Nothing to Sing About

  Peeking her head out of the door, Serena determines that the coast is clear before she steps out of her dorm room and into the hall. She may still be wearing the dress that she’d worn out with Ellie earlier, but the makeup has been wiped from her face, and she has tired eyes and messy hair. If only she hadn’t left this project for the last minute thanks to all of her drinking lately, then she wouldn’t have to take this Mission Impossible trip to the kitchen in the middle of the night for coffee… Her complaining inner monologue stops when she hears a voice. At first, she freezes and ducks into a corner, hiding. But then, she recognizes the voice, though it’s a much different tone than usual. Emerging from her hiding place, Serena is only there to hear a small bit before the phone is promptly broken. With a slight smile, the redhead takes up applause. “Well, damn.” She says in the way of a compliment. Entering the kitchen, she begins to pour herself a cup of coffee. She’s sure she knows just who Clayton had been talking to. She’d had a similar conversation not so long ago. If only hers had been so satisfying. “Congratulations.” Serena tosses over her shoulder as she pours creamer into her cup before turning back around. “What’s the occasion, may I ask? Finally reached your limit?” Again: she could sympathize. Sipping her coffee, Serena perches on the kitchen counter.

The clapping shocked Clay, but hearing Serena's voice, he shrugged and laughed softly. He looked at the broken phone in his hands and shrugged. "Th-thanks. W-why are you o-out and a-about right n-now?" At the question, he chewed his lip. "They threatened m-me again a-and after m-my last encounter with M-Montegomery, I r-realized I'm n-not powerless. I-I'm not the w-worthless one. Th-they are. I-if they weren't, th-they wouldn't h-have needed me." It had been a slow realization that Ellie had sparked and his time with Reagan had cemented. He looked at Serena softly. "H-how are you?" 

  Bernard has heard the conversation from afar. He didn’t exactly intend to eavesdrop, but with his hearing it just happens very often. He is so proud of Clay. But he decides to pretend like he doesn’t know. Instead, he runs up behind Clay and shouts “MONSTER HUG!”, as he hugs from behind and basically picks Clay up from the ground. He soon puts his friend down but still has his arms wrapped around Clay. “Hey, Clay! What’s up?”

Hearing the shout made Clay jump despite instantly recognizing the voice. Then he was lifted up from behind and laughs loudly. "H-hiya Bernie." Feet back on the ground, he leaned back into the other man, letting out a relieved sort of sigh. "I-I just told my p-parents to stay o-out of my life f-forever. A-and I broke my phone b-because they had the n-number and I d-didn't w-want to deal with them t-trying again. H-how are you, B-Bernie?" He leaned his head back, sort of turning it to look at the other, a smile on his face and a touch of worry in his eyes. Reality was not far from setting in and fear was always soon behind.

  Yeah. Hearst gives the French a run for their money (he says in a similarly joking yet bitter way, though he manages to let out one forced chuckle). A good reason? (he repeats in a low tone, the question having sounded odd to him. Had he had a good reason?) Nah, I don’t think I did. I thought I was doing something selfless… turned out to be the fucking most selfish thing I’ve ever pulled off (he lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand over his short hair). That’s a good strategy, I suppose (he replies, though he wasn’t truly that convinced. There was no good strategy now, no easy way out, he’d just have to wait in line to see what the hell Hearst and his father would have in store for him. Perhaps he should’ve been stronger, more resulute than he was now, but he’d given up… he didn’t feel like fighting the odds, the noose was already around his neck. He’d put it there). If there was something you could do, trust me, Clay, I’d say it. But this time I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do to help me, kid (he shakes his head lightly before he looks up at Clay, feeling grateful that he had offered his help). I… I murdered someone, kid. I planned it, executed it, and was stupid enough to think I could get away with it (he says with a heavy heart, keeping a serious tone at all times. He knew this could change the way Clay saw him, and in a way it hurt because he didn’t want to be yet another person who’d disappointed him. But he appreciated Clay, telling him the truth was the least he could offer in these last minutes).

[Clayton appreciated the attempted chuckle, but he wished he hadn't made the joke in the first place. He chewed his lip, looking softly at the other.] A g-good reason, yeah. [He listened, and shifted from foot to foot. He was thinking and trying to think of anything he could do to help. Any way out. He silenced his father's voice in the back of his mind calling him useless and stepped toward Tristan, swallowing heavily.] H-honesty time? I'd have killed my p-parents by n-now if they hadn't been in M-Mississippi. W-we live in a hostile world a-and we all g-got fucked by G-God or who the hell ever plans this out. I d-don't care if you murdered th-them and liked it. B-because I kn-know you. As much a-as I know anyone. [He sighed, looking at Tristan and wishing for once he didn't feel tears at the back of his eyes.] T-Tristan, s-sorry if that's disrespectful, b-but you a-are one of the b-best men I know. And I know Hearst and y-your family will probably t-try to make you disappear. Y-your ability makes i-it tougher for theirs to w-work, right? N-not if you see it c-coming. [He paused again, an idea hitting him.] C-can't you r-replicate abilities? That's h-how you help us t-train, right? You n-negate ours and show us w-what to do? U-use Hearst's. Ch-chances are, y-your family w-will be there too. M-modify their m-memory, maybe? I-I don't know. B-but...c-couldn't it work? M-make them b-believe it was s-someone else. H-Hearst will still be a pain i-in the ass. But...i-isn't it p-possible? 

