Fantasy 🍞 x 🥯

[qunqun]

Gao

 

[qunqun]

AUGUST

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Today

Lavicchi Soirée

God I have to deal with those stuffy assholes

Notes

Lavicchi Soirée
DO NOT FORGET THE WINE AND CHEESE

Meetup
He wants to meet, he's probably feeling needy

17th August 2023

Glamor and farce, the virtues of a socialite. The meticulous peacocking around one another in a gesture of grandiose frivolity. A game, of sorts, has begun.

The great Lavicchi family, silver spoons and all that.

The Volkov family, golden and prideful like gods.

The Lavicchis were having the Volkovs over, for ostentatious sandwiches and tea… and maybe some alcohol, who knows.

Cast aside to entertain themselves, the grown children of the two families stare at each other with thinly veiled disgust.

NYC News

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NYC

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© weldherwings.

 

[Gao]

THE MEDIUM.

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GRAYSON

LAVICCHI

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

SOCIAL KING

LOCATION

HIS PARENTS HOUSE!

OUTFIT

POLITE CASUAL

AUTHOR'S NOTE

IT BEGINS

MAUSOLEUM — RAFFERTY.

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SCENE ONE.

A house is nothing but a suffocation of memory. I walk through this forgetting.

When a pale cherub can point and recite every country on the globe, wear tailored Caruso suits that box their spindly shoulders and speak only in phrases of yes sir, no sir, please and thank-you, many find a dapper heir to be cute, if not mildly uncanny.

When you can dream a hundred things before breakfast, when outside is a terrain glistening rich with opportunity, when even now part of him will always envy a short-sleeved shirt full of possibility.

Now? Now the pale cherub is old. And mopey.

Devoid of most virtue, all that withers once steeped in the violence of time. It is still yes sir, no sir, please and thank-you, but radiance harboured in the cavity of a chest has crushed under sighing vertebrae, closing accordions of bone and marrow to grind joyous grains into dust.

The house bears an ambience no different, gaunt without pulse and rapacious to his memory as soon as he arrives; being back in their estimation is reminder of how very thin their slack is, greeted with an echolalia of regimen and fuss as soon as italian leather shoes meet marble stone; his mother Ophelia is a mild spoken woman. A slash of ivory upon a cinereal backdrop, and the susurration of her long skirt speaks long before she does.

Descending upon Grayson like a flock of nightingales, all sharp nails and preen, a corked bottle is in one pale hand— he recognises it as one of their most aged wines, insinuating importance he was yet to care about —whilst the other picks away neurotically at his clothing. Some back and forth commotion, did you style your hair, have you been eating properly, why are you slouching, nourished with his chastened grumbles and petulant dodges to keel away from her hands. Not quite shed the skin of a grouchy adolescent, perhaps if his mother did not pore over him like a polly pocket doll he’d have better reasons to act mature. Yet he supposed nothing was ever casual in this family, and he supposed a small part of him still liked the attention.

A conspicuous gathering under the guise of a “light supper”, whilst organised to appear as insouciant as ever, screams of effort to rouse respect and admiration. Grayson has recognised the age of the wine bottle, the fine china and glassware reserved only for special occasions, the bundles of caviar canapes and crabmeat palmiers that no doubt his mother has arranged and rearranged three times over, he knows this play, has been walked through the steps many years before. This afternoon like many others before it, is a fine mask of social graces. An inheritance he is doomed to follow.

Silas is silent to his presence, and Gray is spiteful enough to meet his father halfway. A neon vacancy that spiders with the unspoken, tension still weaves itself thick as wet wool as they stand within each other's estimation and await the arrival of the Volkovs. A patriarch with antique features, alabastrine skin that looks twice as cold and thrice immovable, a patron saint of all things boreal and indifferent.

And it is just as Grayson predicted, the Volkov’s arrival stepping his father from gesso canvas to something ardent. Like rain has slid beneath his skin to swell a pale desert, his father is suddenly a polite, smiling host, a social puppet of fond welcomes and handshakes and compliments.

A shadow of a mother and a boot licking muppet for a father, Grayson cannot fathom why he agreed to attend. To help them look good, he assumes. A family with their proud little heir, summoned to appear prim and proper so that his parents may partake in this weird jousting competition of social etiquette. Look, they may brandish him as a shiny trophy, look at our smart little son. We made him, isn’t he dapper?

Grayson stirs himself a milky tea, does his best to look content with being present, and he is glad when his parents have brushed aside his presence and allowed him to melt into the background like an ashen shade.

For a little while, at least.

For soon enough, glances begin to snag on his skin like a scythe, and he returns his mother’s overbearing side-eyes with an exasperated stare. He wordlessly mouths an impatient WHAT at her, and is answered in kind with a flicker of suspicious shifty looks towards Katya.

Speak to the guest, a simple instruction for most people, yet Grayson was not a man known for holding riveting conversation, not even comfortable silence. The only individual he played host for was beloved Oatmeal, in which he’d serve her grilled chicken in gravy on a dainty platter and proceed to giggle and take photos of her with his phone.

He was not going to give Katya a dish of poultry and pat her.

So he musters the strength to make an effort just to appease the prying skewers of his mother’s eyes, pulls this olive branch forcefully like a chicken bone from his mouth. He cleared his throat and turned to speak to the heiress with gentle articulation.

“...”

