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[one xREDballoon]

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нow cαn YOU possιbly cнαnge anyτнιng x » x

___________________________________αnd peαce ιs noт тнe нeroιne тнαт sнouтs αbove тнe cαuse
___________________________________ιт's noт тнe sтuff тнαт kιlls you тнαт keeps your lιfe αт bαy
__________________________________________________ Illusions in our pockets make our feathers float us high
__________________________________________________ See These are just placebos to make us feel all right
__________________________________________________ And hope always feels so short in sight.

•••xxx Staff Dormitory; 5.45 am

When Hinata woke up that morning, all he thought of was how long it had been since he had any coffee. Or, more precisely, any of that delicious café au lait he used to have in university, where the coffee was drip brewed and stronger than any espresso. They liked to splash in liqueur too if he didn't recall it wrongly, sometimes a little vodka if the barista himself was tipsy, but usually, it was whiskey. The café had long been criticized for serving its signature coffee, for damaging their students' general healthiness with its brew so strong it made the less seasoned twitchy and an insomniac for hours on end. But Hinata had loved it, loved the rush of caffeine in his blood, loved the buzz it made in his head, loved the way it kept him in a mild mood for the rest of the day, where even the most insufferably suddenly seemed quite adorable.

Hinata could never make it through the day without at least two cups of the brew.

It was really hard for him not to miss it when he had to give it up.
Especially when he had to deal with idiots day in day ou--

THUMP!

The sound of flesh on wood was not a loud one. But it certainly did hurt. Hinata scowled as he clambered up into a sitting position, rubbing the spot on his hip where it had hit the floor first. There was going to be a nasty welt there, he was sure of it. He could never get away from any accidents without bruises. Curse this pale skin of his, curse it. His face twisted into a darker frown as he tried to stand, untangling the blankets from his legs as patiently as he could. Ripping at the blankets forcefully, stepping out of the knotted fabric, he tossed the soft grey mass onto his bed, onto wrinkled sheets and scattered pillows. With that, he pulled at his shirt, hitching it up to inspect that sore hip of his.

Why see there, a bruise! How cute.

This was not going to be a good morning.

He managed somehow to cross the room, aided substantially by the fact that he didn't live in a large room, to his closet with minimum pain in his hip. Throwing open the doors far more forcefully than he really needed to, he considered the contents. It was more of a habit that he even bothered to inspect his wardrobe, his motely collection of garments: there was nothing spectacular within the confines of the wooden box that was his closet. It was just clothes, clothes that looked so ordinary and common they shouted "standard issue" in dulcet tones. Hinata never actually paid much attention to his clothing, having lived through most of his life ignoring much of what they called "presentation" regarding himself. But that didn't stop him from lazily running through the contents of his wardrobe and making choices either. This was exactly what he did, resting his weight on one leg, left hand absently rubbing his right upper arm, eyes surveying the meagre contents.

It didn't take long, it never did. Within the next five minutes, he had his choices made, and his hand was reaching out to pick them out. The first to be extracted from the collection was a turtle-neck, a black sweater, of light cotton knit. Hinata glanced at the window as he draped the garment over his arm. The windowpanes framed a image that was familiar, boringly familiar: blue skies and white clouds, the hint of dreary grey of buildings and concrete. From the view, it would be impossible to tell the weather. It did seem the kind of view that would look the same when it was thirty Celsius or freezing sub-zero, all plastic and false regardless of rain or shine. It was just all very depressing.

Never mind that, never mind it now. He pulled at a pair of denim jeans to complete the ensemble, barely remembering the essential underwear and lab coat as he closed the door with a nudge of his elbow. He needed that shower, he needed to write another report too, he supposed, and he most certainly did not need to start thinking about how he wasn't supposed to be here. Or how the government had basically ruined everything for him. On purpose. Ah, there he went again. Thinking about the wonderful future he had had.

There was a nasty screech of hinges as Hinata shut the door to his room behind him, brushing by a colleague with only a nod of greeting.


[ ••• ]

•••xxx Setting; Time

The shock of cold water made him feel far more agreeable.

Hinata realised this as he went about brewing himself a cup of long awaited cup of (instant) coffee. Pouring the processed powder into another of those commonplace tea cups, fingers curled around its warm white body of chunky ceramic, the steam that rose from the boiled water soon became distinctly scented with the aroma of caffeine. It wasn't the rich thick aroma of sweet freshly-ground coffee, Hinata could tell, but it was the best they had, and he was in no mood to complain further. Not when he had his coffee. He took a sip, blowing gently on the surface cautiously beforehand. Ah, caffeine. Now he was ready for the day, at last, after one freezing shower and a sip of his favourite beverage, he was ready to face the world. Even if he were reluctant to, and would keep that frown permanently on his face.