  Yeah… And rumor has it he’s in the mood to be chopping heads off (he sounds slightly less humorous this time around, and the smirk seems a bit more forced. A part of him tells him to shut up and not give Clayton a reason to feel concern over him. But the other part reminds him that this kid had always been honest to him, and Tristan had reciprocated in kind. Dammit, Clay even knew about him and Anya and had kept it to himself). Anya’s involved in just a part of my long list of recent fuck-ups (he replies with a bitter tone, sounding defeated. Leave it to Tristan Tillstrom to single-handedly find out all the possible shortcuts to ruin his miserable existence, and everything he’d grown to care about -to love- to in the past months. Getting Anya pregnant was just a part of it, one that would cost him a lot as soon as that became public knowledge. Yet it worried him more what it would cost her…) It’s something worse, Clay. I… did something. Something terrible, and I foolishly thought it would stay buried. Turns out there’s not really a way to get away with it and Hearst found out. And my family… my family probably found out too (he swallows hard, his eyes still on Clay).

"I-isn't he always? The F-French Revolution i-is applauding the h-head rolls." The joke sours in his mouth and he looks immediately apologetic. He's glad to hear that this situation isn't about Anya. He just wants the two of them to be happy. His brows knit, listening closely. He chews his lip and thinks before he speaks. "D-did you have a g-good reason?" The question sounds stupid, but he asks it anyway. "B-because I know you, M-Mister Tillstrom. Y-you might d-do bad things. But e-everyone here has. Y-you do them f-for good reasons." He lets out a slow sigh. "F-fight the Hydra o-one head at a-a time, or i-it will overwhelm you. D-deal with Hearst f-first. O-our families are a-always there." He speaks with a resoluteness that is new to him. "W-what can I do to h-help? And d-don't say n-nothing because I'm n-not buying that b-bullshit. I m-might be weak, but I-I'm not helpless." He looks at him seriously. "Y-you have h-helped me more than I c-can thank you for. N-now it's my t-turn."

  (He feels somewhat bad for having replied in such a harsh way when he sees it was Clay. He appreciated the kid and wouldn’t have spoken so had he know it was him). Hey, kid. It’s ‘kay, you can stay. I got to run in a while, though. Meeting with the commander in chief (he says with a light smirk, managing to sound more or less like his normal self. Almost. At Clay’s question he thinks of lying, of saying everything was alright not to worry him without reasons. But truth be told, he had no idea if this could be the last time he sat in this office and spoke to one of his students. The last time he spoke to Clay, someone he’d grown to respect and think of as a friend) No. I fucked up big time, Clay (he looks away briefly, before his eyes drift down tohis hands, trying not to seem as fucking uneasy as he felt).

Waiting for his cue to leave, Clay is almost surprised when he's told to stay. He enters, shutting the door behind him and sitting across from the other man. He almost smiles at the comment. "A f-fate I wouldn't w-wish on my w-worst enemies. O-or my p-parents." Clay didn't like Hearst and he didn't like hearing that Tristan was going to have to go see him. The honesty Tristan shows surprises him and concern lines his face. "F-fucked up? I-is this about A-Anya? O-or something e-else?"

(Mr. Hearst had asked to see him in his office in half an hour. One of the headmaster’s minions had come to inform him of the appointment, and when Tristan asked why, the man simply said Orion Hearst wanted to talk about something regarding his brother’s death. He was fucking screwed… Hearst must have found out, some evidence of what he’d done to Henrik must have risen. All murderers made mistakes, and Tristan had been no different…) Come in (he says after hearing someone knock on his office’s door) Be quick about it, I have an important thing to do in a couple of minutes (he states curtly before he looks up to see who had walked in).

Clayton isn't even sure why he's knocking on Tristan's door. There isn't anything actively wrong, he doesn't need to talk to him about class. But, all the same, he just wants to see the older man. Because he just feels it's the right thing to do right now. And it's a far-sight better than trying to ignore the heavy grief that was sitting in his chest, grief he couldn't even begin to understand or place. He opens the door hearing Tristan answer, but feels guilty hearing he's under a time constraint. "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Tillstrom. I-I c-can go. Th-there wasn't a-a real reason f-for me to be h-here anyway." He gives the man a weak smile before cocking his head a bit. "A-are you okay, s-sir?"