Done so before he’d even figured out what to say. Stands and stares silently, suspended in air that freights with discomfort at the enclosure of two reluctant blue bloods. He’d stalled to a stop, dreading he’d sound just like his father, all performance and saccharine sweet, and that thought alone was enough to bring a painful falter to his attempt.

He is not a child anymore, unable to just stand smugly in his little outfit and look cute.

“... Hello.”

Jesus christ.

Another clearing of this throat, for he is stumbling through this waltz of conversation with the grace of a wounded elephant.

“Would you, perhaps, fancy a tour of the property?” What a bore, but at least he could be away from his mother’s flaying gaze.

And maybe he could walk really really fast down the hallways and she’d get lost and then he could stow away somewhere in the garden for the rest of this event.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

Scene One.

scroll

Katya

The Heiress

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Putting ants underneath a magnifying glass in the sun

OUTFIT

Rich ppl

LOCATION

SO. MUCH. GRAY.

MENTIONS

uauauauauaau

INTERACTS

FELLOW CANNIBAL

People I Don't Like — UPSAHL.

scroll

Aurum Hues.

Gold glitters warm and vibrant, yet remains cool to touch. Easily malleable, infinitely valuable

Scene One.

Taloned hand, gold glittering upon her breast as she stared at the pasty complexioned man before her. An eagle eyed dark miasma followed.

A mild headache, maybe the cause of a lack of caffeine, afflicted the Lavicchi son.

Sadistic? Perhaps.

But mild amounts of softened his father’s business partners

The walls were gray – mid-century modern drab. The furniture was gray. Fine and plush, yes, but visual stimulation was at a minimum. Even the heir she’d been shoved towards – stern words to play nice from her father – was just varying shades of gray in both complexion and personality.

Sickly.

“... Hello.” The verbal splat of conversation meets the careful poise and grace of a crane. The slow blink of a woman who is realizing that she is talking to an absolute fucking idiot.

The headache began to fade. She would not need to use her powers on him. He was a fattened lamb led to the slaughter

“Afternoon.” She gave a tiny bow of her head.

“Would you, perhaps, fancy a tour of the property?” He continued to trip on his own shades of beige idiosyncrasies.

She would prefer anything but more time spent with this dull reanimated corpse.

“Absolutely.” It was never polite to say no to such a request though, true disdain hidden carefully beneath the veneer of airs and graces. Not befitting of an heiress.

“I would be devastated to not see more…” What was the polite way to put it “-of your family’s unique decor.”

Unique.

A careful smile of a snake lying in wait as they began their tour. Finery and touches of wealth whispered — no, not nouveau riche, but unimpressive to a woman raised in such luxuries.

She’d been expecting more, to be honest. Quite disappointing. Boredom wove its way through the fiber of her being.

She nodded along to droll comments about carpeting and every different shade of gray the world had to offer and their pros and cons.

She gave him the sudden jolting pain of stubbing his toe on the floor. A subtle ache in his joints that came from a weary decrepit age.

Rattle his enclosure, see what happens.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE MEDIUM.

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GRAYSON

LAVICCHI

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

DONT LOOK DONT FUKING LOOK DONT DONT DO NOT DONT

LOCATION

HIS PARENTS HOUSE!

OUTFIT

POLITE CASUAL

AUTHOR'S NOTE

hi pookie bear

MAUSOLEUM — RAFFERTY.

scroll

SCENE ONE.

A house is nothing but a suffocation of memory. I walk through this forgetting.

A meek headache borne of what could only be assumed as tension had thawed in tandem with speaking to the heiress. Small mercies, he supposes. Yet when held under the sniper intensity of his parent’s observation, he is unable to do human things such as make a fuss.

Or human things such as slouching. Or clinking his spoon on the side of a cup. Or breathing too loudly. Or eating whipped cream from a can. Or sprinting down a hallway and sliding along the marble flooring on his socks.

Small mercies now that he lives alone, he supposes.

She agrees to the tour, makes a remark on their unique decor.

Unique.

He stares, and what menial warmth could’ve been garnered from her smile is lost to the sharp scarcity of his natural expression. A compliment that effaces like water, spans leagues of unspoken questions from the man. Not because he was intelligent enough to know Katya is wolf parading as lamb, but because Grayson was too invested in an assumptive connotation.

Unique is bad.

Anything outside of normal is bad.

He nods, delayed, preoccupied in a whir as he begins their tour. With the passion of wet bread he introduces her to areas of the house, saturated with autopilot additions of imported materials and architectural inspiration.

“The kitchen.”

Exciting!

He keeps walking.

Repeating the ritual like a chore, it is a hallway where composure splits another suture.

A flash of molten sun, Grayson manages to cull the yelp in the hiss of his mouth, yet by involuntary instinct to avoid tripping, he stumbles a hop over the obstacle.

Who was leaving shit all over the floor.

He is biting the inside of his cheek as he turns to stare at the spot. Finds nothing there, squints, then inspects his shoe for scuffing. Also nothing, now he just looks like a freak. He exchanged a nervous side-eye to Katya in what he hoped was a shared sentiment of “you didn’t see that”.

The pain in his foot had softened and slowed like a pulse, and he thinks nothing more of graceless lapse. Aches lingering through sinew and bone do give him pause, but he’d wring himself skeletal before he’d give the impression he is not up to par.

Nevermind that, he can show her the floating vase.

The fl—

THE FLOATING VASE.

Dread curdles him as he watches the fine china over her shoulder hover past on a gentle trajectory.

Oh my god.

His dead grandmother was rearranging things again.

