#pa!self

[dorian-bloom-archive-blog]

the sociable type ☼ self [feat: gwenna]

He wasn’t the jovial sort, to say the least. Dorian could usually be found toward the side of any celebration, a dot of ink in a margin. Alvasidhe was no different — there he was, sitting at the edge of the square, nibbling quietly at a pastry and admiring the dancers' persistent loops and flutters.

Night Falls on the Desert Part I flitted past, its wearer sporting a dark, flowing blue gown and intricately embroidered gloves. He caught a glimpse of Darling, Your Face is on Fire, followed by a sliver of one of the Foxes Have Invaded the Shop, Now What? pieces. He was still vaguely hoping he’d see Crises somewhere, but aside from that, he was feeling quite content. They looked good -- they all looked good. He’d have to wander off and congratulate the seamstresses at some point.

Dorian frowned a bit and tore a chunk off the pastry, watched the filling ooze around inside, watched the steam whisper out into the night. Then he popped that chunk into his mouth, and took again to watching the dancers, listening to the music. Until, however, a voice pulled from him the under the sheets of solitude.

"That’s a good spot, treasure." Dorian looked up, and smiled a bit. “Evening, ma’am.” She flicked her hand. “Aw, ma’am makes me feel old.” She grinned. “Mind if I sit?” He told her to go ahead and shuffled over. She took a seat, sighed, and folded her hands upon her lap. Dorian was once more occupied with his snack. “They all look wonderful, you know, treasure.” He glanced at her, then nodded, chewing absently. He knew that. “And how are you, Missus Hart,” he said. “Oh you know, I’ve been well, I’ve been well,” she returned, eyes roving round the square. “Just thought I’d take a break. All this stuff gets a bit much for me, every now n’then.” He finished his mouthful, and raised a quizzical eyebrow. This stuff? Celebration? But Missus Hart seemed to be such a lively sort. He could well imagine her twirling around with a mask on right there. His facial expression obviously worked to encourage further explanation. “Crowds,” she said. “They’re overwhelming sometimes.” Sometimes, she said. Dorian smiled thinly, and turned back to his observations. His head was beginning to hurt, but the dancers at least all moved in repetitive pattern. They were easy to watch, and their movements soothed the chances of overload. “Don’t you think, treasure?” Missus Hart asked, just as Dorian took another bite. He blinked at her. “Oh, sorry,” she laughed, and waited as he chewed away. (A little bit of gravy oozed out and onto his thumb — he mopped that up with a bit of crust and, after a moment of awkward what-do-I-do-with-this, stuck it back into the pastry.) Dorian swallowed. “Yes,” he finally answered. “Often.” He frowned at the pastry, then looked up again. “Though I must say, I always assumed you to be the sociable type, Missus Hart.” She dipped her head in a nod and told him, oh she was! To which Dorian once more raised his eyebrows. “They just…get overwhelming, treasure.”

For a moment, they looked at each other. Then Dorian huffed one of his not-quite laughs, and Missus Hart’s classic smile warmed her face.

[dorian-bloom-archive-blog]

gods help him ☼ self [1/2]

What are you doing, Victor?

People gathered to the Ring like ants. Dorian was one of them, a speck in the Friday crowd. Most were drawn magnetically to the promise of blood and violence, hearts and wagers thrumming in anticipation of the fight to come. Why Victor was to compete in the first fight after two months, Dorian did not know — but his pupil was, needless to say, precisely his reason for attending. 

A thick ball of anxiety was curled tightly below his diaphragm. Dorian gulped. Victor stood — distracted — before a man who they both knew would not be a fair match. Dorian recognised this one. He struck quickly and with not a glimmer of mercy. Victor should have known too. And he should not have been looking into the crowd.

Dorian clenched his jaw and locked his eyes on Victor. What was he looking at? What could possibly be so important as to tear his attention away from the battle at hand? He blinked hard and shook his head, bit the inside of his lip. Victor, he thought, as if the man would hear. Focus.

He licked the inside of his teeth, turning his head to glare quickly around the crowd. What were they doing, being so excited? This fight would be over in seconds. There would be no show, no spectacle to watch. His attention returned to Victor: still gazing, pathetically, in the wrong direction. The man’s eyes were focused — whatever he was looking for, he’d found it. Wouldn’t that be enough? What captivated him so?

The signal was given — come on, Victor — the first blow delivered — Gods help him — fall to the ground —

Dorian sucked a breath through his teeth and ran a hand through his hair. The crowd whistled and cheered, the enemy’s fists came and went like lightning. The noises were sickening — though Dorian was used to them. They were all used to them, a pity in itself. Look at them all: applauding for an act of violence. Was Victor sub-human to them? An animal to be battered for their entertainment? No, dogs were treated better than this. He scowled. Enough. This was enough. And Victor, Gods, this was preventable! This could have gone differently. He was a fool, he was weak of both mind and body and Gods fucking help him it did not need to be like this. What was more important than his health? What? The injuries would be a burden and it did not help that Dorian’s mind mapped the movements of every blow.

