been expecting Asian, but, hey, with a name like 'Shinobi,' he supposed he should have. He lifted an eyebrow, folded his arms across his chest, and waited for the kid to pull the earbuds out of his head.
Shinobi felt rather than heard his new roommate enter, his singing slowly dying out. He cracked one eye open to see the other boy glowering down at him. But Shinobi was used to that look of disdain, and it didn't particularly faze him. Of course, he'd been briefed on Salvatore's powers by the oh-so-conscientious Professor and his cohort, and so he knew it was prudent to be wary. He also knew that prudence was boring, and that he hadn't been stuck in here to teach Salvatore about the magic of friendship.
No, neither of them were particularly nice or well-behaved boys. So they'd been jammed together to minimize the damage they might have done if they'd been spread between two rooms. Perhaps in the tacit hope that they'd gnaw each other to death like two starving rats in a sack.
Small chance of that. Shinobi wasn't about to be cowed by anyone, not his father, not Xavier, not even a pretty mind-fucker like Damon. That being the case, there was no reason he shouldn't be pleasant.
He tugged the buds from his ears, tilting his head up to look past Salvatore at his luggage now lying in the hall. "I suppose it would have been too much to hope you'd sort of nudge that across the threshold for me." Shinobi tilted his head, dark eyes glinting. "You look like a man in need of a drink. Or three. I've been told I have that effect on people."
Damon's eyebrows went up. Well, that was unexpected. "Are you footing the bill?"
Rising with a sprightly grace that had not been even remotely in evidence a moment ago, Shinobi grinned, stretching and walking past Damon to retrieve his suitcase. "Technically," he said, dragging the massive thing inside, "Sebastian Shaw is footing the bill." He rummaged around the contents for a few moments--it appeared to consist largely of shirts in a blinding variety of colors--before emerging with a bottle in each hand, one silver and clear, the other a rich, smoky amber. Both looked as though they'd have cost most of the elder Shaw's employees several months' salary.
"But that means we get to drink the good stuff."
Damon's eyebrows rose even higher, and he turned, moving to one of the dressers to pull out a pair of glass tumblers. When he turned back, there was an unmistakable grin on his lips, pale eyes dancing. "If you're trying to bribe me, it's absolutely working."
The contents of the bottles sloshed enticingly. "Oh, this is absolutely a bribe. I pride myself on my knack for appealing to vice. And this is one I particularly enjoy." After a moment's consideration, he traded one of them--an exceedingly fine single-malt Scotch--for one of Damon's glasses. "The way I see it, there's no reason this arrangement should be completely unbearable, even if it means one or both of us needs to be inebriated at all times. Or possibly devising other ingenious ways to spend the old man's money. I'm nothing if not pliable that way."
"We need music," Damon pointed out, cradling the Scotch as he moved to his stereo. "Sorority girls too, but barring that...music. And you get to help me pull the beds apart, because there's no way in hell I'm sharing with you."
Shinobi made a show of pouting. "I should have known not to spoil you so quickly. Now you've gone and taken half the fun out of our domestic arrangement. Or maybe I should have tried to get you drunk sooner. Ah, well. Hindsight." Chuckling, he settled his own glass and bottle on the edge of one desk, where it would be in no danger of either tipping onto the floor or spilling over anything expensive, and rolled up his sleeves. Stooping down and increasing his mass to its maximum density, he used his augmented strength to pull one of the beds away from the other easily.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he offered, "I'll get the other one, too, if you start pouring. And possibly looking up nearby campuses ripe for the poaching."
As Anberlin's cover of Enjoy the Silence thrummed to life from the stereo system, Damon gave the Scotch an appreciative look before glancing over his shoulder. What he saw flicked his eyebrows upward once again. So, at least Shinobi Shaw had unpredictability on his side. Also, point of interest, usefulness. "Super-strength, hmm?" he asked, as he first poured himself a glass, then did the same for his new roommate, with his choice of liquor. "Handy."
