The Lobby | April 30th late at night | @theninthcard
Heâd managed to linger for the rest of the day, flitting restlessly between different rooms but always dissapearing from them if anyone else came near, uncertain of how to act. But he couldnât, he couldnât sleep here. The bag was too present, hidden under the bed, the bed too soft, his thoughts too loud. He would have gone to Jude but knew that the other wouldnât understand his need to just get pinned down and out of his head for a while, and Mitch knew that he wouldnât be able to bring Jude with him to a point of desperation.
No, he needed to get out, so he slipped out from the covers between 1 or 2am, and walked down to the lobby. He didnât feel like blacking out right now, didnât trust that he wouldnât end up somewhere completely different. He pushed open the doors and went to step out when the slightest footfall behind him caused him to stop and turn.
âAre you going to try and stop me leaving as well?â He blurted the words out before biting down on his tongue, the taste of copper filling his mouth instead. Why would anyone try to stop him? And it wasnât as though he was leaving, not permanently, not yet. Just to get the energy out from his nervous hands, replace the ache on his shoulders. Just, just for a bit.
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mitch tilted his head and let out a breath at the multiple cracks that sounded from the movement, some of the pressure let out of his neck. heâd recovered from the 24 hour transportathon a while back, let himself begin shifting around the lair again soon after, not daring to touch the global stage just yet. then more chaos unfolding, the world descending into the insanity he knew was there, and suddenly he was in high demand.
here there and everywhere, his phone constantly pinging with locations and coordinates (as though he knew how to use the second set) to go to, people to pick up, places to take them to. he sort of felt like a taxi-service, especially with the vague nausea he left them with each time, and the speed of the journey. heâd tried the taxis in each major city and had decided that he didnât like any of them.
he checked his phone, yep, they were supposed to meet here, so he pulled out a thermos bottle from his belt bag and continued drinking from it. might as well recover from all the journeys heâd been asked to take recently while he waited for the next call.
june 25th evening / 2nd floor kitchen / @theninthcard
the day had been a steady march of interesting events, the conversation with azra a highlight amongst them. to know it wasnât just him suffering that particular branch of insanity, hallucinations with a face just a touch too close for comfort, threats to step away, a shared vision in this interpretation of life.Â
did that lessen the promise? the half acceptance that he had already said?Â
one day, he had said to himself, and that day hadnât seem to come for him just yet, whilst the others had strange occurrences. not yet, but then it was.
he was on his way to grab a bite to eat, perhaps the ice cream he knew was in one of the kitchens, the hunger a strange feeling and he realised that heâd been chasing the sun and not slept in too long. perhaps ice cream, then he would sleep, here for once.Â
he was about to step through the open doorway when he heard voices, tow intermingled, and one of them caused him to still, hesitating, half hidden by the frame.Â
his own voice, though darker in weight, lighter in colour, the same ever present laughter still tucked behind every syllable. his reflectionâs voice, he realises, talking to lailani.
some form of curiosity overwhelms him and he stays in the shadows as his reflection holds up a finger against his lips, a flash of movement as laila busies herself with something. thereâs laughter in the air, a relaxed sense that he longs to bring, to breathe, to dwell within.Â
some form of jealousy then, as well, that his insanity, his hallucination can be perceived by anyone other than himself (though he saw azra;s earlier and has no right to complain), that his reflection may belong even better than he does (but wasnât that why he half agreed to leave? to become better, to not need anyone? to take a step to not being himself anymore?).
then laila reaches for his reflection, that comforting touch he always leans into, but his not-self dances away.
and he can picture her face, the confusion, the shock, and betrayal curdles in his gut - that something wearing his face would hurt her, even as they had claimed to not need them.
he opens the door fully, loudly, strides into the kitchen with a grace and an ease he half has. heâs acted before heâs thought, again, and thereâs a beat before he speaks, some excuse coming unbidden to his tongue.
