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Date: October 29th, 2019 Time: Late Location: Nurse’s Office

@kingstonoverstreet​

It was cliche to say that everything was a blur, but it was true. Mira remembered talking to Daniel, alcohol burning her throat, and then smoke, fire, and falling, falling. Crack. Her face in the dirt and a blinding pain in her wrist. Then the nurse’s office.

She sat with her knees tucked up to her chest, head leaning back against the wall. Her wrist was throbbing painfully, even with the assistance of alcohol and an ice pack to numb it, but her mind was on other things - namely the sudden, out of control fire. It could have been an accident. There were campfires everywhere, after all - one strong breeze and it wasn’t entirely beyond reason that something could have caught fire. But there was a gnawing, itching, at the back of her mind that told her it was too big of a coincidence. She hadn’t received the usual red letter from Dante, and she knew that Daniel wasn’t dumb enough to get hammered right before he had to start a fire, so was it someone trying to frame The Arsonists? Was it a few members acting without orders? 

In an attempt to distract herself from her concerns, Mira turned her gaze from the ceiling to the other students around her before her eyes settled on one in particular. Aside from herself, he was the only other person in there who wasn’t surrounded by supportive friends. She recognised him from the library. Freshman kid, basically lived among the bookshelves, never seemed to talk to anyone. Curious, and in need of a distraction, Mira cleared her throat to get his attention.

“You okay? What are you in for?”

He cannot say he was definite on who the guilty was for the flames that sparked at the camp-night, but he could say, with absolute conviction and truth, that Kingston Overstreet was most certainly amused by the nights events. Whoever set aflame to the tents, creating a cocktail of mass panic and fear that the night obviously became drunk on, Kingston had to give some credit for. It was organized, precisely thought-out, and masterfully executed. 

But, the question that gnawed on his head, a question that paralleled the question he had on the night of the play, where he had walked into a hurricane of broken furniture, scratched walls, shattered glass, and petrified students, if only to a different subject, was why? Why did they do it?

At that moment, Kingston’s being decided on another way to remind him of, to relive, tonight’s events, this time in a more direct, straight-forward avenue of his skin tingling in little bubbles of pain at the cause of the fire that caught onto his sweater, one that he quickly removed but still managed to leave him a remind of itself in the form of the now red and singed part of his forearm, skin red and slightly bubbly. It was his own fault for not paying attention to how close he was to the camp-ground, but at that moment, he was too mesmerized by the orchestral burning of the tents that he didn’t notice the bright red-and-orange flame consuming his sweater. That was one more sweater he needed to replace. 

As he pulled himself out of memories of the previous event, his eyes wandered around the emergency room he, and numerous other students, were situated in. He knew Astor Academy was a wealthy school, but seem the detail and supplies that is invested in their emergency room alone had, admittingly, impressed him. Still, his focus shifted back to the numerous worried wales of injured students and overwhelmed staff, even lingering on the various beds that were surrounded by individuals Kingston clearly knew did not attend the school. Loved ones and relatives. He was surprised they had gotten to the school so quickly. He assumed that many of them did not actually live near the Academy itself; they plainly had the money to send their children here. 

Still, he couldn't help but fixate on one thing: the one freshman girl he recognized from his classical music course being hugged by a boy much younger than her. It was logical that the younger boy was a relative, a cousin, a little brother, so that was why Kingston couldn’t stop himself, really, when his mind envisioned the small head of blond, curly hair that he loved so much.

He was so engrossed in it, actually, that the sound of the individual near him caused him to freeze.

The pawn directly in front of the king moves ahead two spaces, prepared for the opponents move.

He quickly pulled himself out of his defensive mindset and turned his head slightly to view the source of the voice near him, eyes landing on someone who he recognized, but never approached. She was an upperclassmen, he knew, the same one who worked at Astor’s library and who always saw Kingston walking in at the late hours of the night and in the early hours of the day when he visited. If anything, Kingston appreciated the flexible hours of the Astor library, which accommodated his need to new literature and insomnia. He saw her before, of course, and a few times in their very brisk interactions, they would lock eyes, but Kingston wouldn’t make an attempt to speak to her, and neither would she with him.

But, in their current circumstances, to which Kingston could acknowledge as him being alone and her, in a similar state, Kingston could imagine that she was bored, tired, or plainly curious, so, after the opponent moved a single pawn forward, testing, Kingston decided to move the pawn in front of his queen one pawn forward as well, for now he was curious, and had nothing better to do. 

It was at that moment that he felt the coldness of the water-droplets falling onto his sweatpants that he realized he had an ice-pack held against his burn, one that seemed minor in comparison to the state of which the upperclassmen’s wrist was in, in addition to the marks on her face. He decided to inquire.

“Well, apparently some campground was set on fire and some kids got injured,” he then let his head fall in direction to the arm that he held against his chest, an ice-pack situated against it. “Apparently, I was also one of them.” He lifted his head up slightly and smiled at her before his eyes situated back onto his sweatpants, staring at the wet-patch the ice-packs droplets had left on it. “Fire caught my sweatshirt and burned my arm. It’ll heal.” Although his head was still facing downwards, he made sure to not pause for too long, because he, liked the upperclassmen, had nothing better to do, and if he was being honest, he wanted to know the mind behind the eyes that would somehow catch themselves with his when he would walk into Astor’s library late at night. 

“Your’s seem worse, though. How bad is it?”

