#event:nye

[dylanhawth]

𝐝𝐲𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞 | 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞.

just another excuse to dress up as a sad victorian boy, baby. 

[olivier--fontaine]

Since arriving, Thomas had been trying to avoid his older brother he’d very reluctantly invited along, and Olivier had been trying to stick by his younger brother so he wouldn’t be a lone former French loyalist in a sea of Rutherfords and Russians. Eventually Thomas won out - and Olivier tried to make his way to the bar in the hopes of seeing a friendly face or at least getting a good vantage point to watch those around him. 

A particularly light-footed Nymph darted in front of him and another person that happened to start walking the same way. The Nymph thrust a tray with shots toward them with a warning that they wouldn’t want to pay the price not to drink. Olivier shrugged carelessly and picked up one for himself. Sensing an opportunity to appear non-hostile to the person next to him, he picked up another for them and offered it with a friendly smile. “Well, Happy New Year’s, I guess.”

[dylanhawth]

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 / 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱. 𝟐 𝐚𝐦 / 𝐟𝐨𝐫 ( @carneliean​ )

when it came to things that mattered, dylan was ashamed to say that he could be quite cowardly. ducking behind doorways, and keeping his eyes trained to the grass to avoid unpleasant conversation. what good is small talk with someone who once meant so much? it had been so many months of avoidance, clashing violently with the first few months of their friendship… if one could even call it that. vanessa possessed some sort of magic, drawing people into her orbit and making them fall half-way in love with her before she even had the opportunity to speak with them. upon meeting vanessa, dylan had found himself believing myths, of sirens, who were so beautiful that men were helpless against their appeal. and what was dylan if not painfully mortal under vanessa’s spell? but some spell’s don’t last forever.

their last conversation was one tattooed on his brain, he could not seem to scrap it off his thoughts no matter how hard he fought it. he could find himself bumping into it again, the exasperation bright in their voices. bliss and then backstabbing, something about the sweetness of before made the aftermath especially bitter. they hadn’t spoke since then, since it happened. polite, tightlipped smiles, and maybe a quick hello when one of them had been too slow to sever their shared gaze. but no words passed between them that bore substance.

it may have been the alcohol, the way it glazed over his consciousness and made him slower in his actions that lead him to her the night. or maybe it was how she looked, somehow smaller and less like the sharp tongued girl he could have loved. either way he found himself before her, clumsily offering her a glass of coke. “i… hi,” he blurted out nervously, twitching fingers scratching at the back of his neck. “happy new year, i uh— i was just… you were here alone, and i just. i dunno. you shouldn’t be here alone on new year’s, ness. you alright?” the words were spilling out faster than he could vet them, coated in a tone of worry. he knew he didn’t have the right, no longer tethered together by any thread of friendship or anything else for that matter. “i know i’m not exactly the best guy for venting to but… i’m here.” the hand at his side raised slightly, instinctively going to brush at her forearm but he thought better of it.

[dylanhawth]

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.... 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞... / 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱. 𝟏𝟏 𝐩𝐦 / 𝐟𝐨𝐫 ( @rosegm​ )

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞. many of dylan’s peers had grown up, severed from their families, in fancy boarding schools and preparatory institutions that had injected them with a certain steeliness for their families. a vacation, to them, was much welcomed if it meant no impersonal talk with the people they shared genetics with. dylan however, had spent all of his days basking in the warmth that came from his bustling household, the holidays welcoming the opportunity for the very best memories to be made. locked away in france certainly was not the same thing as sprawling out by the christmas tree with his siblings, stuffed with a home cooked meal. not that he would admit it to anyone, but dylan had spent a good portion of the trip locked in his room, blatantly crying about how severe the depth of his yearning was. rose was the only person capable of getting him to momentarily forget, as if a bit of home lived within her. much like arriving home after a long trip, dylan could feel himself relax under the gentleness of her voice, the tension ebbing away and the solace of security seeping in.

even still, he felt horrendously guilty when she had discovered him, dejectedly poised outside with an already empty flute of bubbly between his fingers. “god, you’re going to be cold, ro. what’re you even doing out here?” it was a question he already knew the answer to, scribbled quite clearly all over her face. “i promise i’m not crying this time, honestly, i’m just mapping out where i’m going to build the snowman i had in mind tomorrow. i’m employing douglas’ aptitude for artwork, so it’s really going to be a sight to see. i’ll send you a photo when we’re done,” words running off his tongue nervously, eyes fixed on the blanket of virgin snow before them.