He rasps a terrified sound, and for a moment forgets to keep his expressions silent. Horror snaking across his face before he had the sense to hide it, wide eyes, distracted, urgently shift from the flying vase back to Katya.

“Ma’am!” Quick as a gunshot, the alarm is blooming his spine with sheets of ice. Ma’am makes her sound old! “Miss! I mean Miss,” every groove smolders into a kiln frenzy, and he is unmoored from careful restraints to find something beyond him.

Don’t let her turn around.

“What,” panic. Panic. Think. “What is your favorite color?!”

Desperation makes a fool out of the body it inhabits.

“I simply have to know. Like I really,” he swallows hard, feels pressure cloy thick in his throat, all saltwater and gravedirt, “I really need to know. Please tell me.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

Scene One.

scroll

Katya

The Heiress

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Putting ants underneath a magnifying glass in the sun

OUTFIT

Rich ppl

LOCATION

SO. MUCH. GRAY.

MENTIONS

uauauauauaau

INTERACTS

FELLOW CANNIBAL

People I Don't Like — UPSAHL.

scroll

Aurum Hues.

Gold glitters warm and vibrant, yet remains cool to touch. Easily malleable, infinitely valuable

Scene One.

Gray is the name of the game, and gray things certainly were. She’d always preferred gold to silver in any case.

That is to say, he was incredibly fucking boring to her.

Nods and quiet approvals towards the long suffering Lavicchi child were administered tastefully at the correct times. No, never a smile, as that would not be something a good and proper rossiyane would ever do towards someone as stiff and uninviting as-

“Ma’am!”

Oh God, what did he want now. She simply regarded him with both eyebrows raised as she watched his equally dull gaze skitter from both her to something directly behind her… Maybe he was just incredibly bad at looking people in the eyes? Neurodivergence, after all, would whisper quietly in this. And he DID have a strange affinity for-

-He was sweating profusely.

Ew.

“Miss! I mean Miss.”

Unwavering stony expression, an icy princess from the North through and through.

There was something behind her.

Something that he didn’t want her to see.

“What. What is your favorite color.”

She almost wanted to laugh, and indeed, maybe her lips twitched in the most nano way towards an amused smile as she allowed the ache in his joints to fade away.

Maybe he was a little bit funny after all, though definitely not as intended. It was adorable: his mismanagement of her attention to the point of almost farce.

“... Have you lost track of floor tiles to amuse me with?” She responded with a question. “Clearly, you haven’t covered the other fifty in this room alone.”

Katya mimed turning around for a moment to gesture at the rest of the room. Whatever that there was behind her was FAR less entertaining than making little beads of sweat run rivers down the pallid man’s face.

“I simply have to know. Like I really, I really need to know. Please tell me.”

Did he have a fetish for knowing women’s favorite colors?

She barely managed to repress that comment as a clawed finger tapped at her chin, looking upwards towards the ceiling in a mimicry of actual thought being put towards the trivial question.

“My favorite color?” There were so many to choose from, but currently she was looking more to provoke than authenticity. “Gray.”

So incredibly deadpan that if someone didn’t know her, it wouldn’t register as a joke. Even if they did know her, it was a rather poor one.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE MEDIUM.

scroll

GRAYSON

LAVICCHI

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

DONT LOOK DONT FUKING LOOK DONT DONT DO NOT DONT

LOCATION

HIS PARENTS HOUSE!

OUTFIT

POLITE CASUAL

AUTHOR'S NOTE

hi pookie bear

MAUSOLEUM — RAFFERTY.

scroll

SCENE ONE.

A house is nothing but a suffocation of memory. I walk through this forgetting.

Her features are draped with what he reads as glacial apathy, and there is something unnerving about being under her expectant estimation.

“... Have you lost track of floor tiles to amuse me with? Clearly, you haven’t covered the other fifty in this room alone.”

He is a sound eaved with serrated anxiety, pulled from the cranium of his jugular, a forced laugh that emerges white blade teeth at the split of another composed seam. He looks much like a dog on the verge of vomiting, feels like it too.

“Miss Katya,” he coyly tried to butter her for generosity, “so witty.” It likely would’ve been paired with a shy pawing at her shoulder if Grayson was inclined to breach personal space.

Thankfully Grayson was an advocate for keeping his hands to himself. And other people's hands. Don’t touch him. Fuck off.

She made motion to turn, and the man almost fell to his knees in anguish. Saving the buckle with a bounce as if to test the limber tendons of his legs, his hands are balled at his sides, spading crescents to palmar creases. Conflicted with the idea of grabbing her by the shoulders and shoving her into the nearest room.

Her polished talons find purchase with a thoughtful ponder, and Grayson is doing his utmost best to ignore a chair floating by. Blinks his eyes hard and pulls the facsimile of focus onto his face— for he is so very very invested in what Katya’s answer will be.

Gray, she says. And the man forgets momentarily it is a color and not just a name.

“Gray.” He echoes in equal deadpan.

“Gray!” It registers, “Oh!” He simpers, “lucky me!”

HELP HIM.

“Wow, gray!” He repeats with an awe reserved only for Oatmeal’s little morning meows, “a truly sensational choice, Miss Katya!”

SENSATIONAL?

“Is there something behind me?”

Grayson stops smiling. Twitches.

“No?” That did not sound convincing. He'd never been good at lying.

“Why would– why would there be something behind you?” He coughs, goes to lean a hand on the wall to encapsulate nonchalance. Misses. Stumbles upright and leans his shoulder there instead. Suave.