Leave it to Mason to show up in the middle of the first school week. He’d spent the entire summer on a backpacking trip in Europe, and most of it he wouldn’t have remembered because they all happened when he was in a drunken stupor if not for his camera, and he even managed to miss his flight back to Montana that he couldn’t make it in time for the first day of a new school year. Not that he minded, really. If he was being honest, he wanted to go back to Europe and spend more of his days drinking and enjoying his time with the many different people he surrounded himself with, but his mother sounded way too angry on the phone, telling Mason that she had booked him another flight to Montana. He remembered sighing in resignation and telling his mother yes, I will get on that plane, and, without any more complaints coming from him, he found himself driving his yellow Camaro to Astor Academy. His mother was nice enough to have had his car driven up to Montana so he didn’t have to go back to New York and end up missing more days than he already did– not that he minded– but he also suspected his mother had ulterior motives; like she knew his car being there would ensure that Mason would get on that plane.

He opened the door to his dorm room– the Genghis building was surprisingly bare, but it was the middle of the day– and found someone’s belongings on the other side. Mason’s brows furrowed, placing his bag and keys on top of his bed and walking over to the other bed to do a bit of inspection. He came to the conclusion that he had finally been assigned a roommate and, for the moment, Mason was unsure if he was happy about that or not. His previous roommate had left before the last term even ended, too spooked about the dead raven that showed up on their doorstep. Mason had been, too, but he was also mostly curious, and quite frankly, glad that he was able to spend the rest of the term with the room to himself. That didn’t seem to be the case now, however, and he almost jumped out of his skin when the door behind him opened. He would have to get used to that, now that he had a roommate and all. “Christ! You scared me!” he said, turning to look at the boy on the threshold. Mason didn’t quite know what to make of him yet; but he was interested in finding out what he was like. “Oh– where are my manners? Bonjour! Je m'appelle Mason. Your roommate. And you are…?”

Roommate. Kingston hoped that he would be able to go through the year without ever having those words said directly to him. No, he was overreacting, but this still was an inconvenience. He eyed the man up and down quickly before moving his pawn forward one space. Simple and quick. He was testing how the boy would play.

“I didn’t mean to scare you...” He spoke softly, nodding his head when the man introduced himself. Mason. He also spoke in french. The man seemed to have moved a pawn forward in a way where he was showing that he was playing, but Kingston didn’t know if it was a match or not. 

“C’est Kingston. C’est ça mon nom,” Kingston replied, deciding to mirror the other in his french dialect. “It’s Kingston, I...didn’t expect to have a roommate...” He said, eyeing Mason’s bags. “Were you in France this whole time instead of class? Seeing the sights?” Kingston asked, lacing his question in playfulness in order to ease Mason, or seem at ease. He needed to figure out how the man was in order to play him. “I wouldn’t blame you, Paris is pretty.” He smiled, walking forward into the room in a calm manner, walking over to his wooden dresser so that he could place his violin case against it. He took the opportunity to close his sketchbook as well, the rough stencil and faint outlines of his late-night erratic thoughts covered by the hard, black cover of the item. He turned around and gave the man a simple smile. “A better sight to see than a boring dorm room, I suppose.”

Availability: @yoonmason

He started staying back after composition class when his professor suggested that he use the available instruments to “express himself” and open himself up to the class more, thinking that if Kingston was able to put all his thoughts and, well “angst”, into music, he would feel more liberated and interact in class more. Or, at least his professor would get a better understanding of him. Well, his professor does not understand Kingston any better—truthfully, that is a problem Kingston has to deal with as well—but, Kingston does now have the opportunity to use the available instruments. He sticks with the violin, cello, and base, as that is what he is familiar with, but he sometimes lets his hands splay on the edge of the grand piano, just for a few seconds.

When he returns back to his dorm, what he expects to see is his unmade bed on one side of the room, his coffee stained and paper covered desk at the right corner of the room, his sketch book in front of his wooden dresser, and the left side of the room be completely empty, which is what it has been for the past few weeks he’s been at Astor. What he is met with, however, when he opens the door, the strap to his violin case strung over his shoulder, folder in hand, is another person, and the left side of his room occupied by various items that were never there before.

“…excuse me?” He says, voice low and quiet. “Who are you?”

availability: @kingstonoverstreet·

location: one of the events? its loose

all the events still currently going on had been a major mood booster. it had remained untouched by dante, and everything was surprisingly distracting in the most pleasant way possible. maggie was wandering between it all, wrapped candy apple being tossed ever so slightly in hand when she caught sight of one of the freshman who she could recollect meeting maybe once before. coming up on his side she flashed him a smile, holding the apple out as an olive branch. “so i get why i’m alone, but the real question is, why are you?”

To say that Kingston did not roll his eyes at the academy’s announcement of a Halloween Fest would not be a complete lie. No, his first reaction was to pause, snicker, then proceed to fill out the rest of his composition before quietly standing up from his desk and casually walking to his professor's desk, placing his packet on the wooden table and sorting himself out of the music room, before his professor could make any comment to him. 

He doesn’t go to the festival that day, but the following, when he finishes taking his exam 35 minutes earlier than his peers, physics being a simple concept he essentially mastered in high school, he decides that taking a few minutes to view the festival wouldn’t harm him. He has 35 minutes to spare, and the music room is occupied by a class: what else could he do?