"Oh, yes," Shinobi agreed, brushing his hands together as if wiping away imaginary dust. "Very. But it's more a byproduct than the main attraction." To illustrate, he walked through the bed he had recently relocated to get to its twin, hardening again when he reached it to give him the strength he needed to move it to the opposite corner with as little obvious effort as the first. "It was such a useful skillset, once upon a time. Back before the word 'mutant' meant anything scarier than a six-legged frog, or two-headed calf embryo."
He sighed, but almost immediately began swaying to the music in spite of himself as he moved to retrieve his drink. "So, what's your take on this opulent gulag and our fellow inmates? I'd love to hear the voice of experience, unvarnished by the need to spare anyone's feelings."
"Opulent gulag generally covers it," Damon rolled his eyes, but lifted the glass to his lips, savoring what had to be the best Scotch he'd ever tasted. He groaned slightly, licking his lips in adoration of the stuff, then strolled toward one of the closets, where he'd stored the twin-sized bedding. He took pieces out, one handedly throwing them to either bed.
"The staff's human and boring as hell, except for Lensherr, Xavier, and the drill sergeant in the shape of an leprechaun. The student population is generally divided into three main food groups: Sweet Valley High, 90210, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The girls are hot, but mostly stuck up, with one or two exceptions...and there are more than a few famous faces around."
Damon paused to take another sip, letting his eyes roll back in pleasure. "Mm, and they don't take kindly to the whole, 'using your abilities on other students' thing."
It would have been difficult not to find Damon's reactions just a little bit adorable, and so Shinobi was not particularly inclined to try--say whatever else you might about him, he knew how to appreciate fine liquor. That was a fact that greatly recommended a person, in the younger Shaw's opinion. He wrinkled his nose, however, at the description of the faculty and students. "So saccharine, tart, and spicy? I suppose the limited menu is just something I'll have to learn to cope with."
The rest, he waved away, making vague circles in the air with his glass. He was already quite familiar with girls of a certain ... disposition. That would just have to be eroded over time. And fame wasn't something that interested him much, save in the most fleeting sort of way. As to the other, "Well, my abilities don't really lend themselves to being used on others." Shinobi paused, reflected, and then, "Unless I wanted to scramble somebody's molecules, I suppose. But that seems like it would be awfully messy."
He shrugged. "In any event, I wish I could say I relished the challenge, but the truth is I hate being challenged. Luckily, I happened to bring along the right medicine." Shinobi held up his glass and downed half its clear contents in a gulp, sighing beatifically as the vodka burned its way down his throat to lie hot in his stomach. "Kanpai."
"Whatever that means," Damon answered in amusement, taking a long sip of the Scotch and savoring the fact that all of his limbs started to loosen up at the same time.
Shinobi grinned. "That's Japanese for 'cul sec'." After helping himself to a second, liberal portion of vodka, he moved over to one of the beds, sitting on the edge and idly smoothing out the sheet under the palm of his hand. He supposed this would have to be made up at some point. Perhaps when his buzz was a little stronger. Or maybe he could convince Damon to re-think his stance on the one-bed-per-occupant policy.
Probably not, but it seemed worth a try. "Stringent enforcers of the rules, are they? All evidence to the contrary?" He gestured toward his glass before having another long, luxurious sip.
"They do seem to care more about some than others," Damon agreed moving to lounge on his own bed, now regrettably much smaller than it had been. "I take it you already know what I can do?"
"Oh, yes. I was given the full overview. Responsible school management, and all that." Shinobi's brows rose. "At least, they told me as much as they felt obliged to. Which may or may not have been all they knew, just as it may or may not have been all there is to tell." He could see already that Damon was not the sort to lay all his cards on the table without a compelling reason, and was willing to wager the entire contents of his mini-bar on wheels that the other teen had kept a few things back--even from the headmasters. It was just sound strategy.
A pity his own pathological craving for attention made him incapable of that level of discretion. There were some secrets he could keep, but when it came to his gifts, he simply couldn't resist a little boasting.
"But I suppose I have a grasp of the basic premise."
"Great," Damon drawled. That meant he didn't have to bother explaining himself. He waved a hand at the other teen. "So you can go ahead and tell me how the hell your power works. What's with that whole ghost routine?"