â you gotta commit if youâre gonna pretend to be me, you know? i mean, if you were me, then you would, wouldnât you? â
heâd been trying to make a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich in the kitchen for dinner, watching as the mallows melted from the heat of the toast. he had been humming while he worked, before nadine walked in. there was a beat, anxiety flaring in his chest before he grabbed the plate, gave her a half-hearted smile and shifted.
he landed lightly on his feet in the library, his heart still beating too fast, but he let out a long breath and started to look around for liese.Â
â did you know that some cats are actually allergic to human hair, but mostly our perfumes? â he announced to the room, head peeking around the bookshelves before settling on one of the tables in the center.Â
He hadnât been able to come back to the house, other than that brief stint to shower off multiple oceans and grab fresh clothes without seeing anybody, since heâd managed to drop Aeron off in the midst of the chaos.The panic that had drummed through his chest had overwhelmed him and he could feel every stitch of his brain start to unravel, reality coming loose around him. Heâd even started to trust what some of the others had said, in purpose and stability and the other nonsense that they all spouted.
After heâd managed to exert enough will to end up back at the Lair and get Aeron back to safety, the afternoon and night had continued, only getting worse. Then the gaps between shifts lengthened from twenty minutes to thirty to an hour, before he stumbled out of a club and noticed that several hours had passed. But he didnât care, reverting back to his old method of staying awake as long as possible to stop the shifts from happening. So he transported himself a few timezones along and let the party continue.
(Each shift took more and more out of him, the energy required to visualise somewhere heâd never been before overwhelming, but he didnât care, didnât bother to notice it amongst the rest of his fatigue)Â
Then it caught up to him and he stumbled into a hostel and fell asleep on a solid bed, wishing for the one back in Washington. (Not home, never home) He woke slowly, groaning at the way his body protested and his legs ached, before pushing himself up and staring at the day ahead. But everytime he thought of Washington he rebelled, so he spent the day drifting between a cinema and a casino before his feet brought him back to the sky rises of DC as the sun set.
He shifted right into his room to shower and change again, blowdrying his hair as he emptied out his main backpack that heâd picked up before going out - how long ago? And then he was done and there was nothing to do and there was no-one he wanted to see.Â
Perhaps he should check up on Aeron, or see how the rest of the Lair had been doing, with their various fritzes, if theyâd all had it. But his bones felt like lead and he couldnât deal with the falsehoods, with their certain mindsets and critical view, their judgement and power and individual chaos. His mind danced through the various people, the various locations, before he remembered one heâd made a small while back with Lailani.
Something jumped inside his chest so he grabbed another blanket from the closet and transported himself between the shelves of the Library, his breath catching every time he closed his eyes and thought of movement. But he arrived okay and the breath released slowly and he stepped towards the alcove slowly.
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he stumbles into the room that isnât quite home but may be the third best thing, where the person at reception changes every two months but there are long-term regulars that know him by a name. he doesnât know how to rent a house but this is the next best thing, where he knows the area like a well-used map, creased in the edges and marked with favourite things.
itâs as close to the word familiar as he ever wants to get, and still, somehow, it gets disrupted.
At first, the room seems like any other, empty and familiar in a way that isnât difficult to ignore. It is not, however, all that it seems. A figure stirs in the corner of the room, languid and smiling. He approaches Mitch, a perfect mirror reflection of him - or almost. This version of Mitch is not much older but he looks it, his eyes sunken and his cheeks taut. There is dried lipstick on his neck peeking out from under his collar. It looks to be hours old, though the bite right beside it could be days old. Energy, powerful but but almost too rich, radiates off of him even at a distance. The closer he gets, the more faint sounds can be heard around them - the chattering of voices too soft to be understood, music that fades in and out, the intrigue of some kind of party or event. The mirror Mitch takes no note of it. His gaze, slightly glazed over, scans up and down the real Mitch in front of him
he doesnât know why heâs surprised to see another hallucination. perhaps heâs already fallen asleep, perhaps its salma or aeron, perhaps its another drop of crazy in the ocean heâs been swimming in. he doesnât blink, just stands there, looks at how close they got it.he doesnât have any hickeys himself right now, rarer for the past month, doesnât normally hear voices like this, but the rest, the clothes, the skin taut around his rib cage, the mania lingering in his eyes, heâs a past present future copy, older in the eyes, the hunger of a few years ago, standing here now.
âYou poor thing,â he says, his voice light but strained, like any pressure would crack it in two. âI remember you. Still hoping, even if you wonât admit it, that things could change.â Absently he scratches at a spot beneath his rib cage, revealing the extent to which his shirt hangs off his thinning frame. âThat something could be permanent.â He laughs, a brittle thing, and looks right at Mitch. âItâs easier if you stop hoping. I know you know that. Donât you want it to be easier?â His breathing quickens for a moment and he looks as if heâs caught up in a painful memory, but it passes soon enough, and heâs back to smiling again like it never happened. His lips split a little too wide. âI can show you, you know. Show you how much better it is when you just keep everyone out of your head. They canât hurt you if you donât let them in. The universe canât tear you away if you keep your roots to yourself.â He holds out his hand, seemingly unaware of the way it quivers, his fingers and wrist built with hollow bird bones. âDonât you want to be free of the fear that youâll end up alone?âÂ
he hesitates
it hurts, like a bandage ripped off too early, the wound stinging when exposed to the light. each word is like a diamond cutting through the boxes he had hidden his thoughts in, fears that had taken root since fei had picked him up, blossomed when he had been thrown around the world like a rag doll.
to be free of that fear is to be free of any leash and he knows his reflection too well to turn down the offer, to stop the pain thatâs been racking through him since the glitch.
he knows it.
he knows the truth, so he takes the hand even as he hates himself for it, but that taste isnât new, has coated his tongue since he can remember and perhaps freedom can set it free.
Instead of taking him anywhere, the reflection - if that's what he is - pulls Mitch close, wrapping him in his arms. "I know," he coos, brushing his palms over Mitch's back. "I know how you feel. They're going to leave you, you're right. They'll push you out. But that's okay, because you don't need them. I didn't need them, and look at me." He smiles, a brittle thing. "I left. I left them all behind, everyone who ever tried to hold me down. That's the thing about us, Mitch. We're not tethered to the world like they are. We aren't meant to stay put. We don't need to look out for them or anyone else. Just us. Isn't that right?"
he canât pull away. never knows how to -
how to respond to the foreign sensation of an embrace. he just stiffens, lets the words wash over him even as they compound the truth that the shadows in his dreams whisper to him.
a broken voice and he whispers out â canât i enjoy it? while itâs here? itâll hurt later, anyway, theyâll leave me. of course. i know this, itâs all a lie, but canât i keep it for now? â
"Why let them hurt you?" He pulls away only far enough to look Mitch in the eye. "You have the ability to leave. You get to choose. They don't get to hurt you just because they think it's fun to play with you when you're shiny and new, and then toss you away as soon as they get bored." He shakes his head, his hands sliding up to cup Mitch's cheeks. "Why bother with people like that? All people are like that. Why bother with any of them? It's not your responsibility."
because i want to lingers on his tongue but he knows that it doesnât matter, not with the pain of loss he knows is coming.
â i leave âÂ
he canât meet his own eyes, wonders if his real self is screaming in his sleep.
â then i donât have to leave now. right? â thereâs desperation and longing in his voice, weakness he knows will get picked up on.
he doesnât mind the others thinking that heâs shiny and new, as long as they do play with him, knows that heâd do anything for their attention. but theyâre not dropping him, not yet. when it looks like they will then he can leave.
â i donât mind â getting used, getting thrown to the side, as long as he gets a few hours in the warmth. â itâs better than nothing â his tone is pleading but he canât pull away from his own embrace, shame and desperation rooting him to the spot.
"You still have to decide what you do. I left them first." His voice focuses just a little, just enough that he seems more present out of nowhere. "I got tired of getting thrown out, so I left before they could. They told me they needed me, but I knew those were just lies." His smile starts to fade. "Why should anyone else matter, Mitch? It's just you in this world. Nobody else can be counted on. If the world burns, that's not your problem, because they'd all leave you out to fry if they could."
the fading smile strikes fear, that even himself gets tired of being around him. he backtracks, stumbles on his words. â they donât, they donât â
itâs all a lie, but heâd never lied before. one constant of truth and now even that had spiraled away.
â the world isnât real it can burn this reality can burn but -Â â he stumbles again, wants to be pulled back into that embrace. but -
he likes the heat while it lasts, a frog left in water slowly turns boiling will stay and cook alive. let the world burn let them all burn he just wants that window corner and those pranks and the chaos and the head pats the affirmation the validation while it lasts.
â the universe only allows me to burn. thereâs no other possibility. thereâs no happy ending. youâre not a happy ending. youâre me. â his hands come up to rest around his reflectionâs waist.
â canât i steal just this little bit of warmth? â
"I'm not a happy ending?" he asks, his brow creasing as he looks at Mitch with faraway eyes again. "I feel happy. I am happy. No one can hurt me. I just hurt them first and I'm fine, in the end. See?" He smiles again, though the expression is off kilter. "You don't need all of that. You don't need them. I know, and I can show you, but you have to want it. Really want it. The only person who can never leave you is yourself, Mitch."
a laugh, sharp and bitter, echoes in the empty room
a happy ending is one where he was never left behind, one where he kept the name he canât remember, had a family, had a home.
this him, the hickeys and bones and taste of power is too familiar, too of kilter, he can see the reflection of madness in his eyes. â i donât have myself â his brain is someplace, his body elsewhere, cracked at the edges and even his own sanity has left him. â youâre going to leave me. iâve left me. what else is there to risk? â
itâs the argument that runs circles around his head even as he falls asleep, what makes him turn up on the lairâs doorstep every morning. why heâs so tired from taking people across the globe, because for once, heâs needed. and he doesnât care about pain when that pleasure is shooting straight through his spine.
he tugs his reflection closer, close enough to kiss, the motion bruising his hip bone.
â if you think youâre sane then you really have gone mad â
(tw incest / selfcest)
The reflection makes no move to stop him, hovering so close their identical noses brush. "Magic itself," he offers in a murmur. His hands find Mitch's waist, dig into the flesh there. "Stay with them just for the temporary reprieve and they will take the one thing you have from you. You've seen them bickering. They don't even care about each other. They'd step on each others' throats for power." His spine curves, bending him over Mitch. "You think Jude cares about anything but his own hide? Or Kian with his temper?" His expression doesn't change, languid and a little hazy, but his voice begins to harden. "I don't have to be sane to be fine. I just did what they were going to do to me eventually. How is that wrong? How can it be wrong to put yourself first? You're all you have, even if you don't believe it."Â
he tenses, that fear skittering like ice down his back.
magic doesnât exist, itâs all a lie and yet -
and yet the power around him, those muttering voices, edges of music, that scent of power envelops him and itâs so rich on his tongue that he chokes
gasps, longs to consume.
â if i leave, â he whispers, doesnât know if the false temptation of this power is enough to overcome the warmth of the others. â if i go, how can i develop it? how can i - how can i have this? âÂ
he licks his lips, tastes the air. itâs not wrong, to leave. heâs done it before, a thousand times, climbed out of the windows of houses of people who had offered their home, opened their doors. itâs inevitable, he knows that, heâs done it countless times.
but why does the thought of this time hurt in itself?
He smiles, a vivid thing this time, no fragment of his pride hidden from view. "I can show you everything. There is so much more that you can have, that will keep you safe and warm and better than any of them ever can, or will." He runs the pad of his thumb over Mitch's cheek. "I can't show you now, I don't have the power, but I will be back to bring it to you. I know you don't believe that." He leans forward, resting his forehead against Mitch's. His voice is barely above a whisper. "I know the moment I say I'll come back, you don't believe me. That's okay. I will, and it will be a breath of air for your drowning lungs. Then I will take you with me, away from all the hurt. We don't like to make promises we can't keep, so know when I tell you this - I promise, if you come with me when I return to you, you will never regret it - that it carries weight."Â
that smile is like the sun shining down on him, no matter that the other self is a fragment of his imagination, of the world shattering around them.
the temptation, itâs blinding, and he steps closer, his hands tight on his reflectionâs hips. safe and warm, itâs too bad itâs all a lie, an illusion. he wonât be coming back, he wonât be able to take him away. but itâs heady, a drug he canât refuse.
one hand comes up to pull at his reflectionâs hair, tight as he finally makes proper eye contact. â you promise? â thereâs weight in the air, in the words, knows that even the fevered parts of his brain would never commit to something like this.Â
he canât promise back, doesnât know how to find the truth in the tangled knots of his thoughts but
but -
"I promise." The words are a prayer. He repeats it over and over, his smile growing so fond, so understanding, like the fingers gripping his scalp only bring him joy. "I came here to find you and take you with me, I know how to do it again. You'll always have a choice, of course. When I come back, you can decide not to come with me. It's up to you. But I can only tell you how much you will miss if you make that choice." He arches, his nose nuzzling at the crook of Mitch's neck. "I promise I will be back, and I promise I can give you something so, so much better than what any of them pretend to offer you."
the breath leaves his lungs and his grip softens, turns to carding through his hair in the way that he knows he likes.
its a lie, he knows that, its a lie, and thatâs the only truth heâs ever known. but
but he arches his neck to let his other self pull closer, letâs himself fall into the temptation of that lie. not yet, he doesnât have to make the choice just yet. but one day - when it looks like theyâre ready to throw him away, then
- maybe.
â what are you offering for now? â he asks, smirking, moving his hands to unbuckle his reflectionâs belt.
He mirrors Mitch's expression, a perfect recreation, and brings his chin up to whisper his next words in his ear. "Now? I can give you a taste of what you can have." His grip returns to Mitch's hips, tightens, spins him around and presses him into the wall. The idle, unbodied laughter in the air around them grows louder. They are exact mirror images of one another, right down to the last detail. And just as Mitch would, his reflection is gone before he awakens the next day, though the music lingers, faint and ghostly, and there are glimmers of power still in the air.
May 19th, midday / bottom of the Lair staircase / @chvriotâ
Walking. It was crazy how much normal people had to actually walk, all the doors that constantly stood in their way, all the stairs. Endless, stairs, up and down. He could shift, he normally did, but the truth was, even if he wouldnât admit it to himself, was that he was scared.Â
Scared of it going wrong, of ending up in the wrong place, of everyone pointing at him and no longer needing him because what made him special to them and belong was no longer any good.
So he walked instead. Or rather, fell. He was heading down to the ground floor to search for Ziyu when his foot slipped on the staircase and he tripped head over heels, landing with a pained groan at the bottom. He was used to pain, various scars from animal bites and pranks gone wrong dotted across his body. Dana was used to seeing him at least once a week, but that didnât mean it didnât hurt.
He swore as he tried to push himself to his feet, before feeling one ankle collapse under the weight. Normally, he would just teleport himself back to the infirmary, but that was up the stairs and he could make it, couldnât he?
He took one step before collapsing back down, cursing the pain. A litany of ever more creative swears dropped from his lips before he started to steel himself to just transport himself. He could do this. He would end up in the right place. It would be alright.
Just as he was about to go, he heard footsteps in the lobby behind him, and he spun before a part of him shriveled up at the sight of Nadine. Immediately the fear flooded back into him and he couldnât center the image of the infirmary in his mind, and his mouth went dry.
His Room | As soon as the council adjourns | @lcnaestclle
His heart was pumping too hard in chest, his breath coming in shaky gasps, only partially from the sprint up the stairs and into his room the moment he could push himself out of that stuffy council room. Heâd felt it near instantly, the ever-present thrumming under his fingers, under his skin, g o n e.
He didnât believe in this bullshit they called magic, didnât care about it, but something primal struck through his core the moment he realized that he couldnât escape. That the possibility to just leave -
His heart ached in his chest as he grabbed the half-filled bag stuck under his bed, choking him. (It felt like when heâd been left behind, again and again, but some part of him had left himself.)Â
He had flickered out the moment he felt the connection come back, before appearing back in his seat a moment later. He couldnât leave like this - not yet. There was a book upstairs where Emmy was trying to teach him basic chords and where Ziyu had practised lettering, a scarf that Laila had made that would keep him warm even in Canada, and if he couldnât come back - he needed to take them.
(There was a whole other lump in his throat, even as he tried to push away the thought that this was too much, that this was a sign of something that he was trying to ignore.)
His emergency supplies were always in the belt bag on his chest but the backpack had an extra warm layer, spare underwear, extra cash. He was in the midst of stuffing the scarf ontop when he heard the door open.
His bag dropped from nerveless fingers, coins spilling out from the top pocket and clattering to the ground. He span, cursing the fact that he hadnât locked the door behind him, trying to past on a smile he didnât feel.