As he walks down the stairs of the academy, away from the main entrance and into the field, the first impression of the halloween fest that he has gotten is a blob of gold, orange, and white. He isn’t surprised, it’s a Halloween Fest, but as he gets closer to the event, he is able to pick out the minute details: students walking from booth to booth buying snacks, playing games, going to various catered events, all of which are distinguished by bright lights and headers that, ironically, don’t distinguish them at all, coming together to make an imagine that, although intrigues Kingston, pushes him to separate from the festival. He decides to lean against a booth that currently has a “be right back!” sign placed on its front table. 

Still, this doesn’t stop people from walking past him, some of his fellow classmates greeting him, creating quick chat before asking him basic questions about the freshman’s big Halloween Fest event that he remembers the details of, but does not really care about, and some individuals who stay. Well, one who stays, a certain girl with brunette hair standing in front of him, armed with a candied apple which seems to appear as a peace offering. He sets up his chess pieces automatically, but the girl doesn’t seem like she wants to play. He thinks he remembers her name: Maggie. Hopefully, she hasn’t heard of his.

“It’s a good angle to view the festival, and if my classmates need me to help them build anything, they can call me.” No one was building today, but he throws it out anyways, in hopes that she’ll think he’s busy. One pawn moves two spaces forward, now three places ahead of the knight rather than one. “I heard those candied apples were good, though. We’re did you get them?”  

The answers Kingston gave him, the way he articulated the words he seem to carefully choose gave Andrew the feeling that he was calculating everything to the millimeter. He didn’t seemed at ease. Andrew had recognized in the new kid a Dreamer, as the “Process Communcation Model” type. Now Andrew was wondering if he wasn’t also a Thinker. Dreaming and thinking were two actions of the same nature, sometimes they could be complete antonyms. And yet the separation line between the two was still very blurry. That was telling a lot about the energumen he had in front of him, half hiding in the corner. Defensive and offensive attitude. Mister mystery. 

Andrew could tell the questions that the boy send back to him weren’t what he would do naturally. He didn’t asked them, he spoke them. “No, I’m actually a psychology major.” And you sir, I can tell, are an interesting profile ! “I paint since I’m child, though.” (“since I killed my father” would have been also true.) Andrew didn’t add anything, not really knowing what to add, really, but also to see if Kingston would keep the conversation going. He was expecting that he would somehow end it by nodding or something. But he asked again. Or rather avouching. Kingston was observing, stating, and then added a little interrogation for validation to make it seem like he was including him. That was smart. Andrew turned to look back at his incomplete piece. “Yes it is.” he confirmed. “We want to present it at the art exhibit the club organizes next month.” Though he doubted that Kesington would be interested in that last part.

The kid even found a way to get himself out of this conversation. So all that was between the first mumble and this last sentence was probably an act, or an attempt to make a not-so-bad impression. The psychology student wanted to ask him “who hurt you, kid ?”

But instead, a more sudden question popped in Andrew’s head, after earring this french word in his sentence. “ ‘Truc’ ? Oh, so your name really is Kingston ‘Au-Dessus-De-La-Rue’, then ?” he asked, sarcastic, but trying not to be too sassy. 

What Kingston finds the most interesting about chess, and all its complicated components, is that you never really know where the game will go. One can believe they have won, but then one simple move, even if it is not a misstep, can lead to an alternate ending, that one he did not even see. Maybe replying with truc was a misstep. Mentioning his name, however, in an attempt to appear kind was definitely a mistake, the wrong move, but sadly, he cannot turn back time and change it. 

The truc about chess, in all its glory, is that one always has to find a way to untangle themselves from the mess they’ve walked into, correct a miscalculation they've made, or plainly navigate through a sudden event they haven’t expected to occur. Kingston adores that about chess, even if, at the moment, it leads to a major annoyance and inconvenience. 

“It would be,” he chuckles, looking up at Andrew. His eyes quickly scan around him in order to see who is watching, and Kingston makes quick note about each person around them before focusing his attention back to Andrew, armed with one less bishop than he had before. Its space is now taken up by a queen he has failed to recognize. “Et toi? Andrew du rose? C’est pas intéressant, ça? Ou, est-ce qu’il y a un autre nom que je peux t’appeler?” 

One thing Kingston observed about Andrew is that, overall, he was friendly, a people’s person, so being cold and distant is futile. Instead of deterring him, it would only raise suspicion. The ones who seem the most friendly, or naive, are usually the ones who are the most observant, analytical, and Kingston has no doubt that Andrew is one of these individuals. “Cela pourrait être tout ce que tu veux, Andrew.” He leans his head against the wall, looking up at Andrew with a soft look, and waits for him to make his next move. 

If it ends up being unexpected, that’s even better. 

Nastia hadn’t expected this unforthcoming kid to play along with her bit about Arthurian legend, but, to her pleasant surprise, he ran with it. She ran her tongue over her teeth, relishing her instincts proven right – that he was interesting; that he was different. “You aren’t wrong,” she chuckled drily, “almost as though some omnipotent author out there wants him to win. Unfair, really.”

She tailed him into the woods, curious about his quick pace. Thankfully, at five-feet-ten Nastia had gangly enough legs to keep up, though she was usually one for a more casual stroll. “If you’re asking whether I’m a hoarder…” she began, tilting her head to one side and raising her eyebrows in a sardonic fashion. “Perhaps I’ve taken a shining to him. Or, perhaps, I’m hoping he’ll give me something in return.” She cast a sideways glance at her companion. This was an allusion to the myth, whereupon the Lady of the Lake summoned Arthur’s fealty years after her gift, but it didn’t stray too far from her actual worldview. 

