𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑴 𝑩𝑶𝒀

It was 2024. Witches could have any modes of transport they wanted. 

“Hmm, maybe he likes it? Like, if someone mixed up my name and called my JC than CJ, I wouldn’t care. Jesus had dope hair, right?” But as he was speaking, he was following Sebastian’s lead. He didn’t think there wouldn’t be anything he wouldn’t do, as long as his husband asked. “Oh, since we’re not getting any grocery shopping done, can we get food at the diner? I could fuck up like…seven burgers right now.” One for each day of the week, if he was thinking logically. 

(But he wasn’t. CJ never had).

“You’re more skilled though, Ceej!” he remarks sincerely, the edge of his lips tipping upwards into a goofy smile. “I know that in, like, my heart or whatever — never seen a witch skate, don’t need to.”

He’s about to comment on the whole Satan and Jesus thing, about to say that CJ’s a whole lot nicer than the Devil himself — and y’know, on that basis, maybe his point still stands — when his roommate’s easily distractible mind leads them to burgers. And he, obviously, has no choice but to agree. Burgers sound fucking dope. “Oh, yeah — please, dude. Diner burgers are so much yummier than this gel shit, I bet. Maybe we can just like, order extra and take some home with us? I dunno why more people just don’t do that, grocery shopping fuckin’ blows.”

Whatever, he thinks. He’ll just buy a new one next time. Blissful ignorance leads him to believe that there will even be a next time, of course.

He was three cigarettes deep in his misery, wallowing around in the backyard. Hunter had busied himself for the last half-hour kicking the same stone around in circles, like a sad game of soccer. Hunter knew Sebastian was in good hands with CJ, but he also knew that the night was too young for an Irish exit. Sebastian would certainly know, and he would certainly hear about it every hour for a couple of weeks.

Halfway through an elaborate lie to get him out of this party, the last person Hunter expected to walk out the back door was his brother. "Hey," he said, eyes drifting over to the larger-than-life skeleton in Sebastian's arms. "Uh... sure," Hunter agreed. He'd learned long ago it was better to go along to get along. "Who's your friend?" A beat passed, Hunter turning over the truth of what had happened on his tongue. He didn't really talk to Sebastian about it, but at the same time, Seb was probably the only person alive who would really get where Hunter was coming from. Still, he settled on, "Where the fuck did you get it?"

It’s probably better off this way, though, considering he’s just come from ripping the skeleton off the railing inside with Jeanie, who — well, is the reason for Hunter’s current state, if Sebastian could screw his head on straight and piece together the puzzle for once. God forbid he comments on the fact that both of them look awfully miserable and makes matters worse. That’d be horrific.

Little blessings from the Universe that he can’t.

➥ event: the haunted rave, 2024

➥ status: closed starter for @sebastianvora

The silver body paint is difficult to miss, especially beneath the strobes. Sinking back into the mass of pulsating dancers and avoiding entirely Seb crosses her mind for the most fleeting of instances, thoughts contaminated with the worry that he'll see through her and know somehow, turning things back in time to those awful few months after she and Hunter first split. Then the moment of cowardice is gone, replaced with a forceful reminder that Seb was her friend first, before she had anything to do with his brother, and damn it all if Hunter was going to take anything else from her.

Pasting on the most convincing smile she could—and it really was almost convincing, aided by the shots she'd begged Shambles to share with her—and half danced, half wobbled towards him.

“I've got a really great idea!” She yelled into his ear, voice fighting against the music. A finger pointed to the collection of looming Halloween decorations in the corner of the room. “Don't you think those look like they need a better home?”

His eyes track the path of her finger and land on the Halloween decorations in the corner — a fake, animatronic werewolf and patch of jack-o’-lantern pumpkins — and he nods.

“Yooooo, what the fuck! I didn’t even notice that shit there!” he replies, which is true — he’s been far too preoccupied with dancing to really notice any of the décor — but now that Jeanie’s brought it to his attention, he can’t help but do a little scan around the room. His attention lands on a gigantic, probably ten-foot-tall skeleton attached to the stairwell railing, ominously looming over the crowd. An idea pops into his head almost instantaneously and he lights up, visibly excited. “Wait, wait, wait — no, Jean, look at that fucker!” he points, narrowly avoiding whacking a stranger dancing close by as he does so, “We need him. Ooooh, we need him, we need him, we need him. Forget those pumpkins! Let’s take that one!”

Of course, it would have been way too easy for this fucking prick to point him in the direction of someone actually helpful, suggesting himself as a challenge. Roman stared blankly at him, knowing that whatever he decided — divulging in his reasons for being here, or leaving — was some sort of defeat. That he was going to lose to this fucking clown.

