Story Time [Lunie + Kevin]

He hadn't brought many books with him to the castle; for reading materials, he was hoping to rely more on the library.  He had brought a few of his favorites, of course, but they were small enough to be portable-- and, of course, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.  Kevin thought the extra weight was worth it; the book's pages were worn, its spine broken, but it had done well over the past two years, considering.  And now, it had the unspoken privilage of being read somewhere else besides Windor.

Dragging a thick blanket with him and snuggling up in the corner of a big sofa-chair, the boy carefully removed his bookmark.  Let's see; Chapter Twenty-Three . . .

It had taken him two years to get that far.

Yes, he had theoretically read the entire series, but radio-hacking someone's mind and tagging along in the reading wasn't the same as actually reading, as feeling the pages underneath his fingertips and breathing in whatever made those pages yellow and crisp.  He knew all the spoilers, the twists-- the series had rather exploded in the small town, and he had to read alongside fast, lest he lose the opportunity of "reading" with fresh eyes.  Quite frankly, it usually took too long to read by the traditional fashion, and by the time he would finish with chapter one, people would be thinking about the rest of the book, and the experience would become null and void.  Even now, he could hear a voice . . .

Damn it, damn it, NO, I'm better than this-- maybe-- perhaps--?  YES, and I can play better than this, give the music more than this; from the top!

. . . but, it faded with the click of keys.  Good.  Denskith was really a blessing; back in Windor, he was the only one who successfully stopped thinking, under the right conditions.  Everyone else's voices never stopped pouring in.  Here, though, it was different.  Here, it was just emotions-- someone happy; someone sad; a few droning on in life with little difference in routine; someone screaming at the top of their lungs for emotional dominance, Kevin almost able to make out words, which was impossible, of course . . .  It was hard to put his own thoughts on top, sometimes impossible.  He had to try, though.  For his own sanity.

The boy took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes on the page, determined.  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Yule Ball.

He hated walls. He hated the way they loomed around him from every angle; from the floor, the ceiling, and from around every corner. Like tunnels they were, endless and winding, only ever leading to places with more walls and doors ad infinitum. Yet, if he ever did make it to the outside world, it felt cold. Empty. The choice was to walk around until he ended up inside again, or just turn around. A maze with no exit, as it were.

After two years, he should've been used to it, yet there was nothing to be felt but dysphoria. Did he even belong in these walls? Was there even anywhere else he could go? Yet, there was no mistake behind it. This cruel, caring, ruthless, nurturing castle, indefinitely, was home. Home sweet home.

He swung open a door, idly scratching at the scabbing wound on his shoulder. Eyes skimmed over the room. Couches and pillows, a good place to rest-- until his eyes laid on an unfamiliar stranger figure. And look at how comfy he was, curled up with that book and that blanket, just hogging that seat all to himself, all content.  Irritation rippled through him... before dying moments later.  He did not even have the energy to be angry.

Slowly, he stepped towards him, his feet barely making a noise on the floor. He glanced dully to the blanket, then to the boy... before reaching to delicately peel the edge of the blanket away. Upon raising it high enough, he'd simply slump down next to the boy, making himself comfortable in the direct invasion of his personal bubble. Then he'd gently fold the blanket back down over them.

Sometimes, you just had to.

"Snow . . . was falling th-- thickly upon . . . the castle and . . . and its grounds now--"

He felt the creature approaching before seeing or even technically hearing him.  And, normally, that wouldn't be bad, and he would simply give a nod and try to move on-- but, it was so jagged.  The thoughts were screaming yet a whisper, disjointed but desperately trying to connect with one another . . .  He managed a smile, and that was only because he was considering that this was worse than Denskith.  He was actually considering that someone was worse than Denskith, and this was only with emotions.  If it were thoughts--

There was a whimper directly in his ear, then a yell that nearly pierced through his head.  Kevin tried to squirm away, but he was already in a corner; there was no way to go away any further.  And yes, it was a nice, furry warmth; yes, it was theoretically a comfort to have someone else-- but then, there were its voices.  And, the comfort twisted into a horror.

His finger slipped, and he lost his place in Harry Potter.

He began to shake.  It was something he hadn't done in years, but when the voices became too much . . .  "C-c-could you please not be that close to me?"

He seemed unaware of the other's distress, if there was any to be had at all. He was set on making himself comfortable in the chair, tucking his legs in so that his feet barely perched on the edge. He pulled the blanket up to his neck, before allowing his back to sink into the plush material. The boy next to him was not ignored, far from it. The feluis made sure to huddle up closely to him, absorbing in all the warmth that he could.

And that was when he noticed that he was shaking. Concerned, he drew his eyes up towards his face, before frowning upon hearing those words.