“Nothing comes without its strings, invisible though they may be.” This lesson she imparted with a pucker in her brow. Nastia had learned a long time ago that it was foolish to give without expecting anything in return. It was ‘good’, sure, ‘the right thing’, maybe. But unwise, nonetheless. She let the statement hang, wondering what his philosophy would be. She realised she didn’t yet know his name, but refused to be the first to introduce herself.

He smirks at her response, tilting his head upwards as she catches up to him and spills her philosophy. Kingston listens to her with open ears, even if his eyes stare straight towards the path they are walking. “Of course the author wants him to win, he is King Arthur, after all. The hero.” And hero’s must always win, even if they themselves are not competent enough to do it. If they are the hero, no matter their skill level, or how much they genuinely know, they will accomplish what is set for them. “And as la femme du lac, you must help him. Even if he isn’t tactful himself.”

Kingston snickers at her comment, his stride now slowing down to a moderate sounder. When he hears her comment about how she may want something in return, his smirk falls for a second. It falls, not because he is upset, but because at that moment, his mind pauses, churns, and clicks, and he becomes more amused than he was before. She really is tactful. 

“And what would you want in return, Lady of the lake?” He says, stopping in his tracks, pausing to look down at his sneakers, which have collected a sufficient amount of moss and dirt from the wet ground, as he lets her stride past him. He tilts his foot up and rolls his ankle to examine the damage. But, then he heard her reasoning, and for the first time in what seems like forever, he doesn’t want to compete with. 

No, he lifts his fingers from his piece and moves it away from the board, intertwines them with his other hand, creating a platform for which he could lean his chin on, supported by his elbows and examine. For the first time, he doesn’t want to play, but instead, to see what she, la femme du lac, would do. He wants to see what she would do, what she would play, and, hopefully, decipher why she would play it.

“You’re right, nothing comes without strings.” He finally lifts his head up to look at her, and for the first time that morning, hair covering the sides of his face and hands stuffed into his pant pockets, he lets himself smile, amused and intrigued, for she is different, a challenge, and Kingston couldn’t help but like her. “So, Lady of the lake, what is it that you would like in return?”

That was not something Andrew would’ve expected. He could tell from afar that the kid didn’t seem the “ray of sunshine-social butterfly” type. Most of the “art kids” didn’t match that type either. Andrew himself wasn’t one of these kind of persons. Not everybody was a Tegan. A lot of them wore black clothes and used drawing and painting as an escaping from others and the world. Yeah, Andrew was a psychology major, he could know.  But Andrew didn’t expect such a harsh and uninterested first response. It quickly cut him off. Not that he was offended – well, maybe a little – but he could tell his presence was not very welcomed. And Andrew is not someone who pretends saving people from anything. If he was not wanted, he would fuck off. 

But the interaction’s dynamic quickly changed, and it surprised Andrew even more. After a little silence, the new boy asked him back. A question he already knew the answer to, but did it anyway. Andrew didn’t even had the time to open his mouth that his one-way interlocutor spoke for him. Andrew let a little “Indeed.” get out, more for himself, before the new artist introduced himself and handed him a hand to shake. For proper presentation. He took it. “Andrew, nice to meet you.” What kind of name was that ? And he thought he was British aristocracy… Naming him Andrew was the first mistake his parents made. He should have been a Kingston too.  He wondered what could possibly be the boy’s last name… “So” he continued, still standing, pointing his spay to the new member, “what’s your major, Kingston ?” Andrew liked when people who studied completely different things from art ended up in the art club, such as himself. Bev and Greg, his project mates who couldn’t show up, for instance, were respectively Maths and History students. Maybe Kingston was one of them too. 

The man didn’t seem like he was playing chess, and if he was, his moves were passive. 

When he spoke, a quick word thrown most-likely in surprise, Kingston internally cursed at himself with how he came off, because he could see the slight bit of shock on his face, but he quickly recoiled. His name was Andrew, simply, and he took Kingston offer of a handshake, and Kingston made sure to smile somewhat kindly from then, present as polite and friendly. Andrew seemed to elude that naturally, kindness. He was an approachable person--well, frankly, he was a person who also approaches others, it seems. Kingston debated how long he should hold a conversation with him, because it looked as if he continued, Andrew would always have a response, and he would never be able to leave this conversation. Fuck, he couldn’t escape this easily.

When Andrew asked him about his major, Kingston made sure to tilt his body towards the boy, making sure he seemed attentive, engaged. “I am an arts and music major, which is why I decided to come to the art club.” Truly, it was for the supplies, but this reasoning was also understandable. It made logical sense. “What major are you? Are you also an art major?” Kingston asked, voice low, yet loud enough for Andrew to hear. His body was still hidden in the corner, but out enough for Andrew to see him, and in that position, he could see other students look over to them, probably out of curiosity, or maybe out of boredom, but at that moment Kingston realized he now had to play not only Andrew, but others. “There are a lot of people here, in the art club I mean.” He spoke, tilting his head back to Andrew with a small smirk. “From what I’ve seen, this club is pretty popular. And what you’re working on, it looks quite important, of Asian-influence, I assume?” He kept his smile on his face. “I should probably let you go back to your work, with that truc in your hand and all.” He gestured towards the spray bottle in his hand and hoped that it would instigate Andrew to leave him alone. His bishop left his place next to his king and angled directly towards Andrews. It was a possible checkmate, Kingston hoped.