Shinobi drained the contents of his glass in one long, heady pull--if he were going to be obliged to explain his powers, then he was going to require fortification. Not that he found them uninteresting, not in the least! He just didn't care to prattle on about something that he already understood more or less as well as he needed to. "Personal molecular density control," he recited, as if by rote. "I can decrease the spaces between them until I'm as bulletproof as the windows on the Popemobile, or increase them to walk through walls and doors and things." He gestured grandly with his now-empty glass. "As you say, handy."
Damon's eyebrows went up, and his lips turned up in an impressed smirk before allowing himself to take another sip of the Scotch. After a moment, he looked thoughtful. "What about your clothes? Stuff you're carrying?"
Grinning, Shinobi rose to get himself another drink. "Seems to extend to my clothes--thank god evolution was so thoughtful. Even Daddy's pocketbook might feel the strain if I needed to replace my wardrobe every time I was too lazy to walk around a coffee table." He steadied himself against the desk, head growing pleasantly fuzzy, as he poured. "Small objects, too. Anything bigger than, say, a notebook or a tablet PC, though, and ... well, the results aren't pretty."
Not even wanting to think about the science behind that, Damon just lounged back against the wall, kicking one knee up, draining his glass with a satisfied hum. "Remind me not to lean on you too often, then."
Chuffing out a short laugh, Shinobi returned to his bed with his refreshed drink and flopped down--carefully--onto his stomach, facing Damon. "I will promise nothing of the sort. But if it puts your mind at ease, it's not something I can do by accident. Feel free to lean as often and as long as you need to. You'll find me quite obliging, that way."
"As pretty as you are, ninja-boy," Damon smirked slightly. "You're definitely not my type. Just to put that out there."
"Details, details," he returned dismissively. The only type that mattered to Shinobi was willing. Anything else was just flavor. "I'll wear you down eventually. Or murder a great deal of high-priced liquor in the attempt. Seems like a win-win scenario to me."
"By all means. Murder away," Damon agreed, pale eyes alight at the prospect. He had little problem with a gay (or bi) roommate. The fact that guys didn't actually get him going at all didn't mean he had anything against people whose dicks were more open-minded, and he sure as hell didn't have anything against being plied with top-shelf whiskey.
"Such a gracious invitation." Shinobi smiled wickedly. "What sort of roommate would I be if I failed to accept?" He drained his glass again, sighing contentedly as he finished. No, it was not the best of all possible worlds, but he could see no reason at all why this arrangement shouldn't be a magnificent diversion. This was already more fun than he'd had in months. He could scarcely wait to see what other offerings might await him at this charming sideshow.
So, this was the Xavier Institute for Something-or-Other, hmm? Well, the music blaring through Shinobi's earbuds certainly suited the plush decor.
"--never live like common people,
you'll never do whatever common people do,
never fail like common people,
never watch your life slide out of view ..."
Ugh, this suitcase was damnably heavy, and getting damnablier and heavier with every thumping step up. Was "damnablier" even a word? Who could possibly care? All Shinobi knew was that he was perishing of fatigue already, and this was only one piece of a matched set of eight. It would take a million lifetimes to haul all of his things the hundreds of thousands of leagues between the foyer and the room he'd been assigned. Not even the denasal caterwauling of Jarvis Cocker could lend bounce to his step, under such awful circumstances.
"... and then dance, and drink, and screw,
'cause there's nothin' else to dooo-ooo-ooo ..."
Not that he was going to stop singing. Because nothing could stop the fucking singing.
Finally, after interminable aeons of hiking through the bowels of the House that Freaks Built, he located the configuration of numbers designating that this was, indeed, where he would be spending the next several ... well, years, probably. A lifetime, if Daddy had his way. But that was hardly worth worrying about; they hadn't built a sideshow finishing school yet that could hold Shinobi Shaw. And, for the moment, it promised to be an absolutely delicious diversion. The possibilities set him near to shivering with anticipation.
