#*complex

Still, it feels.. hard to focus even past the intense, visceral disinterest he feels for the man in front of him. Feels like.. 

Oh no. 

Shit. Shit, not here, not here, but he feels the distant nausea, the tentative squeezing in his chest, and its okay, its ok he has time. It's just.. the longer he stands here, pretending he isn't bored out of his skull, the further up his spine that awful feeling creeps. 

Like he's made of static, and ice. Freezing down to his bones and starting to shake, all he can manage is a quick, clipped "Excuse me." Pushing his glass off on someone almost frantically, he turns on his heel, hoping his legs aren't about to give out on him. Keeps his pace measured, panic starting to claw up in him at the tightness in his lungs. Just get away from them all! Get out. 

Caine Sharpe is rarely afraid– doesn't have it in him, has never, but the start of his coughing fit brings an icy cold terror crashing over him. Clutching a perfectly manicured hand to his chest, he glances around furtively, ducking into a (hopefully) empty room. His back thuds against the cool wall, and in a shaky, snarky tone he mutters, "Now's really not the time for this. Get the fuck ah-ahold of yourself, Caine. Br-breathe– oh, shit." 

Another dizzying wave threatens to topple him, the edges of his vision snowing out, and he can hear his blood rushing in his ears and squeezes his eyes shut against all of it, gasping for breath, a rough, sputtering cough leaving his throat raw. Feels like being crushed. Like drowning. Is this it? I can't die here. I can't die here. It's only a few more moments before it backs off enough for him to gulp down a desperate lungful of air, eyes stinging with tears. It's fine. 

His heartbeat is still screwy, and he's still so breathless, just needs another moment, just another moment and it'll pass, just a mild one, though his breath still hiccups. Caine shuffles to an empty couch, draping himself upon it like he owns it, arm draped over his face to keep out light and sound. Fuck, he hopes no one comes in here, he'd never hear the end of it and he doesn't intend to suffer any of their false concern or sorry excuse for sympathy, it's beneath him. 

Breathe slow, in and out, just like Mori says. Pain is already fading, already backing off, maybe it was.. silly to panic. God he feels miserable, weak and cold, shivering in the slinky fabric of his dress. Still feels…. 

Like he's faded. Like the snow of an antenna with no signal, complete with the horrible hissing, that grating white noise filling his skull. He needs to leave before he falls out. Slowly, so incredibly carefully Caine pushes himself first to sit up, and then to stand. Shaky at first–  like a leaf in a storm, he takes a few hesitant steps before shaking it all off, releasing a deep exhale, straightening his back, returning once again to the almost too-pretty, proud creature they all fawn over. As they goddamn well should. 

Out of courtesy alone--a repeat client, one who hasn't tried to argue or push his terms, no less, Caine's sharp blue eyes scan the room for his date. Across the room. For once, turning heads brings creeping anxiety instead of smugness, instead of pride. Yes, he looks perfect, but his body is trembling already, all energy totally leeched from him. There's a faint echo of the familiar tightness in his chest, another small coughing fit hidden with a hand over his mouth. 

Halfway there. Fuck, I can't breathe. Just a little bit more, but the coughing doesn't stop. Not now, not now. Breathe! Again he clutches his chest with his free hand, fragile frame– and he is fragile, like fine bone china, no matter how he'd like to project otherwise- trembling, Caine once more gasps for breath, horribly aware of the several pairs of eyes on him. The murmurs are already starting, furtive glances and pointing. It's infuriating, humiliating. Oh, all of a sudden he's too warm, yet still so freezing. Dizzy as a bird in a dust devil and with his heart racing, Caine manages just a few more steps before his vision whites out. All at once there's an uproar, several people panicked at the sight of someone collapsing, before the client shoos them off, rushing to his aid. Not out of any particular kindness, nor fondness, still he does feel a twinge of pity, seeing how pained he looks.

Caine's brows furrow, a breathless noise torn from his throat as pain rips through his chest– his body won't obey, too weak to lift his head. The party's chatter is dulled by the rapid pounding of his heart, the rush of blood once again in his ears. He thinks someone is asking him a question, and tries his best to focus on none other than his client. 

"-re you alright Caine, that was a nasty fall. Do you.. are you.. uh, are you hurt?" 

Aside from his pride? 

He's too out of it to string words together, answering with a pathetic, pained whimper. Caine's head lolls as he's picked up, still struggling to breathe, to come to, and its back to that very same empty room he's taken, door locked behind. 

"I'll have a car take you home."

"Didn't- didn't need- hah- didn't need your help. Or your fuckin pity." Caine retorts. Ah, how much of the bite in his voice is gone, replaced with exhaustion and a slight slur, a horrid wheezing leaving him sounding more pathetic than anything, and it shows on the man's face. 

"No, yet you'll take both right now. Look, I'll do what I can to keep this quiet. For both our sakes, fucking pathetic, that little stunt."

He is 20 so I am assuming he would be your little brother, but he has lived away from home for a while so he definitely feels like "no, YOU are the little one". Which I think you would be fine with because he is a bit protective and a whole lotta fun. He tries to teach you life lessons, but he himself doesn't really? know? how? to? do? stuff? Oscar kind of wings it and his rice cooks arguably fine. He is a trial and error young fellow, he is the kind of brother to try and teach you but it always leads to more questions that you even began with. You have to keep giving HIM advice on how to do the most ordinary tasks.

Oscar, ah Oscar... that little punk. He hates nothing more than to hear you complain about anything. Well, no. He hates to see you date lmfao and it does NOT help that you have befriended Mr. Arthur Leclerc, because Oscar knows he is a lost puppy when you're not around - and he knows you well enough to know you are also into Arthur. And listen, they do not compete in the same series but they are both part of the Prema family. There is about to be some "so what's the deal with my sister" conversation around the halls during photo days or on the rare occasions they actually run into each other. You love to see them interact: Oscar has a resting bitch face for the Gods. And Arthur is permanently Himbo: On. It's art when your brother tries to keep a straight face at a dumb thing Mr. Bestie says.

Additionally, he does not know how to make it, but Oscar.Will.Pester.You.To.Make.Or.Go.Get.Pavlova. If you happen to visit him in Europe he is totally happy to let you stay with him but you must pay by making him food. And he loves pavlova, he loves to make your life difficult and tease you as well. This is your brother, he likes to annoy you.