"I hope that my presence isn't boring you to staring at a wall."

“I find you to be much more interesting than a wall.”

His mouth suctions like a lemon drop at how that might sound suggestive. Fiddlesticks. He wasn’t some little tart that seduced his way to favourable results!

“I could show you all the other floor tiles.” Exciting! “There is one with a crack in it. And– And another has been placed the wrong way, can you believe it? Some are gray— your favorite,” he interjects himself to remind her, “and are of only the most expensive slate.”

He takes one step backwards, keeping his front facing her in silent hope she’ll choose to follow. He’ll walk backwards through the whole house if he must.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

Scene One.

scroll

Katya

The Heiress

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Putting ants underneath a magnifying glass in the sun

OUTFIT

Rich ppl

LOCATION

SO. MUCH. GRAY.

MENTIONS

uauauauauaau

INTERACTS

FELLOW CANNIBAL

People I Don't Like — UPSAHL.

scroll

Aurum Hues.

Gold glitters warm and vibrant, yet remains cool to touch. Easily malleable, infinitely valuable

Scene One.

The woes of tragedy — while trekking through the dark mists of Hades, once stepped out into the warmth of Helios and the mother Gaia, why did he turn around to look when everything rested on him not?

Well, Katya wouldn’t be able to tell, and maybe that was for the best. She was just… better than that fucking idiot, but currently the herculean effort of not turning to look at the thing most DEFINITELY happening behind her was NOT being helped by a six foot pasty and sweaty man currently desperately making eye contact with him.

With the grace of a swan, her head turned from side to side, trying to see if his eye contact would follow subtle movements.

“No? Why… Why would there be something behind you?”

There was definitely something behind her.

“Grayson, I can witness poor people, you know. Servants don’t scare me.” Flat and unamused tone at the antics of the… heir currently… wow how has not melted into a puddle by now, she didn’t know that the human body could produce that much moisture. But the mild dripping meltage of frosty exterior was quickly covered once more as he continued to… sweat.

Further panicked, he said very hurriedly

“I find you to be much more interesting than the wall.”

Two carefully threaded eyebrows slowly raised upwards.

“Rather forward of you, Mr Lavicchi” No longer Grayson, now Mr Lavicchi.

He was rambling about tiles again. Nervously.

She couldn’t handle this drudgery anymore.

“How about… How about we… go experience, together, the gardens.”

She wanted to see how this man immediately burned to a crisp in the sunlight. If not for the nervous moisture radiating off the sickly dandy, she could’ve assumed he was a vampire after all.

She also, frankly, just liked gardens

“And whatever is happening behind me may continue at a… reasonable distance.”

Reasonable. Distance.

Tiny rebellions whispered in her blood, though. Eating two tarts instead of three downright scandalous. Talking to… a servant like a normal person. Such wild nature.

She was absolutely going to look behind her the second that Grayson turned his back.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE MEDIUM.

scroll

GRAYSON

LAVICCHI

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

DONT LOOK DONT FUKING LOOK DONT DONT DO NOT DONT

LOCATION

HIS PARENTS HOUSE!

OUTFIT

POLITE CASUAL

AUTHOR'S NOTE

hi pookie bear

MAUSOLEUM — RAFFERTY.

scroll

SCENE ONE.

A house is nothing but a suffocation of memory. I walk through this forgetting.

Despite feeling both awfully drained and equally (if not more) high-strung by the day’s events, a sentence like this was bound to ensnare his attention.

I can witness poor people.

Grayson coughs like a gunshot, a single bark more akin to a short shout than a sputter of germs. Resonating the walls whilst he stands there like an awkward emoji, the medium feels stranded in a desolate wasteland whilst risen anxiety laps at his ankles. He is known for sticking to social etiquette, all custom and restrictive manners, and only in sight of ire or urgency did this need to take a steep plummet.

Grayson was saving Katya from being concussed.

How humiliating that he couldn’t even explain the reason behind his antics without sounding insane. Ironic, really, since he supposes this is the same mad visage he is actively painting.

For if his grandmother heard she was being called poor, or god forbid, a servant, she’d have hurled that furniture right for Katya’s skull. The offence would be so ghastly he’d fear his grandmother would wail about her Balenciaga's and curl up to die a second time.

And just like that cough, the misplaced gunshot of it, Grayson’s words unspool like ribbonlike tendrils of smoke. More interesting than a wall, he watched Katya’s brows raise in tandem with his desire to ascend into the ceiling and never return.

Lips thinned like a coin slot, he stared at her like a guilty animal. Grayson, with his peak of control and elegance, can handle this like all proud well-educated heirs do.

“No.”

Oh good. Glad he cleared that up.

Shared with the grace of a newborn cow, he resists the urge to leap for the closest window. Whether to decline the entire topic or disagree is unknown even to Grayson, and he is hasty into scrambling for differing conversation. To both his demise and savior, wise and gilt in aurelian, Katya brews a splendid idea.

“The Gardens,” he nods in tandem like a moth to flame, like a snake following its charmer with obedient little boogies and woogies. “Yes I— I suppose we can do that…”

“If you just… Ahem…”

He takes another awkward step away, still facing her.

“… Follow me.”

Another step. How natural and normal.

“And we shall… peruse… peruse the gardens.”

