little boy blue.

the gallery was beautiful, sure. he wasn't blind to it. tall white walls, dark wood fixtures, glasses sparkling, painting lined in uneven bursts of colour and shadow. somewhere, someone was loud enough to feel desperate while others were so quiet they seemed to be waiting for everyone else to shut up long enough for them to escape. it was anyone's guess which one miles was.

he had escaped the thickness of the crowd about twenty thousand-yearsminutes ago. drifted off to the back of the gallery, where the lighting was dimmer and folks seemed far less brave to discuss the garbage they were looking at. though, there was a painting there that kept pulling his attention back no matter how many times he told himself he wanted to leave. it was mostly blue. that's the simple, stupid version -- what he'd say if he wanted to prove he was above it all. it wasn't just blue, it was dark, black in places, light in others. felt like cold water, ache, that morning and every morning after.

he hated that, he hated more that he understood it. it understood him. he never liked being icarus on paper.

the name on the card meant nothing to him, blackthorn. who the hell names their kid something as pretentious as julian blackthorn .. says miles hollingsworth iii. the irony was not lost on him. eyes flick back to the painting, nose scrunching. “ bit overdramatic, ” he murmured under his breath, not sure if he meant the art, artist, or himself. a shift of movement startled him, his head turning just enough to notice someone ( @septemberbroughtthefcll ) standing close. eyes close, he curses under his breath. “ i'm going to hope you're not the artist .. 'cause, i've just made this significantly more uncomfortable for both of us. ”

the afterparty was supposed to be easier. it was not. it was just the same room with a looser tie.

the bar had been rented out for the occasion, all low amber lighting and sticky leather chairs. alumni clustered near the fireplace while donors occupied the less-sticky tables. a handful of athletes moved through the room like living proof that the entire day had a face, good shoulders, and a white-picket-fence future.

he barely managed to escape. not far, just to the quieter hallway outside the bar, near a trophy case with glass pulsing with the surrounding music. not exactly privacy, but close enough for a man who had spent most of his life learning how to disappear. his back was against the wall, tie loose and jacket wide open.

a burst of laughter came from inside, followed by the door opening and spilling noise into the hallway. he glanced up, prepared to fix himself quickly as to avoid scolding number nine. it was @dreadbound. he recognized the quarterback from earlier. confident enough in miles' eyes to look like a worthy investment. he'd sigh, roll his eyes, and shift over. “ let me guess. you also hit your annual limit for inspirational conversations with men who really earned the name dick. ”

miles had avoided the booth for a majority of the night, but then someone laughed too loudly near photographers, someone's wife cornered him to ask about his political pursuits, and he finally decided to give the cards a chance. at least cards were honest, in his opinion, about being fake.

tucked near the back, half-shadowed, he dropped into the chair across from @ofsvnlightt without waiting to be invited. “ alright, ” he grumbled, “ tell me something devastating. ”

large canvases hung beneath gold fixtures, far too shiny for the confusing paint decisions on them. each one was surrounded by people with something bubbly and boring in long glasses, saying things like 'texture' and 'intention' with some grave seriousness resembling only that of hostage negotiation. somewhere near the front, a crowd surrounded his father, laughing with donors. there was a hand kindly on a senator's shoulder -- which felt laughable, considering said hand belonged to an unkind man. the opposite hand gestured to a painting certain to be described as 'tasteful' by others but as 'migraine-inducing' by miles.

his father was in the front while miles stood near the edge of the room with a barely-touched glass and his notebook; as devastating as it was, he became that person -- the book at a party type. though, writing things down certainly gave fewer consequences where his father was concerned. he was halfway through a line about frivolous being used as synonym for taste when he noticed her -- still, pretty, watching the room. that caught his attention more than the art had.

was that [TIMOTHEE CHALAMET]? oh no no, that was just [MILES HOLLINGSWORTH III], a [CANON CHARACTER] from [DEGRASSI (TNG/NC)]. they are [EIGHTEEN] years old, use [HE/HIM], and [ARE NOT] aware that they are not actually from Washington DC. too bad they can’t stray from this city for long.

miles, in this magical washington, is unemployed and dependently wealthy. like in his canon, in which he is the son of a mayoral candidate, his DC-self is instead the son of an unnamed congressman. the eldest son, somewhat involved in a political sphere due to the father he does not get along with, the constant problems surrounding him and his two younger siblings, and his party nature.

he's pulled from the degrassi next class finale, meaning he has graduated from high school, is of age, and was meant to be attending the london writer's academy prior to being whisked to washington. he is unaware of his past life and has zero memory due to the magic. likewise, he is unaware of prior connections to his past life -- including his own siblings; he knows he has younger, twin siblings but is unable to name them and would not recognize them in this town*.