[dylanhawth]

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐭 / 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱. 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐦 / 𝐟𝐨𝐫 ( @gvrnets​ )

Escaping the warm bodies was meant to be sobering, freeing himself of forced smiles and this veneer of happiness he’d been practicing all evening. It was uncomfortable how many emotions bore teeth, and how many of them were eager to bite their way to the surface under the influence of alcohol. Dylan was gently reminded as to why he seldom drank, the booze peeling him down to expose the uncomfortable vulnerabilities that had nested between his ribs. Too late now, he thought to himself with a lazy shrug, knocking back the contents of the glass within his grip. He was too intoxicated at this point to care much about the cold, suit jacket abandoned somewhere in the party, dress shoes sinking into the snow. It was colder still, the sounds of warm laugher and music chiming behind him, emphasizing his separation from it all. What was the point in returning now anyway? He’d already collected his midnight kiss, albeit it from Douglas. Tradition, of course. That was enough mingling for the night. Canapés and champagne were not enough incentive to bait him into staying, pasted smile on his face. His gaze drifted down to the glass in his hand. Half a mind to chuck in the snow and trudge to his room, Dylan let out a sigh, knowing that littering was not an option for him, even if he was mildly incapacitated. He’d have to return it to its proper place, or at the very least, locate a recycling bin. With a graceless turn of his heel, he started for the door before realizing the figure behind him. Hollis.

“Oh. You. Wonderful,” Dylan remarked joylessly, shoulders sagging at the sight of the other man. It could be worse, images of Rose and Hollies flooding his thoughts and making him visibly wince. But no, he was out here, subjecting himself to the tundra for whatever reason. “Was just heading out, it’s all yours,” hand raised in a careless gesture regarding their surroundings, as if was some sort of private quarters.

[jack-katz]

john  //  self

“He’s dead!”

“No he’s not, call someone!”

“Guy’s fucking lucky it was a handgun.”

“Guy’s fucking lucky to be alive.”

“Same fucking party?”

“Same fucking party.”

“Fucking Christ.”

“No ID, no nothing. Is he a John Doe if he’s not dead?”

“No way, I saw his shit on Conan.”

“Is he funny?”

“Eh.”

“...Brachial plexus...”

“Prep him for surgery.”

“I’m here sweetheart.”

“Mrs. Katz...John’s been in and out since surgery, he might not hear you.”

“I don’t care if he can hear me.”

“His arm?”

“Mr. Katz-”

“That’s my son’s name. Call me Ben.”

“Ben. Unfortunately we have to wait. The doctors did the best they could, but John will likely still be very limited in his mobility. There’s a strong chance his hand will be paralyzed.”

“Alright, you fucking schmuck, Mum and Dad are gone. First of all, how dare you not invite me to that party, it sounded awesome until all the horrible stuff happened. Second of all, if you ever, and I seriously mean ever, nearly die before I win a Nobel Prize in Literature, I-I will raise you from the...from the dead...a-and kill you mys-...fuck, man, you nearly died. D-...don’t leave me alone. I need my brother.”

“John talked when he was up, Mrs. Katz?”

“Yes...not much, he’s still very tired, but he spoke. He seemed...confused. Is that normal? Do people not always remember what happened before something, well, uh, traumatic like this?”

“Well...that’s very complicated. Especially considering the state John was in.”

“What state?!”

“And now, new information has come to light about the terrorist attack on the Hotel-”

“Turn it off, mate!”

“What the fuck, why? He’s asleep.”

“He might still hear it. Don’t be a dick. Can you...can you hear it? I’m - OH SHIT, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to touch your shoulder. We’re just...we’re all scared about you, mate. We need our James back.”

“Yeah, production’s been stalled long enough.”

“You absolute dick, get out now!”

“Your brother called me. He said you’re sleeping a lot, and I don’t have much time, but...Baby, please, please, you need to leave. There are people who’ve come here, people way worse than my father, and you can’t get caught up in this stuff. Even if you don’t mean to, you will. My mom didn’t mean to and she nearly died, too. Your whole family is back in America. You have a house there now, a home. You’d be closer to LA. Please, just leave. I love you and I don’t want to pick up the phone one day to hear you didn’t make it to the hospital in time.”

“The doctor said he’ll need to see a physical therapist and occupational therapist.”

“We’ll hire two to come to set everyday.”

“Can you make those decisions?”

“He’s my client and he’s playing James fucking Potter, I can decide whatever I want. Besides, only other thing he asked for was to have a good stash of candy in his trailer.”

“He’s a modest man. I raised him too well for the profession he chose.”

“I’ll take care of him.”

“I like you better than the last guy.”

“I know, I’m incredible.”

“John will need a lot of support while he recovers.”

“Of course. Ben and I have rented out a place for the next few months so we’ll be around. His brother is going to move in with him, if he’s okay with that.”