He hesitates to turn completely and lead the way, not out of distrust for Katya, but that he wouldn’t be able to watch his grandmother’s fussy adjustment of home decor over their shoulder. He is naive to much, and inherently foolish because of it, so the falter dissolves, and he gambles to finally turn away down the hallway.

It is foolish to trust Katya— the calm, collected and very honest Miss Pavlovych who would NEVER do something evil such as tell a lie. For why would she? How could she? She has said whatever is happening behind her can stay there at a distance, and therefore, she must obviously have no interest in knowing!

Momentarily he can feel some tension unspool from his shoulders, and realises he has prevailed through such narrow circumstances.

Lucky Grayson.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

The Philosopher.

scroll

Matt

The Poet

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Finally something interesting

OUTFIT

What a dork

LOCATION

Ren

MENTIONS

Ren

INTERACTS

Gao

Indigo Night — Tamino.

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Apathy's Epiphany.

Hazy smoke filled emptiness, what does it mean to be alive?

Friday the 13th.

Ivory towered academia loomed large, a convention held every year for nerdy fucks that talked too much. How drab and dull, debates about syntax, comma positioning. Line and prose. What utter fucking nonsense.

Matt was a fucking nerd, so yes he did attend English Conventions. And yes he did generally enjoy debating absolute nonsense with people. But woe, the largest of all inconveniences. The cause of ills in the world as he walked through the ostentatious lobby of the hotel he’d been put into, gilded plastic chandeliers glittering.

He was bored.

But luckily, this was supposedly one of the most haunted hotels in America.

Brass triangle to call rickety elevator pressed, he eyed a very out of place looking fella, androgynous features, sharp with bad attitude.

Was he the superstitious type?

A chime of the bell, the doors creaked open automatically, Matt walked in and then glanced at the Brooklyn born visitor.

Doors creaked closed, elevator lifted. Silence as the automated mechanisms whirred.

“Hey. Did you know that this is, like, the most haunted hotel in America?” Well, the fifth most haunted hotel. But he didn't need to know that. “... And on Friday the 13th.”

Simple. For all intents and purposes, sounding like he was just making friendly – if slightly annoying – small talk in the elevator.

“What room you in?” “Coincidentally” they were going to the same floor. “Apparently our floor is the most haunted one.”

Clunk clunk. Elevator stopped. Doors creaked open again. “After you.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE KLEPTO.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

?!?!

OUTFIT

RUSTLES NERVOUSLY

LOCATION

HAUNTED HOTEL

MENTIONS

SUP MATT

INTERACTS

qunqun

NO TURNING BACK — KODA.

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SCENE TWO.

Ancient and vicious, luscious as dark velvet. It blooms in you, a poppy made of ink.

FRIDAY THE 13TH.

Ren needed to stop living in hotels. Only weird people stayed in hotels.

John Smiths and Jane Does, he figures it is a form of a punishment to fall under the category of fellow oddities. Having learned young that if someone wants to leave, vanish like frost to open air or smoke on skin, it is less painful to melt away in absence rather than within their line of sight. Too painful to tear out hooks of sentimentality in front of them and drown in their confused questions, being a freak living in hotels is just easier.

But alas, being a freak in a hotel does not save you from encountering other freaks.

With eyes sweeped with shadow, the type of sad eyes only ever seen in eastern european gay porn— (Ren had enough social grace not to share that with the stranger), he’d first noted the wet shoe of a man when waiting for the elevator.

Dark and unkempt, slathered with a melancholic aura Ren decided must stem from some viciously boring cycle of office cubicles and microwavable meals. That man needed a Snickers.

But generosity isn’t at the forefront of his mood today, and he desires only to hide away in his room for the rest of the night. It’s an antisocial move, the klepto knows this as he steps into the elevator without a word, nod or look at the stranger and sticks to the furthest wall like a soot shadow.

Ren notices the glance, the second of the evening, and wages a petty battle not to flash his chest at the man to scare him off. Considering they were both now stuck in a moving cube with nowhere to run to, he decides otherwise. Not out of maturity, just that the aftermath would feel very awkward and he may have to give a reason for his behaviour.

“Hey," they greet.

What could they possibly want.

If the man told him anything else, this is high pile nylon carpet, or maybe, they’ve installed white light LEDs which were first available commercially in 1996-1997, Ren would’ve stopped the elevator on the nearest floor and walked the rest of the flights to avoid conversation.

Instead.

"Did you know that this is, like, the most haunted hotel in America?"

The most fucking what.

Stale air salted the lining of his lungs on the inhale, and a very slow, measured swallow sounded in the narrow enclosure of their elevator. A wishbone has lodged his throat sideways hearing it is Friday the 13th.

“Oh,” croaked Ren. Quivering half a smile and half a wince, he is suspended in a regretful echo of what silent presence they once had. At a loss for words, he followed it up with a forceful, “yay.”

Nothing was yay.

He was the opposite of yay.

“You like a… ghost enthusiast, or something?” He notes he feels abnormally cold, pulls his jacket around himself to hoard warmth in this sudden drift of discomfort. Eyes are chasing the corners of the elevator, silent as a tomb.

“What room you in?”

“... 404.” It’s barely audible, whispered as a hangman’s noose curls tighter still. Four is the death number. And he has two of them. Double death. Dying twice. He’ll die and then die again as a ghost and it will be very long and painful and his mom will be sad and nobody will go to his funeral and–

“Apparently our floor is the most haunted one.”

Why would he say that.

Why the fuck would anyone say that.