"But... I am cold. Brrr!" He made an odd noise in the back of his throat as he pulled the blankets up more tightly. He tossed his best pitiful look towards the boy, his ears falling. "And this is warm... and very comfortable too."

He rested his head against his shoulder - evidently, he didn't want to move quite yet.

Kevin looked at the creature-- and, realized his mistake.  So cute!  Like a kitten trying to get warm after a bitter, cold rain.  He couldn't afford being caught in such a trap-- the inner voices he couldn't quite make out continued to bounce around in his head, continued to wreck havoc-- but, the pity came, and he was all the worse for it.  Everyone had their reasons for their actions, even if they were this simple.  The poor thing just wanted to be warm.

He continued to shake.  His teeth chattered against each other, and he tried to heed Denskith's old advice: make it a rhythm.  Make it something pleasing, and then things would not be as bad.  And, though he tried, the chattering was simply too much to properly control.  The voices were too much to control.

He tried shrugging off the cat creature's head from his shoulder, though it was a weak attempt.  "P-please?"  Because really, he did feel sorry for the poor thing, being all cold, but he had his own priorities: himself.  And, he had to keep himself whole.  It hurt . . .

His company must also have been cold with all that shivering - which was odd, especially considering that he was the one with the majority of the blanket. Yet, he could feel the shrug, and that desperate voice once again...  The feluis finally pulled his head away, with a face that soon melted from something piteous to a rather sullen, grouchy look.

Ah, yes. Someone else who would not give him what he wanted.

He tugged on the sheets adamantly, still idly scratching at the unbearably itchy wound. He'd done nothing wrong, he just wanted to sit here, there was nothing wrong with that-- Was his company really so undesirable? His moody expression unyielding, he returned his stare to the other resident's face.  

"Why." It wasn't a question, it was a demand for an answer.

With the change of expression came the loss of mercy on Kevin's part. Just like a cat; was he going to be scratched at himself next? Would his hand be bitten as the creature bounced away? That would be for the best, really.

He scooted farther into the corner as the cat-boy pulled away. He allowed the blanket to be taken away; he was too cold for that now. His teeth continued to chatter. His shoulders shook, and his arms grabbed their opposite ends of the body and cradled the whole. For a while, he didn't say anything. The "why" was trickier than it should have been. How to explain without explaining? How to avoid such inevitable revealing? There was no way, though, or at least under such mind-pressing circumstances.

"Your t-t-t-thoughts," he managed, voice weak. "They're so sharp . . ." He still retrained the edge of a scream.

He noticed that the other was trying to distance himself from him, but it only managed to both confuse him and irritate him at the same time. The blanket was all his now, but he wasn't triumphant. He didn't want it. He just wanted to sit here...  and... well, not be told to go away.

Yet, with the words, his anger came to screeching halt. His... thoughts? He raised a finger to scratch inside his own ear, as if by doing so, he'd somehow reach them. They were not sharp, they were never sharp, and he didn't---  how could he know anyway? They were in his head, weren't they?  He frowned at the thought.

"You just do not like me," he said, his pouty leer remaining. "You can't see my thoughts. You hate me and want me to go away. But I am staying right here." As if to demonstrate his point, he slumped back down on the couch again.

He wanted to correct the cat-boy.  He couldn't see thoughts, only hear them-- and, even now, it was only the muffle of emotions.  A scream here, a snarl there.  It was terrifying.  Nothing was worse than the thoughts of war-- and, this wasn't coming close.  To hear people scream one moment and tremble and cry the next and be completely extinguished just two seconds later, never to hear those unique tones again-- this didn't come close.  No matter how much he reminded himself of that, though, it didn't stop the voices in the now from being terrifying.  He was scared.

Instead of talking, though, his teeth chattered.  Kevin willed his body to move.  It was sluggish under such a current of emotion.  Move.  Move!  Slowly but with desperation, he managed to begin crawling over the arm of the chair and away from the cat boy.  The creature could keep the blanket, the chair-- Kevin froze, whipped around, and snatched up his worn Harry Potter tome without a word, eyes wide.  That . . .  That was close.  He turned back around and continued the crawl.

Instead of a reply, the boy had just started crawling away. And as if to add insult to another insult, he took the book with him too.  His frown deepened across his face.  It was obvious now, if not painfully so. Yes, his company was so unwanted that the boy was trying to escape from him. And why? He'd done nothing wrong. That was the worst part of it.

He knew not why he was crawling though. Maybe he thought he could be sneaky and get away without him noticing. Lunasola almost scoffed at the thought of it. He was well aware. And he wasn't about to let him get away.