“No one asked me if I was okay with moving in with Pigpen, but whatever.”

“DANIEL!”

“Shhhh, Jack’s sleeping.”

[jack-katz]

pilgrimage to the red sea  //  self

Everything was beautiful.

The swirling, colorful lights engulfed him.

He kissed someone at midnight and he didn’t know who it was, but he loved them in a way he’d never loved someone before.

He swam through the Aurora Borealis and walked among angels he didn’t believe in. They truly were awesome in the inspiring, religious way, not the slang way.

These barely clad bodies that seemed to float through the air weren’t symbols of hedonism. They were as pure as could be. Why were people so terrified of skin? It gave off the brightest shine. Everyone he saw emanated light that pulsated in the rhythm of the music, their heartbeats, his heartbeat. 

The bass dropped once...then twice...then a third time. 

The heartbeats were all uneven now. 

The glowing aura of the bodies around him started to dim and disappear. 

The colorful lights floating throughout the entire party started to seep through with nothing but red. 

It took only moments until he was surrounded by nothing but streaks of red, swirling all around him until it found its way down his throat and he was choking on it.

Everyone was a shadow now. They screamed in his face as they passed, and it was so high-pitched every time that it caused all his bones to vibrate.

One scream tore through his shoulder and he could feel where the sound hollowed out a home for itself in his skin and bone. 

The sea of blood that was washing over the party in waves was too much for him, and he managed to get his bare feet to hit the ground at a speed they hadn’t in years. Last time he ran this fast he was playing soccer with his cousins on a visit to Ireland. Something hit his foot - it must’ve been the ball, and he kicked it to nearest passer, whoever that was. The ball came back to him a moment later, cutting at his ankles and calves so deep he tripped.

The floor was wet where the waves had crashed. He got a mouthful of the Red Sea and spit it out. 

The scream at rest in his shoulder released again, this time in a new way that, unbeknownst to him, was echoed from within the depths of his chest. 

Nothing had ever come from that deep within him. 

The soccer ball came back, but he missed it until it rolled across his back. It carved a path between his shoulders like it was connecting the dots from one pointy bone to another. His mother was right - he needed more meat on his bones.

A shadow passed and he reached for them for help. The shadow stepped on his hand, their broken stiletto nearly puncturing right through his palm. One shadow latched onto him and pulled him to his feet, but they vanished a moment later. 

Jack blinked and looked around him. Through the red haze he could see that the angels had stripped themselves of their glowing skin to reveal the grotesque figures of demons beneath. He looked down at his hands, covered in a liquid of a color he didn’t recognize. Beneath that he was still human, but he could see where something talon-like was starting to poke through his fingernails. He spun and tried to scrape the tips of the talons on the nearest wall, but they didn’t disappear. 

It was this party. He had to get away from this party. He just had to hop the fence, that was how he always got away from parties he didn’t want to be at anymore. He turned away from the wall and spotted a jagged, sparkling fence not too far away on the edges of the redness. There was a visible hole in the red sky where someone had clearly forged an escape.

On his way to the escape he was now claiming as his, Jack stepped on a shadow that couldn’t seem to get up off the ground. He gripped the sharp edges of the Hole of Escape as he lifted himself up. The edge of the hole dug into his stomach and he could feel where the redness surrounding him was pushing its way into his hands and torso. He was nearly there, though. He just needed to push himself a little further and he’d be out of there, back to safety. 

The banshee in his shoulder was wailing relentlessly.

A shadow grabbed him from behind and he hit the ground.

The red encapsulated him again. It wound its way up his nostrils, though his ears, covered his eyes, and slid down his throat, through his veins, into his lungs.

Everything was fucking red with no sign of escape. Until everything went black.

[olivier--fontaine]

@castillo-adrian​

Not feeling well. Left early. Staying at a friend’s.

Olivier was furious. Twenty years ago, he’d uttered those same words to their mother over a payphone when he didn’t want her to see him coming home with fresh injuries from a rough fight. He’d noticed Thomas’s absence but assumed he was off with the same “friend” he was likely staying with. Olivier thought his younger brother would be back, but now the eldest Fontaine felt stranded on an island as he stared around at a party full of Rutherford loyalists he doubted were happy to see him there even alongside his brother.

His feet were moving the moment he saw Adrian. Even at a party, even with tequila in his system, he couldn’t turn off old habits, and it wasn’t just Thomas’s absence he’d noticed. “Where’s Thomas?” he asked, more demanding than he ever normally came across on a first encounter with someone. “I don’t give a shit what you’re all up to, just tell me - where’s my brother?”