He then realised: he’d been gripping quite viciously into his palms. The clench of his fists had left elegant crescent moons in his skin. How poetic. His shoulders were rigid. He looked around — money being handled greedily, an easy bet. People chanting the winner’s name, Victor’s already forgotten. He gulped thickly. Victor finally picked himself up, and made to slink away, defeated and bloodied.  

That was it. Dorian would not let him. He needed to have a word.

“‘Scuse me,” he said huskily, and began pushing through the spectators. A shoulder dug sharply into the back of some lady, his body slipped through the gap when she jumped and glared after him. He moved quickly and with a purpose, and Victor moved slowly, and the crowd geared for the next fight, and the winner waved to the audience, and the new challenger’s name was called-

Dorian stumbled forward, and stared widely at the figure climbing up to the Ring. That arrogant face. The cold eyes. Black hair. A hand raised proudly to the spectators. He knew that hand. And how it looked as a fist. His heart raged through a war with his ribs.

The challenger’s name was repeated, but it was lost to his ears. Dorian did not need to hear it twice.

[sakura-ikeda]

trouble {self}

Sakura was no lover of crowded places, but the human clutter was one of the last things on her mind.

"What's- is it just this building? Cityspire? Do you-- do you know what's happening outside are things alright outside-"

Trouble seeing. Trouble breathing, trouble keeping calm. Lights dark, room heavy with confusion and the air was just as thick. And why were they all herded into here, was it unsafe outside? What was happening? What could be happening, what was so wrong that--

She tapped a random on the shoulder. "Do you know, uh, what'll happen with the hospitals," she said breathlessly, "by, any-chance?" Someone bumped into her. She stumbled forward. Her father was currently in relapse. The stranger didn't know anything. Dammit, today's workout had been going well. The Coliseum hadn't been overly busy either -- what an inconvenience this was indeed...and what the hell did they mean by a security breach-

She whirled around, wriggled her way past a few bodies. Found a new stranger's shoulder.

"Excuse me, are they-"

Pushed aside. Nearly fell over.

"Why are we- -- hello? Do you -- uh--"

Sakura was ignored again.

She gulped and felt very small.

Clenched her fists.

"Excuse me, sir," she began firmly-

"Look, we all know as much as you do, kid-"

The man hurried away. He had very long eyelashes, she'd noticed.

She noticed she was sweating and, frustrated, she slunk through the room to press her back against the wall. Checked her watch. Wondered how long she'd be here, how long it'd be until there were answers. Tried to remember if she'd fed the cat. Scratched the side of her neck. 

Sakura slid to a sitting position. Her jacket against the wall made a shhhhh sound. A meek and accidental urge to hush -- even her clothing wasn't keen on the chaos, it seemed.

She brought her knees to her chest. Looked around like some pathetic, scared animal. Then lowered her chin and pretended to be asleep.

[sakura-ikeda]

Train Experience of the Day {self, closed}

"Dear diary," her pen sighed to the paper, "today was a bit of a mess."

Sakura, if asked to recall exactly where such messiness began, the malfunction of her alarm would immediately spring to mind. And then, she’d likely begin to describe the Train Experience of the day. And then of course, she’d stop, because she’d soon feel a certain trickling of guilt — surely it wasn’t his fault the man smelt so bad. Maybe he was late, like her, only he couldn’t find time to shower? But — her diary was very trustworthy. It wouldn’t tell anyone and it most certainly wasn’t judgemental. A great secret-keeper, very loyal, very quiet. And of course it was; it was a book, for god’s sake.

But anyway, it all started when her alarm decided to not go ahead and ring that morning. She’d never felt thankful for the perpetually noisy dog next door, but today? Well, if not for that dog, she might as well have slept for a good, what, ten more years? That would have been quite nice, but she had places to be that, unfortunately, did not include her bed.

But due to this delay in wakefulness, Sakura had to take a train, rather than enjoy a leisurely morning stroll. And it was on this train that a very, oh, how to put it nicely — ah, strong-smelling! A strong-smelling man took a seat beside her. Which he had every right to do, of course. And he certainly didn’t mean any harm, he was just taking the closest available seat and it was quite unreasonable to be irritated by the odours that followed, just as it was unreasonable to take her leave early and end up slightly late anyway because she may or may not have gotten a tad lost.

There was a small and sufficiently amusing upside, however, to her premature departure.

Hurrying onto the platform (and away from the…air within), Sakura glanced around. Dear, not only was this station just faintly familiar, it was very crowded — when all of a sudden! A familiar face-

Oh, no, that was just a poster. His eyes aren’t that intense in real life. Sakura’s eyes, however? She rolled them and scrambled away.

Once the pen finished its frantic sprint across the page, Sakura set it down. Rest, little pen. Deserved it, for sure. Why, it was the very pen that she happened to have on her when she’d gone back to catch a better look at that poster, the same pen that she’d—- oops, hand slipped and suddenly Clark has a moustache haha wow ain’t that a shame such a nice poster’s all ruined no not really haha let’s take a selfie with it.

So she snapped that photo like no tomorrow and sent it right on over to the contact — affectionately, of course — labelled, ‘Twerp’.

Just a nickname from high school.