Without knocking, he peeked his head through the door--literally through it, his face peering suddenly through the solid wood. Nobody seemed to be home, but whoever nobody was, at least he had decent taste. Not impeccable, but not so unspeakably awful and pedestrian it made Shinobi want to eat his own eyes. That was something.
Only one bed, though. That could be problematic. Or not, depending on how tasty his new cohabitant turned out to be.
Abandoning the suitcase, he phased his way inside, gave a dramatic turn before the bed, and fell backward onto the mattress with a decisive plop.
"I wanna live with common people, I wanna live with common people ..."
Two minutes later, Damon stood outside the door to his room, eyeing the suitcase with a great loathing. It was part of his punishment, surely, that they'd finally decided to give him a roommate. He'd gotten the slip of paper from Lensherr while he was downstairs. Just one name. Shinobi Shaw. Damon hadn't even realized that billionaire corporate giant Sebastian Shaw had a son, but he knew it wasn't a coincidence. Not if Worthington was here.
No, Shinobi - and what idiot came up with that one? - was Shaw's son, no doubt. Another spoiled brat. Not that Damon could throw stones. His family had always been wealthy enough, but in an old-money way. Never over the top or known worldwide.
Damon gave another roll of his eyes at the luggage, listened to the singing coming from his room, and decided that that, at least, needed to stop. He opened the door, stepping over the luggage as though it were a dead animal, and strolled toward the bed. He hadn't been expecting Asian, but, hey, with a name like 'Shinobi,' he supposed he should have. He lifted an eyebrow, folded his arms across his chest, and waited for the kid to pull the earbuds out of his head.
Shinobi felt rather than heard his new roommate enter, his singing slowly dying out. He cracked one eye open to see the other boy glowering down at him. But Shinobi was used to that look of disdain, and it didn't particularly faze him. Of course, he'd been briefed on Salvatore's powers by the oh-so-conscientious Professor and his cohort, and so he knew it was prudent to be wary. He also knew that prudence was boring, and that he hadn't been stuck in here to teach Salvatore about the magic of friendship.
No, neither of them were particularly nice or well-behaved boys. So they'd been jammed together to minimize the damage they might have done if they'd been spread between two rooms. Perhaps in the tacit hope that they'd gnaw each other to death like two starving rats in a sack.
Small chance of that. Shinobi wasn't about to be cowed by anyone, not his father, not Xavier, not even a pretty mind-fucker like Damon. That being the case, there was no reason he shouldn't be pleasant.
He tugged the buds from his ears, tilting his head up to look past Salvatore at his luggage now lying in the hall. "I suppose it would have been too much to hope you'd sort of nudge that across the threshold for me." Shinobi tilted his head, dark eyes glinting. "You look like a man in need of a drink. Or three. I've been told I have that effect on people."
Damon's eyebrows went up. Well, that was unexpected. "Are you footing the bill?"
Rising with a sprightly grace that had not been even remotely in evidence a moment ago, Shinobi grinned, stretching and walking past Damon to retrieve his suitcase. "Technically," he said, dragging the massive thing inside, "Sebastian Shaw is footing the bill." He rummaged around the contents for a few moments--it appeared to consist largely of shirts in a blinding variety of colors--before emerging with a bottle in each hand, one silver and clear, the other a rich, smoky amber. Both looked as though they'd have cost most of the elder Shaw's employees several months' salary.
"But that means we get to drink the good stuff."
Damon's eyebrows rose even higher, and he turned, moving to one of the dressers to pull out a pair of glass tumblers. When he turned back, there was an unmistakable grin on his lips, pale eyes dancing. "If you're trying to bribe me, it's absolutely working."
The contents of the bottles sloshed enticingly. "Oh, this is absolutely a bribe. I pride myself on my knack for appealing to vice. And this is one I particularly enjoy." After a moment's consideration, he traded one of them--an exceedingly fine single-malt Scotch--for one of Damon's glasses. "The way I see it, there's no reason this arrangement should be completely unbearable, even if it means one or both of us needs to be inebriated at all times. Or possibly devising other ingenious ways to spend the old man's money. I'm nothing if not pliable that way."
