singillatim | open | i'll never die, i am a freak

Dorian's found his place to live: the church. It's perfect. It's just enough out of the way that he'll have space to himself. It's delightfully ironic that someone who sold his soul to the devil is taking up residence in a house of worship. And it's got enough crypts, caverns, and hideaways that he can hide a very important piece of artwork that came with him. Because in the community center, right next to a peacoat that he knows is his own (and a baggie of cocaine in said peacoat that he is not telling anyone about) sat his portrait. He stashed it away in a coat closet, wrapped up in a spare sheet until he found a place good enough to settle down in. So now came the awkward part of it all: moving said portrait to the church.

And while Dorian can carry the thing by himself...well, doors exist. It would be easier if he had help.

He doesn't know the blonde lady who he approaches (truthfully, he doesn't know anybody here, but point stands). But she seems nice and helpful and has big ol'sucker written all over her. So Dorian gives Sveta a sheepish smile as he asks, "I know we haven't met yet—hello, I'm Dorian, I'm new here. But can you or someone else help me out with a teensy little favor?"

There's someone living in the church again! Dorian's spruced it up, sweeping out the inside, washing some of the windows, clearing out the dust bunnies and the airing out the linens. He's not the best at cleaning, but he's decent enough at the job that it's noticeable—especially as Dorian's taking the time to try and shovel some of the snow out of the graveyard (or at least clear a passageway).

Though try as he may to shovel out the path, it's about half actual shoveling and half taking a rest. Someone's got scrawny little noodle arms.

The hustle and bustle of someone working at the church is enough to attract attention. The fact that Dorian also makes his way to town every evening, prowling around empty houses, shamelessly breaking and entering to find a pair of fucking snow boots, also attracts attention. Sorry if the world's scrawniest man tries to open the door of your habitable house! His bad!

She looks over, rather predictably quite pleased to help. She adjusts her sleeves and gives him a bright smile.

"Of course! I have some time. What do you need?"

Jackpot. Thank you, bright and cheery and totally manipulatable young woman. Dorian returns Sveta's bright smile with one of his own as he continues,

"You know how when we arrive here, a few personal affects are in the community center? I work in an art gallery back home. One of the paintings I acquired is here and I want to bring it to the church that I've decided to stay at. However, it's a teensy bit big and while I can carry it myself, I'll need someone to help with doors and help me maneuver down stairs."

He gives Sveta an apologetic smile before, "I'll put some tea on as a thank you once we get there."

She just laughs. "Of course. That is no trouble at all. Where is it?"

It's not often she finds herself at the Community Center, especially as of late. But she's glad she managed to come this time, as it seems like these possessions are getting - strangely cumbersome.

"I stashed it away in a coat closet," Dorian happily chirps. Gesturing for Sveta to follow him, he makes his way through the halls of the Community Center (holding the door open because he's a goddamn gentleman), before opening the door to said coat closet.

The painting itself is mostly covered by a sheet. However, the sheet has fallen off of one corner, exposing about a quarter of the painting. The quarter that Sveta can see is part of a man's head. The skin is mottled and rotted, the hair is thinning and gray, everything about the subject looks decrepit. Only one eye is visible and it stares at the viewer with absolute malice.

This painting radiates very bad energy. Dorian, seemingly oblivious to it, moves the sheet to cover the painting back up.

The church isn't exactly on Konstantin's list of destinations to frequent, mostly just a place he passes by on his little daily walks and jogs. It's what he's doing now when he catches movement and does a double-take; at first he thinks it might be Tim out there among the graves, shoveling away at more snow. But it's a stranger, a young man the cosmonaut's never seen before, and that has him trotting up, curious.

He knows there are new Interlopers here now, but it's still strange to see any new face after so many months without them. (What does this mean? More members added to the experiment? He's willing to bet there's going to be another round of "gifts" given out soon. Will this poor young man be another victim?)

Konstantin, as always, doesn't show any of his internal trepidation (or the fact that he's struggling a bit; his condition's been especially bad these days. Never mind that!)