[I’d never get used to these balls, Bernard thought gloomily as he lets out a long yawn. He hasn’t slept since they left the asylum, afraid he might sleep walk again. And to fight the sleep away, he has been eating a lot— which is a lot considering how much he usually eats, He doesn’t bother to stop waiters every time they walks by. He simply took the plates and emptied it, and honestly, a plateful of crackers is not that helpful. When he hears Clay from the other side of the room— it took him a while to recognize, because it was really loud in the ball room. At least to him— Bernard takes the plate of some vegetable rolls and heads to the direction. Sitting down next to Clay, he puts down the plate. He picks up two rolls and shoves it in his mouth.] Have some rolls. You must be starving. Your stomach is making a weird sound.

Lost in thought again, Clay was surprised when Bernie sat down. He gave him a soft smile and felt a knot in his chest that he couldn't quite explain. He picked up a roll and took a small bite, chewing before looking at Bernie. "Y-you can hear m-my stomach over a-all of this? H-how?" He took another bite, looking the other man over. "Y-you okay, Bernie? You l-look tired."

Fingers gingerly moved over the buttons of his sports jacket, doing them up as if it were a way to hide the fact that his dress shirt was gone. Of course the Spencer kid would be the one to spill something all over him so that he’d be the only one at the ball without a collared shirt. Oh well. A light smile met Zachariah’s lips as he watched one of his old friends attempt to take something from a waiter, only failing and instead retreating into the corner. “Excuse me, sir?” Walking up towards the water, he gave the man a large grin. “How about you hand me the tray of food?” Zachariah pushed the thought as he held out his hands. “Oh, and, if you’d be kind enough to bring some champagne — or anything, really, over towards the corner over there? Yes, there. I’d very much appreciate it.” He pushed again, chuckling as the waiter nodded and moved away. Zachariah walked up towards Clayton, holding out the tray with various food. “I swear they always miss me. I always end up stealing a tray or two from them.” Shaking his head, he gave a light chuckle. “Wanna get out of here soon?”

He almost didn't register Zachariah stopping the waiter. He'd fallen back into his own thoughts, but happened to see him hold out his hands for the tray. A small smile flickered on his face as the other walked his way. Leave it to Zach. "Th-that seems like a u-useful skill, th-that pushing of yours." Tentatively he reached for a piece of food, something he'd never be able to pronounce he was sure. He paused a moment before eating it, shrugging at the last question. "D-doesn't matter, does i-it? Not like th-there's anywhere f-for us to go. B-but, I'd b-be happy to be d-done here, yeah." He takes a small bite and then looks at the other. "H-how you been, Z-Zach?"

Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions by Alcoholics Anonymous felt heavy in her purse as she switched it from one side to the other. Genevieve had expressed concern with them because of the Celebration Ball, telling them that she was going to be around a lot of alcohol and the demons inside of her were still biting. It had been some time since she had joined and despite her hiccups (so far, she’s been sober for twelve days), her whole demeanor had changed. Yet… being around the alcohol, the waiters with champagne flutes, the open bar — it made her just want to toss everything away and give into her inhibitions. Grabbing an hors d’oeuvre from a plate, she spins around and grabs a random person’s arm to drag them onto the dance floor. “Recovering alcoholic, too much alcohol. Dance with me to make me forget that I want a drink so fucking bad. Kay? Kay.”

Clayton had pretty successfully managed to avoid a lot of attention for most of the Ball. He'd stuck to the sidelines and kept his head down. The past few weeks had been off for him. Not even sure why or how to explain what he felt, he withdrew into the silence he'd used as a child to avoid his parents' ire. Aside from singing to practice his ability, he was beginning to forget the sound of his own voice. He can't even muster words of protest as Gen grabs his arms. He'd just been going to go sit somewhere. Now he was apparently dancing. "I d-d-d-don't know i-if I'm the right person t-to distract you." Words felt foreign and weird, but he looked at her softly, almost meeting her eyes. "B-but I'll try. I-if you want me t-to." 

"Eat Shit."

Going through the motions of hand to hand training, Clayton feels like he's just spinning his wheels. He knows hand to hand is his worst skill and he can hear Mr. Webb's voice in his head every time he lands a glancing blow on the dummy. Focus, O'Hare. Fear won't serve you well. How the other man had known fear was the primary reason he couldn't do hand to hand was beyond Clay. But, that's the way it was. He gives up and goes to sit on a bench just in time for Zachariah to come stomping over and sit down. At the other's words, he tilts his head to the side with a quizzical look. "That's k-kind of their f-function. W-what did they f-fuck up this time?"