"We need music," Damon pointed out, cradling the Scotch as he moved to his stereo. "Sorority girls too, but barring that...music. And you get to help me pull the beds apart, because there's no way in hell I'm sharing with you."
Shinobi made a show of pouting. "I should have known not to spoil you so quickly. Now you've gone and taken half the fun out of our domestic arrangement. Or maybe I should have tried to get you drunk sooner. Ah, well. Hindsight." Chuckling, he settled his own glass and bottle on the edge of one desk, where it would be in no danger of either tipping onto the floor or spilling over anything expensive, and rolled up his sleeves. Stooping down and increasing his mass to its maximum density, he used his augmented strength to pull one of the beds away from the other easily.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he offered, "I'll get the other one, too, if you start pouring. And possibly looking up nearby campuses ripe for the poaching."
As Anberlin's cover of Enjoy the Silence thrummed to life from the stereo system, Damon gave the Scotch an appreciative look before glancing over his shoulder. What he saw flicked his eyebrows upward once again. So, at least Shinobi Shaw had unpredictability on his side. Also, point of interest, usefulness. "Super-strength, hmm?" he asked, as he first poured himself a glass, then did the same for his new roommate, with his choice of liquor. "Handy."
"Oh, yes," Shinobi agreed, brushing his hands together as if wiping away imaginary dust. "Very. But it's more a byproduct than the main attraction." To illustrate, he walked through the bed he had recently relocated to get to its twin, hardening again when he reached it to give him the strength he needed to move it to the opposite corner with as little obvious effort as the first. "It was such a useful skillset, once upon a time. Back before the word 'mutant' meant anything scarier than a six-legged frog, or two-headed calf embryo."
He sighed, but almost immediately began swaying to the music in spite of himself as he moved to retrieve his drink. "So, what's your take on this opulent gulag and our fellow inmates? I'd love to hear the voice of experience, unvarnished by the need to spare anyone's feelings."
"Opulent gulag generally covers it," Damon rolled his eyes, but lifted the glass to his lips, savoring what had to be the best Scotch he'd ever tasted. He groaned slightly, licking his lips in adoration of the stuff, then strolled toward one of the closets, where he'd stored the twin-sized bedding. He took pieces out, one handedly throwing them to either bed.
"The staff's human and boring as hell, except for Lensherr, Xavier, and the drill sergeant in the shape of an leprechaun. The student population is generally divided into three main food groups: Sweet Valley High, 90210, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The girls are hot, but mostly stuck up, with one or two exceptions...and there are more than a few famous faces around."
Damon paused to take another sip, letting his eyes roll back in pleasure. "Mm, and they don't take kindly to the whole, 'using your abilities on other students' thing."
It would have been difficult not to find Damon's reactions just a little bit adorable, and so Shinobi was not particularly inclined to try--say whatever else you might about him, he knew how to appreciate fine liquor. That was a fact that greatly recommended a person, in the younger Shaw's opinion. He wrinkled his nose, however, at the description of the faculty and students. "So saccharine, tart, and spicy? I suppose the limited menu is just something I'll have to learn to cope with."
The rest, he waved away, making vague circles in the air with his glass. He was already quite familiar with girls of a certain ... disposition. That would just have to be eroded over time. And fame wasn't something that interested him much, save in the most fleeting sort of way. As to the other, "Well, my abilities don't really lend themselves to being used on others." Shinobi paused, reflected, and then, "Unless I wanted to scramble somebody's molecules, I suppose. But that seems like it would be awfully messy."
He shrugged. "In any event, I wish I could say I relished the challenge, but the truth is I hate being challenged. Luckily, I happened to bring along the right medicine." Shinobi held up his glass and downed half its clear contents in a gulp, sighing beatifically as the vodka burned its way down his throat to lie hot in his stomach. "Kanpai."
"Whatever that means," Damon answered in amusement, taking a long sip of the Scotch and savoring the fact that all of his limbs started to loosen up at the same time.
Shinobi grinned. "That's Japanese for 'cul sec'." After helping himself to a second, liberal portion of vodka, he moved over to one of the beds, sitting on the edge and idly smoothing out the sheet under the palm of his hand. He supposed this would have to be made up at some point. Perhaps when his buzz was a little stronger. Or maybe he could convince Damon to re-think his stance on the one-bed-per-occupant policy.
Probably not, but it seemed worth a try. "Stringent enforcers of the rules, are they? All evidence to the contrary?" He gestured toward his glass before having another long, luxurious sip.
"They do seem to care more about some than others," Damon agreed moving to lounge on his own bed, now regrettably much smaller than it had been. "I take it you already know what I can do?"
"Oh, yes. I was given the full overview. Responsible school management, and all that." Shinobi's brows rose. "At least, they told me as much as they felt obliged to. Which may or may not have been all they knew, just as it may or may not have been all there is to tell." He could see already that Damon was not the sort to lay all his cards on the table without a compelling reason, and was willing to wager the entire contents of his mini-bar on wheels that the other teen had kept a few things back--even from the headmasters. It was just sound strategy.
A pity his own pathological craving for attention made him incapable of that level of discretion. There were some secrets he could keep, but when it came to his gifts, he simply couldn't resist a little boasting.
"But I suppose I have a grasp of the basic premise."
"Great," Damon drawled. That meant he didn't have to bother explaining himself. He waved a hand at the other teen. "So you can go ahead and tell me how the hell your power works. What's with that whole ghost routine?"
Shinobi drained the contents of his glass in one long, heady pull--if he were going to be obliged to explain his powers, then he was going to require fortification. Not that he found them uninteresting, not in the least! He just didn't care to prattle on about something that he already understood more or less as well as he needed to. "Personal molecular density control," he recited, as if by rote. "I can decrease the spaces between them until I'm as bulletproof as the windows on the Popemobile, or increase them to walk through walls and doors and things." He gestured grandly with his now-empty glass. "As you say, handy."
Damon's eyebrows went up, and his lips turned up in an impressed smirk before allowing himself to take another sip of the Scotch. After a moment, he looked thoughtful. "What about your clothes? Stuff you're carrying?"
Grinning, Shinobi rose to get himself another drink. "Seems to extend to my clothes--thank god evolution was so thoughtful. Even Daddy's pocketbook might feel the strain if I needed to replace my wardrobe every time I was too lazy to walk around a coffee table." He steadied himself against the desk, head growing pleasantly fuzzy, as he poured. "Small objects, too. Anything bigger than, say, a notebook or a tablet PC, though, and ... well, the results aren't pretty."
Not even wanting to think about the science behind that, Damon just lounged back against the wall, kicking one knee up, draining his glass with a satisfied hum. "Remind me not to lean on you too often, then."
Chuffing out a short laugh, Shinobi returned to his bed with his refreshed drink and flopped down--carefully--onto his stomach, facing Damon. "I will promise nothing of the sort. But if it puts your mind at ease, it's not something I can do by accident. Feel free to lean as often and as long as you need to. You'll find me quite obliging, that way."
"As pretty as you are, ninja-boy," Damon smirked slightly. "You're definitely not my type. Just to put that out there."
"Details, details," he returned dismissively. The only type that mattered to Shinobi was willing. Anything else was just flavor. "I'll wear you down eventually. Or murder a great deal of high-priced liquor in the attempt. Seems like a win-win scenario to me."
"By all means. Murder away," Damon agreed, pale eyes alight at the prospect. He had little problem with a gay (or bi) roommate. The fact that guys didn't actually get him going at all didn't mean he had anything against people whose dicks were more open-minded, and he sure as hell didn't have anything against being plied with top-shelf whiskey.
"Such a gracious invitation." Shinobi smiled wickedly. "What sort of roommate would I be if I failed to accept?" He drained his glass again, sighing contentedly as he finished. No, it was not the best of all possible worlds, but he could see no reason at all why this arrangement shouldn't be a magnificent diversion. This was already more fun than he'd had in months. He could scarcely wait to see what other offerings might await him at this charming sideshow.