Nastia wasn’t manipulative, per se. It was more complicated than that – as complicated as everything had to be, with her. She loathed indirectness, skipping around an issue or desire: “If you wanted to wash the car, Anastasia, that would be nice.” “I don’t want to wash the car. Why don’t you just tell me to do it? Then I’ll wash the goddamn car.” She’d gotten into a world of trouble for that one, but had made her point. Her parents skipped the sugarcoating on their orders from then on.

While she frowned upon manipulation and guile, Nastia did have a thing for setting challenges; tests of character, almost. She liked seeing people’s choices unfold before her – not for the sake of making people squirm, or the power of making someone choose, but for the insights it gave her into who they were; how brave they were, how selfish, how strong, how smart, how spontaneous, how dull. Nastia would hold up a yardstick – one of her literary references, perhaps, or a philosophical question – and inwardly measure her acquaintances against it. If they impressed, or surprised her, she’d pay them extra attention. 

It was a habit of forming relationships she’d picked up early on, when she’d understood that so many of the people around her were just completely uninteresting. She didn’t mean that derogatorily – it was just an unfortunate truth; they were too plain, too normal, for her to relate to. Just as they rejected her, eventually – once their patience and politeness ran out, as it always did – she decided to reject them; the sooner she could work it out, the better. The less time wasted being misunderstood.

Nastia had set one such challenge for the boy on the dock: My bag, she’d said. It wasn’t too far from him, and she was sodding wet. The polite thing to do, of course, would be to grab it for her. But the boy simply looked at it, looked back at the dock, and got up to walk away. What he’d done was not polite: it was cold, strange, and arguably rude. Nastia smiled. In fact, she was practically grinning at him as he moved past her: forgetting herself, she yanked the bag from its anchor on the pole, quickly pulled out her towel, and walked after him. 

“Chivalry is dead, huh?” she said, catching up and falling into step. “Good.” She began to towel off her hair. “So, Lancelot du Lac, were you out looking for Excalibur? I’d pull it from my bag and hand it to you, but I’m keeping it for a guy named Arthur, I’m afraid.”

Lancelot du lac, Kingston couldn’t help his lips from quirking in amusement, although his face was facing directly in front of it and allowed for his reaction to go unnoticed. He kept walking, and at that moment, he wasn’t completely bothered by her following him. He snickered at the latter part of her response, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants as he walked. “King Arthur must have everything handed to him, I suppose.” he commented as they walked further into the woods. He wasn’t heading directly towards the Genghis dorms. Originally, he was going to find another spot to ponder in, sit by himself for a moment and breath, but now, he seemed to be walking through the more convoluted path for a reason. “Is there a reason why you’re saving Excalibur for him, Lady of the Lake, other than his prophecy?” He asked, a slight lift in his voice as they walked through the woods He may have slowed down his step for her, he was a fast walker, but he it wasn’t much to make the action apparent. He just found her comments...amusing. “Or do you usually reserve and protect things for other people?” He paused his chess match for a second. 

The silence in between her query and his response was ever so loud, and quite prolonged. Agata nearly smiled, knowing that he wanted to say no but was compelled to accept her offer. She took her time watching the boy’s expression. She contemplated whether or not he was indeed waiting for someone. The uncertainty manifested through his countenance made her rethink her original assumption. Maybe he was waiting for someone. A crew member perhaps, or a forbidden affair. It should make her feel guilt-ridden to take that away from him; and yet she did not. If he was truly waiting, he was waiting for someone who wasn’t coming, and she thought herself kind for taking him away. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’re serving lemonade as well tonight.” She teased, lips curled up into an audacious smile. She jerked her head towards the exit and pushed herself off the velvet seating. “We shall.” She urged, making her way towards the egress. 

Agata slowed to fall into step with her instant - and possibly coerced - date for the evening. “I’m Agata by the way.” She introduced herself after realising she hadn’t already. “I’d apologise for attacking you like this but that would make me a liar.” She added nonchalantly, shrugging a shoulder. “Your name?” She asked, glancing at Kingston briefly as they sauntered through the opulent hall.

He heard what she said, and smiled. She was honest. Kingston liked that about her, that she was truthfully and blunt. Actually, he admitted that in his snicker, genuine amusement appearing on his face once she had said that. “At least you’re honest.” He said, voice light as he watched her moves, moving her bishop to a position where it wouldn’t do any damage yet, but was playful. Huh. He stared down the hallway they were walking in with a small smile, not looking at her directly, but glancing when he needed to. Eye contact could give too much away, but could be beneficial if used correctly. “My name is Kingston.”He didn’t say anything else as they walked towards the dining hall, but he couldn’t help finding her a little amusing, how she was so open and upfront, not trying to be nice for formality or for an ulterior motive. Well, maybe she was, and if that was the case, Kingston wanted to know what it was, and he now had the time to decipher it.

Well, he thought he did, until they walked into the dining hall, where hundreds of students crowded at the entrance, staring blankly at the chaos in front of them.

Kingston couldn’t contain the laugh of pure amusement that escaped his lips. 

date: september 21, 2019

time: 11:39 am

location: outside of the dining ball

It was completely ruined, tables broken, vases shattered, he could even see scratches on the walls and the stains and residues of paint that the administration tried so desperately to clean. It was the rummage of complete chaos, and honestly, Kingston was upset he couldn’t see it happen. The Arsonists, that was their name, and to be quite fair, Kingston wanted to applaud them. Their work was thorough.