Time slows to a crawl, seconds feeling minutes with no fixed end in sight. An impulse reaction wanted to smack the button back to the ground floor and sleep on the dingy lobby carpet instead. The burdened reality of the situation is beginning to pool in his features, a worry between the brows and stiffened jaw.

“No it’s not.” Ren quietly scoffs and responds for whatever defensive purpose he feels, as if this may speak it out of existence. “This is a nice floor. With no haunting.”

On cue obsidian iris follows the unfolding doors to stare into dead space. The hallway leers back with a greasy sepia lighting that buzzes in its glass lamps, one flickering threatening morse through the spouts of worn electrical wiring. It looks darker than he recalled. Ren’s lips press into a guilty line.

Maybe it has a little haunting.

"After you." Intended polite, perhaps, but Ren cannot bring his cuban heels to move. Eyes flicker between hallway and man, a brewing maelstrom of conflict. His body only heeds the signal to take a step back, further into the elevator.

“No, I– I insist.” Amidst a polite stalemate, he remains ensnared to the spot. If the stranger’s claim is true, the most haunted floor, Ren would rather walk behind the man so that he may use him as a human shield.

Somewhere sounds a vague thud, probably someone setting down a suitcase or closing a door, but for Ren it is a musket shot of warning.

Ghosts.

Biting down a flinch that is barely subsumed, Ren clears his throat, shuffles a step in his jacket.

“Actually,” the klepto is not good at much, with braincells allergic to maps and spelling anything longer than five letters, but he can always engage his trusted waltz . “I didn’t catch your name.” Distract! “Since we’re elevator buddies now. Room neighbours.”

Ren makes a side-step closer to the man. His human shield. Casual. Normal. Not suspicious.

“I’m Ren.”

He pulls a hand from his pocket to extend to the stranger.

“Handshake?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

The Philosopher.

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Matt

The Poet

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Finally something interesting

OUTFIT

What a dork

LOCATION

Ren

MENTIONS

Ren

INTERACTS

Gao

Indigo Night — Tamino.

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Apathy's Epiphany.

Hazy smoke filled emptiness, what does it mean to be alive?

Friday the 13th.

Years of stony face clamped down on delight blossoming to the idea that yes. Yes Ren was in fact terrified of ghosts. Impassively dour, he nodded with a slightest enthusiasm – practically jumping with glee for the withdrawn nerd.

“404, huh… Damn, that's the room I wanted.” A small low whistle as he walked with Ren, echoed sentiment ringing between two smudgy dark haired men. “Double death. Heard someone got murdered in there. Jealous ex or something like that.”

Sharp predatory smile spread upon tired face as he stepped out the elevator and held burnished brass doors open for Ren; however, compared to previous deadpan stone-face this was . Suddenly, that guy was a lot friendlier. Wonder why-

“Such close friends… I'm probably ghost hunting tonight, might as well see what happens… probably safer to be out and about than trapped in a room. Safety in numbers and all that. Apparently it's the anniversary of that girl’s death so…”

The lights flickered, a single step upon loose floorboard emitting a loud creak as they walked. Matt looked upwards at the very convenient atmosphere created. Damn, maybe this was why it was haunted. Obviously, in a world of magic, it would be stupid to not completely discount the idea of ghosts being in this hotel, but he was fairly certain there wasn’t any specifically in this hotel… And it had been a gimmick the hotel created to get more tourists to stay here.

Not that that really mattered to Matt, he was having a great time watching Ren’s twitchy nervousness snake its way through dark eyes.

“... Huh. Maybe the ghosts are out earlier than expected.”

His voice danced the line of sarcasm and legitimacy. Dry delivery even if his facial expressions was a little more lively than before. “Anyways, hope you have a peaceful night… or an eventful one, I dunno. Whatever you'd prefer.”

He could definitely see that Ren wanted a peaceful not ghostly night, but playing the fool was more entertaining for the time being.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE KLEPTO.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET M

OUTFIT

RUSTLES NERVOUSLY

LOCATION

HAUNTED HOTEL

MENTIONS

SUP MATT

INTERACTS

qunqun

NO TURNING BACK — KODA.

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SCENE TWO.

Ancient and vicious, luscious as dark velvet. It blooms in you, a poppy made of ink.

FRIDAY THE 13TH.

“404, huh… Damn, that's the room I wanted.”

“Why.” Paranoia gutters him hollow of any remaining composure, dread coating his voice in an icy tundra. “Why that one.”

“Heard someone got murdered in there.”

Ren almost collapses. Feels his stomach twist with a steep incline, throat following in its own barrage of knots. He coughs once, twice to cleave air through the stale film of his jugular.

“Neat.” His attempt at sounding unbothered is a poor one, and not even his surfeit of brash persona could save him from that pathetically timid reply. With the key in his pocket an atlas weighted promise of haunting, there is temptation to pick it out and throw it as far as he can.

“Such close friends…” they echo, and the klepto is quick to endorse with a smattering of agreeable hums and nods. This gloomy individual held as much comfort as a dying candle, but they are Ren’s only lifeline. His hotel buddy. His elevator bestie. His favorite person for the next 24 hours or however long he is stuck in the damnation of this abysmal building.

Learning Matt intentionally seeks out ghosts is what falters this dependency, instils an apprehension not priorly seen. A man greedy for survival now aligned with a man seeking certain death; Oh great, Ren realizes at this moment, he is a maniac.