He stood straight up on the chair, allowing the blanket to simply fall away. Crouching forwards, a low growl escaped his throat, before he flung himself towards him. If all went to plan, he'd somehow manage to pin him down. Somehow.

The snarl alerted him, but Kevin was too slow to make good of it. An assault. He dove off the chair, his book acting as a sharp and reluctant cushion to the fall. No! As much as he loved Harry Potter, though, he could bare the sacrifice of bent pages and crinkled covers. That was the difference between Denskith and he, no matter how wrapped up in the man's mind he became: he could control his passions. Denskith could not. And so, he spared but a glance before his focus returned to the cat-boy.

He scrambled up from his landing, standing best that he was able. The emotions made him dizzy; he didn't know how long he could stay on his feet. He had to try, though.

He dug from his pockets a bare shaving razor. Yes, he was someone trained in fighting; yes, he would fight if he had to. He had little-to-no actual experience, though, and would really prefer threat to action. Wordlessly, Kevin raised up the weapon and narrowed his eyes.

As he impacted with his back, he tried to dig his claws in to get a good grip. But he couldn't grab on, and only managed to snag feebly in his clothing as he pulled away. There was the slight noise of ripping, he could be granted that - but the boy got away from under his hands.

He pulled himself upright and glowered straight towards the other. The fur along his spine started to prick, and he balanced on the tips of his fingers and toes as he stared the other down.

Then his gaze finally landed on the razor in his hand. Was he... going to attack him? He tensed, before the growl in his throat restarted uneasily. His claws dug into the floorboards as his tail lashed behind him - presenting his own threat, in a way.

His eyes widened at the rip.  No.  No, no, no-- this was his only shirt!  He didn't have another one, and it would take weeks for Windor to send a replacement, if they even did that!  Kevin was still dizzy, and his upped emotions didn't help.  One would think it would help him push through the clutter, but it only made for one more voice, the closest one of all.

His vision flickered towards the tail; he didn't pay the growl too much heed.  Werewolves growled, and most of the time, it was out of fear for their own safety, an attempt to make themselves bigger than they actually were.  Kevin kept his stance as steady as he could, the razor still within clear sight.  The threat was working.  He wobbled slightly but quickly regained balance-- though, a sliver of fear managed to cross his face.  He . . .  He didn't know how much longer he could stay here.  His teeth chattered off and on, and his palm felt a lot sweatier than it had two seconds before.

Lunasola stood his ground, staring icily towards the other. Yet, with the ever pervasive threat of the razor, he kept his distance. Gnarly images of the blade slicing his skin crossed his mind, and his growl was interrupted by a slight whine.

It was getting difficult to maintain the aggressive stance, anyway. The impulse to attack him was wearing off the longer they stood, especially when he saw the look on the other's face. Finally, the rippling of his fur dwindled away, and he crouched down lowly to the point where his chin almost touched the floor, tucking his limbs closely by his side. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely more than a timid squeak. His ears were drooped, and the look he threw up at the boy was simply pitiful.

The whine hurt; it sounded a lot louder in the mental ear than the physical one.  He could hardly tell which one was the "real" one anymore, it was all blurring together like a terrible symphony gone wrong, SO wrong that even Denskith would cringe.  When his vision flickered back into clarity, though, he could see the cat boy lower his stance and relax.  The apology was soft amidst the other voices.  That look was enough, though.

Kevin couldn't hold his stance any longer, regardless; he dropped down to the floor knees-first, letting out a tiny, "OW," before throwing his arms down, too, but to stop himself from completely falling down.  Once he was stable on his legs and butt, his hands quickly made their way up to his ears to plug them, to cover them.  It wouldn't stop the noise, he knew, but having his arms circling his face helped.  Maybe.

The bristle of hairs tickled his elbows, and he took a sharp breath in.  H-had the cat boy noticed yet?  Where was his scarf?  Had he even brought it out--?  How careless was he!  Damn it!  His razor was right there, but moving his hand meant moving his security.  Kevin stayed right where he was, frozen to the spot, staring in horror at the other boy.  He was being rude, and he did not care.

He cringed backwards as the boy fell. He had barely attacked him yet-- why? Was this some sort of surrender? His eyes gazed unblinkingly at the display, and at how he coiled his arms around his head and returned the unfriendly stare. Was that... a mane he was growing? Following his line of sight to the razor, he picked it up, turning it around in his hold. Truly, he couldn't tell exactly what it was for, but what he did know that the boy had waved this in front of his face like a weapon. He’d wanted to hurt him with this thing. That alone was enough for him to form a distasteful sneer onto his face.

He gripped the razor tighter, then looked towards him. An offended look crossed his face when he saw that his ears were covered. Was he really so repulsed by his presence? Everything about his body language said more than words could, but it didn’t explain anything. He spoke up with a growl, raising his voice up in an attempt to be heard. “What is your problem?!”