He heard that student’s were called, a lot of their names being revealed through the whisper’s of his classmates, and from what he had collected, they were all upperclassmen, or at least that was what was speculated, rumored to be true. It was intriguing to say the least, this whole fiasco, and how insane the administration was acting in response. He read in the school’s old records that this had happened before, that the Arsonists had happened before, and frankly, he wanted to applaud them for doing this again. Frankly, as he looked through the windows of the dining hall and onto the soiled and completely disheveled area within it, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Student’s are not allowed onto this perimeter.” Kingston sighed as he heard the voice of a probably administration member. He moved the farthest pawn to his right two spots forward.

“I am sorry, sir.” He apologized, turning around to see a man in his late-fifties staring at him sternly, and to that he tilted his head down and gave a look of sincere, well, as sincere as he could get, apology, before shrugging back towards the dining room. His rook moved forward out of its space. “I genuinely cannot believe anyone would do this,I’ve never heard something like this happen at Astor.” His bishop took away one of the man’s pieces. Of course he did, everyone did, but he hoped his tone of genuine confusion and shock was convincing enough to give him a slight pass. “I hope that the administration can find the culprits to this as soon as possible, I know that you have already taken action.” The bishop took the queen, and the man’s king made no attempt to move. No, he didn’t: this was far too entertaining.

The administration member gave him a stiff nod. Kingston’s rook somehow managed to angle itself directly in front of the king. He moved forward, the bishop would take him, he moved to the right, Kingston had a pawn already in place. “Yes. Now, never come here again until the administration says it is clear.”

kingstonoverstreet‌:

Date: 20th September

Time: 9:10 PM

Availability: @kingstonoverstreet​

Alone Together

Kingston wasn’t someone to miss an opportunity to see art, and the university’s production of Midsummer Night’s Dream fell into that category. Soon, after another two days of his roommate not showing up, out of boredom, knowing that he’ll have the whole night to stay up and doddle, he decided to put on the suit Caspar chose for him on their drive to the Mr. and Mrs., and go to the theater. The play was nice, ending with heavy words that were followed by thunderous applause. He applaud appreciatively as well, for the production was well put together and he could see the actors passion in their work. However, as people then turned and spoke to others, preparing to leave the theater and enter the dining room, he decided to stay, of course giving a few polite waves and nods to fellow first years that greeted him, out of cordiality, before he sat back down, waiting impatiently, not that he was, but he needed the situation to seem as if it was causing him unpleasant frustration, as if he was waiting for someone.

He wasn’t, simply, but it gave a clear message for people to leave him be, and soon, they did, and the theater was empty. The theater, called the Alpha Theater, was a beautiful structure in and of itself, masterfully structured to seem expensive and pretentious, and so it did. However, it was also quiet, and that’s what Kingston wanted. What he wanted was time alone to examine the piece that had been distracting him all night. The grand piano in the center of the theater.

He didn’t get to that, however. When he heard the sharp call to him, it had to be only him, he was the only other person in there, his body froze in its place. Chess pieces in play, he let out a soundless breath and replied to her. “No, i’ll eat later. The line is probably filled right now, so I thought it would be smart to wait a little before joining.” Kingston said with a polite smile, turning to look at the source of the voice, which happened to be a petite, brunette haired female. He smiled as she came closer. “I could say the same for you, aren’t you hungry?” He asked, voice as light as he could make it, yet direct. He moved his pawn away so he could take out his rook and queen to finish this match as soon as possible.

Agata rose from her original seat to approach her fellow student. She sat down again, leaving a seat between them. From up close, she could make out his features a bit more, even under the dim lighting of the capacious Alpha Theatre. Half of his face was hidden beneath a shadow, but the other half was clear as day. He smiled. She found it a pleasant sight. “It is smart.” She affirmed with an inwards chuckle. It wasn’t unlike Agata to approach other students as an attempt to genuinely socialise; however, her normal circumstances required an audience. She needed people to see that she was capable of being congenial despite her reputation of being quite unlikable. This was far from her normal circumstance. The venue was uninhabited, and she felt compelled to make conversation without any underlying business-related motives. 

As Agata closely inspected the young man, she realised her interest was evoked because he was in the same position as she was, unchaperoned. At first, he appeared to be waiting for someone, but not a single soul arrived to fetch him. There was also the fact that he didn’t answer so dismissively as someone would if they were waiting for a date. “No. Not at all.” She acknowledge, shrugging a shoulder and shaking her head. “I ate before the event. Tonight, I’d rather have a hamburger than prawn cocktail.” She explained with a slight smile. “I am planning to head to the dining hall for some wine, probably say hello to some people.” She added, nodding her head towards him. “Care to join me? That is, if you aren’t already taken for the night.” She trailed off. 

She moved her bishop and took his own, and for a second he was upset with himself, for he should have found a way to end this conversation directly. Maybe, he should say have said something more persuasive and particular, said that he was waiting for someone, and that this interaction was prohibiting him from finding them. When she came closer to him, not backing down, the first thing he noticed was that she didn’t sit directly next to him. No, she left a space between them, and the Kingston couldn’t suppress the small smile that appeared on his lips, a genuine smile, because he could see that she was cautious, smartly cautious. She moved her pawn next to her other, creating a safe, yet unassuming barrier. He liked that about her. 