"Hello!" he calls jovially instead, lifting a hand in greeting. He comes to a halt at the gate and crosses his arms over it, looking in at Dorian with a wide, white smile. He is a perfectly normal and handsome man who has no disgusting alien tapeworms! "Looks like hard work."

Oh he is handsome. Dorian looks up from his work, giving the cosmonaut a once-over and a wide smile. Say what you will about being trapped in a frozen Canadian hellscape with no internet, no electricity, and no means of escaping, at least the people here are remarkably attractive. Dorian will happily take the opportunity to stop working for a bit, turning his attention towards Konstantin.

"I'll be the first to admit that it's probably harder for me than for others. I wasn't exactly used to physical labor before arriving here. But the way I see it, if I decide to take up residence here, it's my job to keep the place looking nice."

It's probably harder for him that for others because 1. Dorian has scrawny little rich boy arms and 2. isn't wearing any sort of work gloves, just the thin, cheap sort of gloves one can get at a discount store. He is absolutely going to have blisters later and doesn't yet realize it.

The last cocaine trip that Dorian had was unequivocally bad. It was not good. And it also might have been demonically influenced? As far as Dorian is concerned, there were demons in that cocaine and they did almost make him jump off a ledge. But this bag, this small baggie of pure white powder that appeared in the pocket of a coat he knew was his, it could be different. It should be different. Zero demons in this cocaine, baby.

And besides, he's had a hard few days! He's been dragged to Canada of all places! He's fairly certain his immortality is on the fritz as he still has blisters! Nothing here has central heating! Truly, nobody has suffered like he has. So he deserves something nice. He deserves to not think about things for a little bit. For one evening, he deserves to just not think about things and for the universe to go 'it's okay, Dorian! You can have a bit of a break.'

So he did a line of coke off of the altar in the church. No biggie! If there are demons in this cocaine, he'll just deal with it! Like he always does!

And at least for the moment, Dorian doesn't regret it? He feels phenomenal, like his entire mind's opened up. He's wired, he's buzzing, he's alive in ways that he hasn't felt in...well, in a while. Certainly not for a few years, not since the 2000s at the earliest. But he is here, he is opened up, and his mind is swimming.

This manifests in Dorian standing outside in the street, by the church, looking up at the Aurora with an expression of someone who is drugged to high heaven. Those pupils are big, gang.

Sveta can't see auras here, but she doesn't need to in order to see that this painting is - off. Awful.

Absolutely rancid vibes.

She gasps a little and steps back as he covers it. "What - what is this painting?" she wonders, not moving back into the room until its completely covered.

That painting does not pass the vibe check, a phrase that Dorian doesn't actually know as he's from 2014. But based on her gasp, he knows she's seen it. Dorian turns to Sveta, giving her an apologetic little smile, as he starts some grade-A bullshit.

"Horrible, isn't it. But that's the point. The artist is an up and comer named Hallward. He uses the trappings of class and old money in the painting's subject—Victorian clothes, posture, if you look closely, even the brush strokes are of a more vintage style. But by having the subject be so horrible looking, it serves as a commentary on...ah, on how corrupt the old institutions can be. Something we think of as revered can hide absolute sin and depravity."

Content with his bullshit, Dorian shrugs. "Or at least, that's what the artist statement says. Personally, I think he simply wanted to paint a nasty looking portrait."

Sveta buys it because she doesn't actually know anything about art, especially Western art, and she doesn't actually want to investigate any deeper than that. She just nods and steps forward, reaching out gingerly towards the painting to make sure that it's tucked away.

"Why would you - want to keep such a thing in the church?"

"Because I want to live in the church," Dorian answers, as he picks up the portrait and starts to awkwardly move it out of the coat closet. "And I like this painting. I don't plan on displaying it or anything of that nature—I know it's a tiny bit off-putting."

Understatement of the century.

"But it's something from home. Horrible as it is, it's not like I have much of anything else."

