little boy blue.

roses are red, violets are blue; this assignment sucks, tristan also sucks for hiddenwashington

[i-m-hope]

✶   I-M-HOPE. 　　( est. 2026 )　　a group dependant, canon-considered portrayal of degrassi's miles hollingsworth iii for @hiddenwashington. canon includes themes of drug addiction , parental issues , car accidents , and depression ; all triggers will be tagged and managed respectfully. written by august, 25, they/them, ast/adt. intro ... open starters ... psd credit

[i-m-hope]

reportedly, this event was important. that usually meant he was going to hate it. important, in his father's world, meant wealth, careful lighting, soft laughter, and people utilizing the words community and legacy like they meant something. it meant dressing well, smiling at the right moments, and pretend he didn't notice every time someone looked at him and saw a headline, his name, and an extension of his namesake's ambition.

the gallery was beautiful, sure. he wasn't blind to it. tall white walls, dark wood fixtures, glasses sparkling, painting lined in uneven bursts of colour and shadow. somewhere, someone was loud enough to feel desperate while others were so quiet they seemed to be waiting for everyone else to shut up long enough for them to escape. it was anyone's guess which one miles was.

he had escaped the thickness of the crowd about twenty thousand-yearsminutes ago. drifted off to the back of the gallery, where the lighting was dimmer and folks seemed far less brave to discuss the garbage they were looking at. though, there was a painting there that kept pulling his attention back no matter how many times he told himself he wanted to leave. it was mostly blue. that's the simple, stupid version -- what he'd say if he wanted to prove he was above it all. it wasn't just blue, it was dark, black in places, light in others. felt like cold water, ache, that morning and every morning after.

he hated that, he hated more that he understood it. it understood him. he never liked being icarus on paper.

the name on the card meant nothing to him, blackthorn. who the hell names their kid something as pretentious as julian blackthorn .. says miles hollingsworth iii. the irony was not lost on him. eyes flick back to the painting, nose scrunching. “ bit overdramatic, ” he murmured under his breath, not sure if he meant the art, artist, or himself. a shift of movement startled him, his head turning just enough to notice someone ( @septemberbroughtthefcll ) standing close. eyes close, he curses under his breath. “ i'm going to hope you're not the artist .. 'cause, i've just made this significantly more uncomfortable for both of us. ”

[i-m-hope]

he had survived the event. that was already heroic. miles had smiled through speeches, nodded through handshakes, managed to endure three conversations on leadership, two on legacy, one exchange with someone referring to football as the last honest institution to someone that could care less, and exactly eight different scoldings.

the afterparty was supposed to be easier. it was not. it was just the same room with a looser tie.

the bar had been rented out for the occasion, all low amber lighting and sticky leather chairs. alumni clustered near the fireplace while donors occupied the less-sticky tables. a handful of athletes moved through the room like living proof that the entire day had a face, good shoulders, and a white-picket-fence future.

he barely managed to escape. not far, just to the quieter hallway outside the bar, near a trophy case with glass pulsing with the surrounding music. not exactly privacy, but close enough for a man who had spent most of his life learning how to disappear. his back was against the wall, tie loose and jacket wide open.

a burst of laughter came from inside, followed by the door opening and spilling noise into the hallway. he glanced up, prepared to fix himself quickly as to avoid scolding number nine. it was @dreadbound. he recognized the quarterback from earlier. confident enough in miles' eyes to look like a worthy investment. he'd sigh, roll his eyes, and shift over. “ let me guess. you also hit your annual limit for inspirational conversations with men who really earned the name dick. ”

[i-m-hope]

he had no idea whose idea it had been to promote a tarot reader, but he had to admit .. it was almost so interesting that it could've been his idea. nothing quite said civic responsibility like abstract ideas and donors paying twenty dollars to be told they had unresolved childhood issues by a velvet tablecloth.

miles had avoided the booth for a majority of the night, but then someone laughed too loudly near photographers, someone's wife cornered him to ask about his political pursuits, and he finally decided to give the cards a chance. at least cards were honest, in his opinion, about being fake.

tucked near the back, half-shadowed, he dropped into the chair across from @ofsvnlightt without waiting to be invited. “ alright, ” he grumbled, “ tell me something devastating. ”

[i-m-hope]

miles had always thought fundraisers were just parties designed to make folks feel better about themselves. galas really were just keggers with more funding and worse onversations. but this one was pretending to be different, solely because there was art on the walls.

large canvases hung beneath gold fixtures, far too shiny for the confusing paint decisions on them. each one was surrounded by people with something bubbly and boring in long glasses, saying things like 'texture' and 'intention' with some grave seriousness resembling only that of hostage negotiation. somewhere near the front, a crowd surrounded his father, laughing with donors. there was a hand kindly on a senator's shoulder -- which felt laughable, considering said hand belonged to an unkind man. the opposite hand gestured to a painting certain to be described as 'tasteful' by others but as 'migraine-inducing' by miles.

his father was in the front while miles stood near the edge of the room with a barely-touched glass and his notebook; as devastating as it was, he became that person -- the book at a party type. though, writing things down certainly gave fewer consequences where his father was concerned. he was halfway through a line about frivolous being used as synonym for taste when he noticed her -- still, pretty, watching the room. that caught his attention more than the art had.

he let his gaze linger for a second, then pushed away from the wall to cross over to @drvcxrys with a too-bright confidence posing as armour. “ be honest, ” he started. “ do you think this is actually saying something or did someone just spill their wine? ”

[shlnlngstcrs]

Callie loved being at the beach, it was the only time things seemed to just slow down for her. Between her studies to become a lawyer and just hanging with friends, she hasn't had much time to herself. She stands there just feeling the breeze in her hair and soon walks down to the shore, stripping down to her bikini and wading in the shallow end of the ocean. That's when she notices someone staring at her... "Well," she calls, "you gonna join? Water's... actually pretty warm."

[i-m-hope]

miles was likewise a fan of beaches -- but not for slowing down. life seemed pretty slow already, too slow. monotonous, repetitive, as if the sun hung in the same boring way in the same boring city where the most amusing things only served to land a headline of 'CONGRESSMAN'S SON AT IT AGAIN!'. no, he liked beaches only in the dark. when no one was there, when he could sit and be someone else. not hollingsworth, but a guy with sand in his waistband and the occassional spark.

eyes flicked over to the woman, boredom shifting to curiosity. “ i wasn't, ” he responds under his breath before pushing himself up, smiling regardless. “ is it? didn't bring trunks. ”

[misteriios]

open starter !

the last few days had been eventful. much information to take in. it happened more in john logan’s life than it had back home. at briar it had been hockey, parties, studies and meeting up with someone almost every day. washington dc was full of life. more exciting things happening. logan sat at one of the outdoor tables at a café. a laptop on the table, cup of coffee beside it. tried writing an essay about what his goals with the business class was. his fingers tapped on the laptop as he started to sing a song he had written his first year at college, named it runaways. nothing he had told to anyone, but it was the only song he had written and recorded with an old friend who then was in the music class. they had done it just for fun. not that it was anyone's business to know. he was a hockey player, that’s all they knew. didn’t happen often he sang. sometimes he did back home, whenever he was alone in his room or if his best friends were out somewhere. ❛ let’s get in the car and drive all night and we won’t stop ‘til we’re out of sight. we’re gettin’ out ( way out, way out ). oh, we’re gettin’ out ( way out, way out ). we're taking the chance 'fore we get too old. ❜ john sang, not too loud but people around him probably heard him anyway. he continued to sing, not realizing the outdoor café was full already and the only seat left was in front of him. he skipped the rest of the lyrics, started to sing the chords instead ; ❛ leave it all behind with no regrets. baby, we’ll be runaways, run away together ❜ he stopped singing when he noticed someone was near the table he sat at ❝ sorry, hi. ❞ logan glanced up at the person ❝ did you say something? you didn't hear that, did you? ❞ he chuckled, took out the airpod from his ear. logan looked around, noticed the tables were full ❝ you can sit down if you want to ❞ he picked up his backpack from the ground. as he opened it, he closed the laptop and put it down. then put the backpack down by his feet again.

[i-m-hope]

he was used to ignoring unwanted distraction, between his sister, his friends, and his father. the cafe was far too packed for his liking, but it sure as hell beat home right now. all he wanted was a coffee, something in his stomach to quell the hangover, and some peace and quiet to try to write. he was used to ignoring, truly he was -- except .. now, it seemed.

miles' eyebrow raised, green eyes stuck on the man. the latte was hot in his hand, the sensation burning enough to ground him in the moment. his head was pounding and it took that little warmth to keep from snapping entirely. “ did. ” he answered, trying to maintain some form of level in his voice. “ you usually start concerts in public? ” it clearly didn't bother him as much now that it had ended as it had initially, as he sat down with ease. manageable, he just had to get the croissant and he could return to personhood.

“ wasn't that bad, actually. pretty good, even. you write that yourself? ”

[i-m-hope]

was that [TIMOTHEE CHALAMET]? oh no no, that was just [MILES HOLLINGSWORTH III], a [CANON CHARACTER] from [DEGRASSI (TNG/NC)]. they are [EIGHTEEN] years old, use [HE/HIM], and [ARE NOT] aware that they are not actually from Washington DC. too bad they can’t stray from this city for long.

miles, in this magical washington, is unemployed and dependently wealthy. like in his canon, in which he is the son of a mayoral candidate, his DC-self is instead the son of an unnamed congressman. the eldest son, somewhat involved in a political sphere due to the father he does not get along with, the constant problems surrounding him and his two younger siblings, and his party nature.

he's pulled from the degrassi next class finale, meaning he has graduated from high school, is of age, and was meant to be attending the london writer's academy prior to being whisked to washington. he is unaware of his past life and has zero memory due to the magic. likewise, he is unaware of prior connections to his past life -- including his own siblings; he knows he has younger, twin siblings but is unable to name them and would not recognize them in this town*.

*unless established by a writer that frankie and/or hunter are also not aware, this can be changed.