“Honesty is, but there’s a difference between being open and being a twat.” He pointed out as he rattled off his ‘core values’ shtick. At least from the younger man, he didn’t come across as too cheesy as he imagined a lot of these phrases would have from the other volunteers. “But fine. I’m here to talk to someone regarding…labels.” It was a start at least, the word huffing out through now gritted teeth.

Even still, however, there was some sort of ... pull, he’d say, to help him out. Not because he actually cared, in the grand scheme of things, but out of spite. It was evident that he, whatever his name was, thought just as negatively about him, and of course, he would never admit to deserving such negativity himself. So perhaps he wanted to prove his goodness — really fucking rub it in his face that he was a pillar of society like he’d said — so Mr. Miserable could eat his words. He was, obviously, blissfully unaware of the irony laden in his desire. Doing something good for a reason that was not so good.

“Goofy ass fuckin’ insult, by the way,” he interjected, because he wasn’t about to let him get the last word either. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at him like he was debating just how helpful he wanted to be. Should he say what the most generically helpful answer was, or should he say what he actually thought?

After a moment, he replied, “Do you, like, not know what they are, orrrr?” A sigh left his lips, like he was giving in. “Cause, I mean, there’s like a shitload of ‘em. They’re all kind of stupid, though,” he said. “Just ways for everyone else to shove you into little boxes.”

even if sebastian isn't bartamus ( it's still up in the air whether philly did receive organs from a bartamus ); they can tell that he's a soul in need of help. something akin to real recognizes real. it's not something she's expected today - but nonetheless, it's something philly is ( minimally ) amused by. as the employee walks away, she turns her attention back to sebastian. "you're wasting very precious time by asking, bartamus." grabbing onto him again, if only to pull him along - philly pushes through the arcade doors. "although, i do expect a reward for my help - as you know, no good deed goes unrewarded." their eyes scan the arcade as they walk, pausing and landing on the claw machine. "that octopus - it's very noble looking. plenty of legs. i desire it, bartamus. i need the octoupus."

Nevertheless, he follows with a little pep in his step as Philly pulls him along through the arcade. They’re on borrowed time, seeing as they’ll only be able to navigate this place for so long before someone else shows up to argue against his presence, but he’s blissfully ignorant to such a fact. Just delighted that his disguise actually worked, in the end. “You want this?” he lazily points to the bundle of octopi in the machine, precariously placed so the claw may very well never be able to grab them. Doesn’t matter, though, as he plans to just stick his arm as deep as it’ll go and pull one out. He looks around as if to scope out his surroundings, to see if anyone’s watching before he sinks to his knees. “What color you want?” he asks, because if he’s going to do it, might as well make sure it’s the one that Philly likes the most.

The moment he stepped out of the arcade that night he was ridden of all responsibility, on account of his husband’s super successful lawyer brother-in-law or something like that, so he doesn’t necessarily care anymore. Thinks he should still be allowed inside, because why should they care if he steals a little claw machine prize or two? It’s not like he’s here to get wasted out of his mind again — especially alone.

“Hey, man, not my fault they couldn’t handle my vibes!” he exclaims with a shrug of his shoulder, as if Angel’s point wasn’t completely valid. “They're fuckin’ ridiculous if they really believed this whole mustache thing — I got it at, like, party city. For three dollars! It looks fake as hell.” He reaches to his lips to pull the already deteriorating fake mustache off his skin, discarding it. Was it silly of him to do so now before he actually got to stick his hand in the claw machine? Maybe, but at the very least he’ll be able to use the disguise again if he gets caught.

Still, if he was immediately going to be met with malevolence, he was going to hit back. "Looks like you're doing wonders for the community." He drawled, nodding towards his current state, lounging over the fucking furrniture as if he owned the place. "I'm not here to be a dick. I'm actually here for —," He stopped short, realising that he didn't owe this idiot an explanation.

"I just want to have a chat with someone. And not be told my 'vibe'," Roman even lifted his left hand up to mimic quotations, "is 'rancid' upon walking through the bloody door. Not very welcoming for a community centre, is it?"

“I fuckin’ am,” he argued, his lack of patience already starting to bubble underneath his skin. “Ask fuckin’ — anyone else here, I’m a goddamn pillar of this place or some shit. Everyone loves me.”

And as insufferable as he often was, he wasn't necessarily wrong for once. Within the walls of the community center he held a certain kind of charm that the kids respected — probably because it was so easy for him to relate to how they felt, finding it akin to second-nature to get on their level. The other volunteers, perhaps, not so much ... they always thought he could do with a bit less hostility, a cleaner vocabulary, but he didn't care. “I dunno what you want me to say, dude, I'm just bein’ honest. Honesty is actually, like, one of the core values to build a nice, welcoming environment.” Or whatever Susanne says, he thought. He shifted in the beanbag so that he could sit up a little straighter. “Sooooo, you can talk to me. No bullshit, though, or I will tell you to fuck off. What do you want?”