Too occupied with the topic of murder to notice their intentions, a forked tongue that curls and cradles each syllable; it punctures through what indifference Ren wishes to plead, words successful in gnawing like a cold wind. An anxious mind that oozes with blood, a floorboard creaking lurches his senses and tendons into a sudden leap.

Noises may have well been wired to a landmine for the way Ren flinches away from nothing. Whiplashed neck staring at what Matt had found so interesting above and expecting a creepy long haired spirit stuck to the ceiling, he finds nothing but mildew, and stares accusatory at the company who’d claimed the ghosts are out early.

“Your fat feet probably woke them!” It leaves his mouth long before he remembers to be nice. Features easing from anger to a sheepish and very innocent blink. He doesn’t want to upset his new friend in case they die tonight and haunt him from the afterlife. “Not– Not that it’s your fault! It’s okay that your trotters are loud.” Ren reaches to deliver a single pat to their forearm. How comforting.

Master manipulator Sugar wins again.

Matt bids farewell, in a very vague and diplomatic way that Ren finds rather menacing. Of course he’d prefer a peaceful night, but there is no possibility of that with this destructive ghost-hunter as a companion.

He manages a feeble nod and turns to shuffle to 404, but soles are weighed by reluctance and tar, and by how his head turns to watch Matteo go about his night, it’s clear he is plagued by unspoken request.

Safety in numbers.

It would be smart to stick together, but Ren isn’t ready to stoop low enough to ask.

He barely makes it to Midnight.

His eyes are black moons – round and full and shadowed by the spectral haunts of the hotel. It had only taken a moment, a noise from the wall for him to decide The Angry Dead Murdered Ghosts Are In There. Having spent the last few hours neurotically looking around the room for stains or murder weapons and cowering on top of the bed so nothing could grab his ankles and pull him under, a single noise is all he needs to ricochet from room to hallway in search of help.

Hammering hands on their door as if intending to make it feel as raw as he does, to onlookers, a lunatic who is owed money. To Ren, diminished notions of clarity.

Attacking Matteo’s door with a flurry of limbs until it opens, he scrambles inside like a truant leaf without permission or hello.

“Why did you lock your door?! Why would you do that?!” He sounds like it’s a personal attack. “I could have died! How would you live with yourself if you knew it was your fault?"

But his mind veers for urgent coves, the passage between hell and purgatory, and he scuttles towards the man with creepy urgency.

“You.” He grabs Matteo’s arm, absentminded to how alabaster knuckles and rose-thorn nails are spading into his new hostage. “You have to let me stay here." He doesn't find himself easily here, pleading for deliverance, nor does he find himself easily in a haunted hotel.

"I won't even steal anything I pinky swear. And– and I'll stay on the floor and not speak or be annoying it's just–” He drags a loud inhale to flare lungs with much needed oxygen. “They’re in there– they’re in the walls doing things. Bad ghost things."

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

The Philosopher.

scroll

Matt

The Poet

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss

OUTFIT

What a dork

LOCATION

Ren

MENTIONS

Ren

INTERACTS

Gao

Indigo Night — Tamino.

scroll

Apathy's Epiphany.

Hazy smoke filled emptiness, what does it mean to be alive?

Friday the 13th.

By the time that midnight came around, Matt had completely forgotten that he had terrorized a person in the elevator and then proceeded to give said stranger in the elevator his room number.

Blue light pouring from the silver screen as the clicking of keys cut through creaks and groans of an old building. It was a nice atmosphere, an old hotel, to write about the works of Poe – to write his own horrible poetry for that matter. Get some work done on his new manuscript as the shadows lulled at his feet.

This dark, miserable peace was interrupted by furious knocking and loud wails of fear.

Okay, what the fuck.

He stood and opened the door… Brooklyn floozy immediately pouncing upon him like a dog who’d been separated from its master for far too long.

… Right. He’d terrorized this person, and this was the consequence of his actions.

Matt was being gripped. Tightly.

Ow.

“Are you possessed. You seem like you're possessed.” He said immediately “Come in, I'll watch for ghostly activity.”

Bug put underneath a magnifying glass, Matt stared at Ren unblinkingly.

There was a loud thump above them, followed by the rusted springs of a bed creaking with the ghostly wailing moans of paranormal activity

Yep. Definitely what was happening.

Matt was still staring at Ren.

“... So when'd you first become a ghost.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE KLEPTO.

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船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

R U DEAD BE HONEST

OUTFIT

RUSTLES NERVOUSLY

LOCATION

HAUNTED HOTEL

MENTIONS

SUP MATT

INTERACTS

qunqun

NO TURNING BACK — KODA.

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SCENE TWO.

Ancient and vicious, luscious as dark velvet. It blooms in you, a poppy made of ink.

FRIDAY THE 13TH.

“You seem like you're possessed.”

Ren’s spiel falters, partial offence arising behind his eyes. That accusation is enough for him to clamp lips shut and size up this questionable individual, who one could argue was throwing stones from a glass house.

“What—what do you mean?” The words fall with hesitance, uncertain whether he wants to hear the answer. “Is my hair messy?” A childish concern from a particularly childish man, but it was easier to digest; looking dishevelled was more palatable than the alternative option of being possessed.

Tumult above has spaded nails raking an inch, gaze cutting upwards to the ceiling that Ren shrinks away from. Holding the freeze of a deer scare, like a rope hinge ready to recoil upon the snap, the wailing clamour is the undeniable truth Ren needed to show Matteo he wasn’t crazy.

“See?! I told you they were up to something.”