He hadn't seen the smirk, but he sure heard it with or without the ear protection: a loud shriek that dominated every other noise, including his own.  He couldn't remember the times where he had heard worse.  He couldn't think.  He couldn't hear his own thoughts, which meant he couldn't think, which meant that all actions he did were automatic and, well, without thought.  Without process.

He shrunk back.  He closed his arms around his face and made himself as small as possible.  Hiding.  He was hiding from the noise, the big, SCARY noise.  He shivered and shook and cried silently as to not make any more sound.  If he made a sound, they would hear.  He had to be quiet.  He had to be still.  It was impossible to be still when his teeth were still chattering.

He didn't know that Lunasola had the razor.  He didn't know what was about to come next.
All he knew was that things were loud.  Things were scary.

"Denskith . . ." he moaned, more of an empty whisper than an voice.  More of air escaping the lungs than a formed word leaving the mouth.

Even with the species barrier, it was difficult not to tell how he was feeling. The shrinking back, the silent sobbing, the shivering, it was all very clear. And yet, simultaneously, it was all very unclear. Was this... his doing? Was it he that had frightened him? From the get-go, the boy had been a trembling wreck, and it didn't fail to twinge his nerves uncomfortably.

But eventually, his anger began to subside. Maybe it was that he wasn't running away, or wasn't trying to attack him any more. He looked like... him.

He stood up, returning to the couch.  He grabbed the blanket, before returning to Kevin. With a flick of his wrist, he let the blanket swoop over his shoulders, before he lightly pushed on them as if to encourage him to the ground. "It's okay," he said unsurely, fiddling with the razor in his other hand. What about this 'Denskith'? He wasn't sure, but there was something reassuring in it not being something about him.

The voices pulsed slightly, and Kevin braced for the wave.  It had to rebound, didn't it?  Just when things seemed lighter, they were really darker.  They were oh-so-much darker.

The blanket's weight forced his shoulders down even without the cat boy's help; Kevin thusly lied down on the carpeted ground, the fibers digging into his cheek roughly.  It was hard to breath between the chattering and the ground, but he managed.  He always managed.  In through his nose, out with his mouth-- not too quickly, though, or else there would be a tell-tale wheeze of air.  He had to be quiet.  He didn't want them to peek inside.

There was no cry now, just tears.  They rolled slowly off his face and onto the ground, seeping into the flooring and creating a growing dark boarder around his nose and lips.  Some tears went into his mouth and onto the tongue; they were salty.

He had to get away, but the boy was unable to move.

He wasn't sure if laying him onto the ground had helped matters, but it seemed better than him staying upright, anyway. The danger seemed to have subsided by now, and though he was still rather bitter and apprehensive about the boy on the floor, he knew he couldn't just leave him there. Not without a guilty conscience.

He looked to the razor again.  He didn't need this weapon any more, that was for sure. It wasn't safe until it was disposed of.  He turned, crawling towards the fireplace, before flicking his wrist and throwing the weapon within. The flames swallowed it up immediately, though he could still see its form lying amongst the coal. His hand flinched back, afraid of getting burned himself, before he returned to the other's side.

The boy was... crying now? He stared hesitantly. He wasn't even sure what had happened, or what he had done to cause such emotional distress. There was guilt, and he didn't know why. He reached to rub away his tears in a manner that was more fickle than compassionate. "Why are you crying?" he asked, sitting down by his side and crossing his legs.  "What's the matter?"

He was still paralyzed to his spot; he was still unable to get away.  The tears continued to flow despite an overcoming silence.  The voices were too much-- they always had been, hadn't they?  Their back and forth created a whiplash; their multitude devoured everything else in his mind.  He was empty save for a simple longing that required no words.  He wanted to go home.  He wanted to go home--! back to where he knew how people thought and where to hide from their thoughts and even how they could be useful.  This wasn't useful.  This was too scary to be useful.

He didn't hear the cat-boy's questions but accidentally let out a small whimper, regardless.  He couldn't even hate himself for it; there was just too much.  There was the cat-boy and Denskith and someone crying and someone laughing and another person laughing and

hey
Hey
HEY
HEY ENTROPY HOW ARE YOU TODAY DID YOU HAVE ENOUGH COFFEE TO STAY AWAKE GOOD GOOD DO SOMETHING DO SOMETHING INTERESTING WHAT ARE YOU HAVING FOR BREAKFAST ENTROPY CANDIDATE AMBROSE AMBROSE HI HELLO SO SO WHAT ARE YOU DOING DO SOMETHING DANCE FOR US HELLO HEY

There were too many.