“A burger does sound better than a prawn cocktail, I’ll agree with you on that.” He stared, taking in her slightly smile. However, when she invited him to go to the dining hall with her, that’s when the genuine interest disappeared from his body, for it was exactly what he didn’t want to do. 

He wanted that piano.

He was about to say no, his mind has decided for him at that split second that he was going to say no, say that he has an assignment to finish, but that would entail that he had to leave the room, and if he stated he was waiting for someone, she could see right through him, as he already started speaking to her in a kind, formal matter. Truly, his chance of getting to the piano had slipped from him the moment she approached him. 

Fine, if he couldn’t get what he wanted now, then he might as well find another thing to do. And, while that other activity didn’t ideally include the girl in front of him, although Kingston found her amusing, maybe he could humor her and himself by walking with her to the hall before sneaking out, vanishing before she knew it. He tended to do that often.

“I’m not the biggest fan of alcohol, but I am not taken for the night.” He said to her, tilting his head towards her a bit more, a smile on his face. “Shall we.” He moved his rook to a place where he couldn’t be taken, and where he couldn’t directly harm her, but he was prepared, prepared to take her piece if needed. He’ll humor himself. 

Date: 20th September

Time: 9:10 PM

Availability: @kingstonoverstreet​

Alone Together

The Alpha theatre was filled with a roaring applause, supplemented by cries of tributes, and whistles as the company went through the curtain call. As a gesture of respect and admiration, Agata remained in her seat beyond the play’s conclusion; after the ponderous drawing of the red velvet curtains. As if in a trance, her stare was fixed onto the spotlight against the crimson drapes ahead. The silhouettes of people rising from their seats to leave the venue passed her view. She was well-aware of her surroundings despite her sudden and momentary stupor. Chatters from students, faculty, and visitors echoed in the room. The sounds of their voices, and movements began to sound faint with each passing minute. Soon enough, the spectators have left for the dinner party, and the sounds of conversations had been replaced by the crew backstage tidying up. 

With a sharp exhale Agata pried her gaze from the curtains and inspected the theatre. She felt satisfaction at the brief tranquillity of her situation up until her eyes fell upon a boy at the far end of her row. A surge of curiosity went up Agata’s mind as she silently observed him. For a moment she contemplated whether or not to call out or get up and simply leave. In the end, her curiosity got the best of her, so she chose the former. “Why are you still here?” She asked unambiguously, her voice echoing through the almost-empty theatre. She had not the intention of sounding rude, but there were things that could not be helped. “Aren’t you hungry?” She added without thinking twice of it.

Kingston wasn’t someone to miss an opportunity to see art, and the university’s production of Midsummer Night’s Dream fell into that category. Soon, after another two days of his roommate not showing up, out of boredom, knowing that he’ll have the whole night to stay up and doddle, he decided to put on the suit Caspar chose for him on their drive to the Mr. and Mrs., and go to the theater. The play was nice, ending with heavy words that were followed by thunderous applause. He applaud appreciatively as well, for the production was well put together and he could see the actors passion in their work. However, as people then turned and spoke to others, preparing to leave the theater and enter the dining room, he decided to stay, of course giving a few polite waves and nods to fellow first years that greeted him, out of cordiality, before he sat back down, waiting impatiently, not that he was, but he needed the situation to seem as if it was causing him unpleasant frustration, as if he was waiting for someone.

He wasn’t, simply, but it gave a clear message for people to leave him be, and soon, they did, and the theater was empty. The theater, called the Alpha Theater, was a beautiful structure in and of itself, masterfully structured to seem expensive and pretentious, and so it did. However, it was also quiet, and that’s what Kingston wanted. What he wanted was time alone to examine the piece that had been distracting him all night. The grand piano in the center of the theater.

He didn’t get to that, however. When he heard the sharp call to him, it had to be only him, he was the only other person in there, his body froze in its place. Chess pieces in play, he let out a soundless breath and replied to her. “No, i’ll eat later. The line is probably filled right now, so I thought it would be smart to wait a little before joining.” Kingston said with a polite smile, turning to look at the source of the voice, which happened to be a petite, brunette haired female. He smiled as she came closer. “I could say the same for you, aren’t you hungry?” He asked, voice as light as he could make it, yet direct. He moved his pawn away so he could take out his rook and queen to finish this match as soon as possible.

date : 18th septembertime : 4:07 pm

location : art club

availability : closed for @kingstonoverstreet​

The art club was the only club Andrew has ever been a part of. In high school, he wouldn’t really put efforts into the fencing club and the book club, but would often propose new things and events to the president of the art club. So does he does at Astor Academy. The president of the club is a Fine Art major names Tegan who only wears overalls and ties her blue hair in a bun with a paint brush. A stereotype Andrew is used to work with since high school. He used to be quite an idiot in freshmen year and judge this kind of person. Eventually, he got tired of judging others, and with the experience, he learned that the people he used to roll his eyes over are more than often better persons than the people he used to hang out with. The art club is his Glee club, but without the weird Spanish teacher. The room dedicated to the club was also a room Art students use for some of their courses. It was a spacious room, with large windows that let the sun in and cover the painters’ canvas and their models. Even if it was frequently ventilated, the smell of chemicals and paint would still float in the air. 

In a corner of the room, there were a few set decorations for the incoming play that still needed painting. On the cork boards, sketches and drawings were pinned, waiting for the next nude model class to happen. Sheets were hanging on the walls, with various inscriptions that Andrew could imagine being for personal projects, parties or for political rallies. People were working in their project at the table in the center of the first half of the room, standing in front of the window, painting what they were seeing, or kneeling on the ground with their pastels.