"I suppose," she says quietly, holding the door for him and reaching over to help take some of the weight. "But it seems a little strange. I wonder why this came with you. Most people have - useful or personal items."

Dorian absolutely is going to keep quiet that one of the other items he found is cocaine.

"I spent a lot of time trying to acquire this piece back home. I suppose that's personal enough? Are there any rules for how these things show up? Say, for example, could someone's pet fish arrive? And would it arrive in a tank, or just as a fish?"

"I'm not sure!" she admits. "I know Ben has his dog, but pets aren't common. I don't believe there are any rules for it. I have only been here - a year," she says, breathing out.

Only a year.

It sounds so long when she puts it in those terms.

"A year," Dorian can't help but muse. "That's a long time and yet it's so short all at once."

In the grand scheme of things, thinking about everything, a year means nothing. A year means nothing in the march of history, a year means nothing to him. And yet, the year he's spent with certain people mean the world to Dorian.

"I wonder how long people will be here. If we'll ever go home."

"I was not among the first of us here, either," she tells him, opening the door to the outside and bundling up her coat against the wind.

"I don't know how much longer we will be here. Or what will happen. People have been lost here."

Eren learned to lock his door after the Forest Talkers broke in and ruined everything. Before that, he just hadn't really thought about it. Turns out it's a good thing he learned, though, since there's some guy here apparently trying to open the door.

Eren comes up to the porch as Dorian is trying to get that door open and stops.

"Can I help you?" he asks. His voice is mostly monotone, but everything about Eren oozes threat, even with his neutral stance, hands in his coat pockets. It's just who he is, really.

Her phrasing is interesting, enticing, and worrying all at the same time. What does she mean by lost?

"I assume that by 'lost', you mean something more than wandering off into the woods and losing your way?"

Try as he may to sound worried, there's a hint of interest and curiosity in Dorian's voice.

Whoops.

Dorian gives Eren a sheepish little 'yeah, I fucked up and I knew it' sort of smile. "Sorry!" he says, apologetic tone in his voice. "I know some of these houses aren't inhabited and really, I need clothing that isn't Armani."

It's said like obviously Eren will know what Armani is. Everybody knows what it is.

"You wouldn't happen to know if any of these houses might have anything in...mmm, a men's medium or a size 10 shoe?"

Eren's brow furrows a little. He understands some of what Dorian says, sure, but there are too many modern things going on there for him to really follow it all.

"I don't know what Armani is," he says. "There's some extra warm stuff at the community center." He isn't really the helpful type, but leaving someone to freeze isn't his style unless he has to.

"Some of the houses have things leftover. Whatever happened to these people, they didn't take any of their shit with them. Dunno what size ten is, but I have an extra pair of boots upstairs you can try."

Surely there won't be any other communication issues here whatsoever.

"What do you mean you don't know what Armani is?"

That's not the first question that Dorian should be asking, nor the most important thing he should take from the conversation, but here we are anyway. There's a moment before he realizes wait, that doesn't matter, and he continues,

"That being said, I wouldn't mind trying the boots. May I come in?"

"Lost. And killed," she remarks lightly, looking away from him as she braves the cold outside. The walk isn't long, but it is treacherous.

Eren just kind of frowns at the question.

"There are a lot of things people here know about that I don't," he says, which annoys him. He knows it's a difference in worlds, in access. He hates feeling behind for several reasons. One is his everlasting fury about the fact that his hometown was isolated on purpose, everyone's memories altered so they knew nothing of the world. Paradis couldn't progress for a hundred years, but the world outside the island went on. The other is that he just got used to knowing too much.

"…Yeah. Come on," he answers the second question. He unlocks the door and shoves it open. He keeps his house clean, thanks to old habits. Not that he'd bother being embarrassed for someone else to see anyway. They're all just making do here.

"I'm Eren," he says, by way of introduction.

open | i'll never die, i am a freak

closed to sveta

open!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

closed to zane, cw: drug use for the whole thread lmfao

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject