@purposefed
one would think waking up next to a giant, gaping pit would spark more anxiety... and, well, one would be correct. but, with his mask on -- his bravado plastered and nausea stifled -- dominion feels... numb. numb as he's dropped off in front of house 106. numb as he takes out his key. numb as he turns his cheek to see...
"OLIV-- what're you--!?"
ángel dominion rights himself almost as quickly as he'd faltered; back straightened, tone strengthened. confident. artificial. he hopes the wind is doing his billowing cloak a favor in theatrics. "i mean, figures my brilliant(ly handsome) rival would be right on my heels. already captivated by the island's mysteries, i assume? or, what's this...?" he lets silence and a pointed nod toward the other man's stare do what a well-placed smirk otherwise would. "...is it me you're captivated by, detective?"
we're... neighbors. (but the photobook isn't here.) what do i do now? (how am i supposed to make things right?) he'll put two and two together -- oliver isn't stupid--!
oliver... right. he looks... tired. are those bags under his eyes?
dominion softens despite himself, gripping one arm beneath his cloak. tight enough to ache, lest he do something rash, like cross the house 105-sized chasm between them and... god forbid, hold his love's face or something.
"are... you alright?" you look like you've seen a ghost.