Andrew’s project was a long canvas waiting for him against the back wall. It was supposed to be a group project started with another lad and a girl from the club, mixing graffiti and traditional Chinese painting. They hoped to finish it for the next art exhibit organized by their club. But seeing neither of his friends today, he decided to continue their work alone. Their non-presence wouldn’t stop him from turning around every time someone new would enter the room to make sure it wasn’t them, and greet his colleagues with a nod. Most of them he knew, not to say everyone of them. But like every year, a whole promotion graduated and left the academy to make room for a brand new skewer of students. And it was their duty to make the new ones feel welcomed. To be honest, it was not Andrew’s favourite part. He usually didn’t really appreciate being concentrated on his work and Tegan coming to him with a new student and asking him to show them around. It was frustrating. He preferred talking with them before or after he was finished with what he had to do. 

Though, as he was supposed to keep working with his team, he didn’t really care today. He was distracted and a little bummed that they didn’t show up. They couldn’t blame him, they should’ve been here. 

A new face showed up today. The kid looked like he came straight from a Cabanel painting. Tegan greeted him quickly, showed him the essentials. Andrew watched from the corner of the eye. The kid didn’t seem very comfortable, as someone who is not familiar with the club should be. After a moment, Andrew decided he could make this “M” more blue and went up to the new boy. A spray in one hand, his mask hanging from his neck, he stood next to the boy. “Hey you,” he started, “you’re new here, right ?” He looks at his face before glancing quickly at his paper. 

The one thing he had to consider when packing was space: what could he bring and what did he actually need? Clothing, which were a few basic items, toiletries, plainly a brush and some soaps, textbooks, some from his previous school years, his laptop, his journal, his sketchbook and some plain utensils. He failed to bring with him extravagant artistic tools, other than his number two pencil and charcoal. So, when he heard that the academy had in it an art club, which wasn’t unexpected since it is an university campus, he decided that walking in and utilizing a few of their supplies wouldn’t do harm. So, when he was settled, waiting for his roommate to come in, whoever he was to not come in still, even if it was the second day of classes, he picked up his sketchbook, the lead part of what was once a fully formed pencil, now snapped in half, and a piece of charcoal. He held the items in his left hand against his waist before shrugging his shoulders down, stuffing his hands in his pant pockets, hiding his body as much as possible, and trudging towards the art room.

It took him awhile to find it, but once he did, he quickly stepped in, and it was everything he expected it to be. It was filled with students, led by a girl with brightly blue hair, which Kingston decided not to make a personal comment on, all spray painting something. If he was correct, the pieces all had an influence of something, seemingly eastern, maybe of Asian-influence. He didn’t ponder on it much, but instead focused on slipping in as quietly as possible; that wasn’t possible, however, because even with his head facing downward and his shoulders slumped, the girl came up to him and looked up to him with a peppy smile. He didn’t know how much more of those he was going to see in the campus, but judging from his previous experiences, they were mostly likely going to be frequent.

“Hello!” She said to him, bright, and all Kingston did was throw a quick smile her way, looking down at her as politely as possible. “I’ve never seen you,” she commented, and all Kingston did was agree. “Mhm.” She then asked him if he has come here before, and he plainly said no, but it looked nice. Gentle compliment, one pawn forward, simple. She smiled at him and asked if she could show him around. Pawn forward, diagonal from his. He nodded wordlessly and allowed her to show him around briefly, and even though he nodded at what she said, he wasn’t really paying attention, not out of rudeness, but because a lot of it was self explanatory. After awhile of hearing her talk, Kingston had to admit he became a bit restless, as this was taking too much time than he wanted it to. His pawn took hers. She apologized, a pawn moving out of the way, giving him a clear win. He said that this was all nice but he needed to work on an important assignment, his eyes wide and as gentle as he could make them. She looked at him, surprised and apologetic and allowed him. He allowed his queen out and directly moved her in front of her king, and she didn’t make any move to protect it. Checkmate.

He nodded and moved away, finding a cozy place at the corner of the room, a space slightly hidden by a cabinet. He grabbed a white gel pen and a few gray pencils, and walked over to the area quickly, pushing his back against the crook and sliding down until he was essentially hidden behind the cabinet. Sighing, he proceed to open his sketchbook and the room around him felt silent as he drew her, the white woman. She was sitting in front of a lake, knees bent and angled adjacent to the water. He drew her curves, her hair, and her overall aura. She was so peaceful, gentle, and—“

“Hey you,” His hand stopped mid stroke and he felt his body tense, but he didn’t look up, instead, he stared at his paper once more, trying to encapsulate in his memory the way the women felt, how she was before looking up to see the source of the voice. It was a boy, older than he was, with a spray-paint can in his hand and a smile on his face. He asked the question Kingston had heard many times before, and then glanced at his paper. His fingers tensed around his stencil. “Mhm.” he said, looking back down at his paper. “Never been to the club.” He said. Maybe a bit irrational now looking back to it, but he moved his pawn two spaces forward, his voice devoid of anything kid and plainly dry. He shouldn’t allow himself to get so tense. He paused for a moment to regain himself. “Have you?” Maybe, maybe if he conversed, this time, he would go away quickly. “You seem to be working on the project here. I assume this isn’t your first time.” He held out his hand, friendly. “Kingston, you?”