The ghosts were up to bad things. Very bad things. Ren may have even heard a mention of God.

Matteo meets the not-at-all-suggestive noises in kind with… a stare. The same he has affixed since the beginning of their fated meet, perhaps it is Ren’s punishment for trespassing into his room, or perhaps just daring to exist, but it is unknown which would be the greater sin.

It is found the silent condemnation is growing uncomfortable, and what salvation Ren had thought he’d revel in is quickly maligning to prickle him with restlessness. A hive of discomfort with no honey to salvage the sting, Funai Ren, the man so socially adept and courageous, reacts maturely.

“Don’t look at me. You’re not allowed.”

Fussy demand neither angry nor kind, hovering an entitled step above.

“... So when'd you first become a ghost.”

“I’m not a ghost!” It is a small mercy to finally untether his nails from Matt’s arm. Ired enough by this interpretation to realise gripping onto the gloomy specimen matters naught. There might be worse things than ghosts; sad little men who wear dress shirts and can’t comprehend the danger of the haunting moans echoing right above their heads.

How foolish.

Ren has wonderful survival instinct.

“If anyone’s a ghost here, it would be you.”

And then Ren is silent. Silent for a long, suspicious amount of time as the reality of his words settles like wet wool, cold and heavy.

Coal rimmed iris slowly glide to affix the man in his periphery, clear where his mind has tarried to.

“You’re like a child who survived the Black Plague and somehow made it to adulthood.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[qunqun]

The Philosopher.

scroll

Matt

The Poet

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

Finally something interesting

OUTFIT

Ghost hunting outfit mlord

LOCATION

Shit Hotel

MENTIONS

Ren

INTERACTS

Gao

Indigo Night — Tamino.

scroll

Apathy's Epiphany.

Hazy smoke filled emptiness, what does it mean to be alive?

Scene 2.

Matt paused as the response hit him. And the insult. Wow he was terrified.

He could work with this actually, what angle did he want to approach this from.

The gears were turning to the tune of squeaking rusted mattress springs.

…

Oh he knew absolutely what he was going to do with this. Dark eyes lit up with a sadistic kind of glee: an epiphany struck from the depths of Hell. Bright-eyed and energetic. Barbs placed delicately upon the tongue ready to be spit out, face carefully schooled into a neutral position.

“Damn… You’re good. I am undead.” He sounded so very serious about this. “Except I’m not a ghost, I’m a vampire.”

And then he started reaching for Ren. “And now you’ve entered my domain I will kill you.”

He didn’t even move up from his chair. He just sat there fully forward reaching for Ren.

“... Sorry, that wasn’t funny.”

It was incredibly funny actually. He was trying not to burst out laughing.

“.... Do you want a bag of trail mix.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Gao]

THE KLEPTO.

scroll

船井 蓮

FUNAI REN

ㅎㅎ

MOOD

FFOFOF FOO D FOOD FOOD FOF DOFO FOFOOD FO

OUTFIT

RUSTLES NERVOUSLY

LOCATION

HAUNTED HOTEL

MENTIONS

SUP MATT

INTERACTS

qunqun

NO TURNING BACK — KODA.

scroll

SCENE TWO.

Ancient and vicious, luscious as dark velvet. It blooms in you, a poppy made of ink.

FRIDAY THE 13TH.

I’m a vampire.

Ren’s unmoving stature is not a testament to bravery, nor him steeling against what he anticipates will come next. In fact, Ren is barely in his right mind as Matt’s arms lift in a manner that simply must be nefarious. Lapsed into a current of panic; he’d seen the biographical horror classic Twilight. He knew of those depraved vampire behaviours such as sparkling and leaping up trees.

He awaits the pale man to soar across the room like a marionette puppet, starfish of death style.

Nothing happens.

The attacker remains idle on the chair. Why?

Ren meets it in equal enthusiasm, paralyzed and ogling like a nervous dog from his spot.

Ah. He realises why. Because Ren was winning whatever sick torture game this was. Brave klepto, meek as pond water, coughs a half-smile. Looks sheepish enough to vomit a hairball on the carpet, sounds like it too.

“It was a little funny.” It wasn’t. “Good job.” Undeserving praise for this psychopath. Unwilling to look like he has travelled through the 7 stages of grief in a few seconds, restless hands bundle themselves into the pockets of his jacket for a nonchalant impression.

He doesn’t want the weird man to feel bad about the macabre attempt at humour, and the idea of being held captive in a hotel room with an upset freak is enough to spur a retreat. He was ready to drop an excuse of taxes!— and make a hasty departure when Matt weaves a sugar spun interest into conversation.

Trail mix.

An inhumane movement from Ren, turning his head to stare directly at the man.

Why hello.

A passing eclipse of apprehension to a dangerous territory of attentive, coal eyes have gone alight with incendiary interest. It is no puff pastry or milk pudding, but Ren is a simple man with simple needs, and who could deny the delight of a little dried fruit? With suspicion etched into his very creation, Ren sizes up the pale presence like a challenge. Could always mug him for it. He doesn’t ask why this random man would have trail mix in a rundown hotel, nor why he’d offer it to a stranger who barged into his room at this hour.

“God, you’re lonely.” For alas, Ren has found his own brazen conclusion. “I’m not sleeping with you for a bag of trail mix.”

A beat of silence, and it seems Ren is actually reconsidering that claim.

He steps closer to Matt.

“... Does it got little raisins? Lemme see.”

♡coded by uxie♡