He was scrawling notes on his notebook when his colleague called to him, pre-occupied with the notes he had taken the previous day. He had missed out so much detail, and even with his memory, there was only so much he could remember. The notes... He had scowled at them, scowled at his messy joined letters, all in dark olive ink. The report... Hinata had been considering asking for another extension when his colleague came to call him, knocking him out of his reverie. Said colleague jerked his head, jabbing his thumb towards the direction behind him, "Observation room, Hina." He had stated, plain as day, and Hinata had merely shuffled his loose sheaf of papers, folding them neatly into his coat pocket and standing. Wordlessly, he had picked up his notebook - still open at his last written page - and the ball-point with its olive ink, brushing past the colleague without so much a nod of acknowledgement.

Cold Hinata, the foreigner with no sense of manners and a pride that could rival the sky: oh he knew what they said about him, knew what they whispered about during lunch if the topics went that way. They never actually had good things to say either did they? It wasn't him either really, they always had their opinions of people. This one was crazy, that one was arrogant, the one with the dark hair was too casual... They would always have a comment ready. Hinata smoothed back his hair, fingers running through the uneven lengths and ragged edges, as he took a seat. The observation room was like a cell to him, a small narrow room with a one-way mirror he faced, a pane of glass that merely showed the view of the cell next-door. The lights had to be kept low, to ensure the others wouldn't see through to their end, and it was that fact that had disturbed Hinata the most when he first entered the observation room.

Now, it was merely an annoyance that prevented him from writing his precious notes.

"Introduce a book, won't you? Or shall I do it myself? That tone, a voice even he was unused to hearing. It was a low voice, slightly husky from his constant lack of use, and it was almost entirely foreign to him, as though it was not he who spoke. But the words reached the assistant, who looked back nervously, snapping to attention. Hinata merely shook his head. "Forget that. I'm heading in," he decided promptly, not so much asking for an opinion as he capped his olive pen and slid it into the front chest pocket as he was used to. The notebook he held on to in his right hand. "Watch and backup if you deem necessary," he informed as was standard as he strode towards the door, long strides, almost graceful, and tested the door. When it gave, he let himself through, twisting the knob and pushing it open to access to hallway. He closed it behind him, carelessly, and moved to its neighbouring door, knocking on it politely once before he too tried the door knob.

"I'm coming in," he spoke automatically, a habitual greeting, as he was let in, to see both patients, one tall and blonde, the other smaller and dark-haired. He stood there for a moment, as the door closed behind him. With a deep breath, Hinata closed his eyes and re-opened them, as though in prayer.

"Good morning to both of you," he stated, though his tone was flat as it always was. It was no great surprise that Hinata never actually mentioned their names. Too many names he had said, blunt as ever, it was too hard to remember them all after a while. Especially with the schizophrenic patients: it was known how impatient Hinata was, and he simply did not care to observe or remember all the different entities of one man.

"I suppose you are in wait for the others?"


x ❧ x Hıиαtα Uedα x

[one xREDballoon]

There are only so many words
Liars and fools; sons and failures
Thieves will always say
Lost and found; ailing wanderers
Healers always say
Whores and angels; men with problems
Leavers always say
Broken hearted; separated
Orphans always say

[one xREDballoon]

[one xREDballoon]

Hello, you can call me Rii. I'm searching for a roleplay. If you can handle genres that involve darker themes, plotting and the ilk, then you're probably good to go. Drop me a PM if you're interested, and we can go from there. I am currently only looking for yaoi, though actually, I'm not looking for pure romance roleplays.

Please be reminded though that I am terrible at staying on topic. When I get an idea, I tend to go on and on and on about it until it takes shape properly. If you can handle that, even better. Don't feel intimidated by me, or by my apparent ego. I don't meet to be rude, I really don't. I just always seem that way because I have terrible social skills on the web - w-;;

And cause it will take up less space in paragraph, here are the basic introductions. I am female for those who care about gender, I live where it is GMT +8 for those who care about time zones, I am active for long hours, but only once or twice a week for those concerned about activity. I don't know why you would be interested in my age, and I don't feel obliged to tell you my address. There, short and sweet.

Adv. Literate means writing well. Adv. Literate also means being able to write enough. Adv. Literate is overrated nowadays, but I prefer the term. At risk of sounding like I prefer quantity over quality (it's often found lumped together, from what I've seen) may I ask of a minimum of three meaty paragraphs? More would be nice, since reading novels are technically a favourite hobby of mine.

Also, I have decided to only roleplay over private threads.

Moving on.

[one xREDballoon]

Eh Meh Gahd

In comparison to Gabriel, Xenia’s friend that stood before him since a little too formal for his own good. Unable to comprehend how she’d make such a straight-faced friend, he simply smiles at the other’s statement, trying his to hold in a laugh. If ever he did laugh, then his lovely girlfriend might think that he was siding in with her peers than her. Closing in a little sigh of content, he turns his head slightly to her to examine her, obviously, blameless face. There was this point in looking at her that he completely forgot another presence that watched the couple and all he wanted to do was look at her the whole time.

Xenia had the most beautiful beady eyes he’d ever seen. Gabriel ran his finger on her soft cheeks, seeing the flecks of red from blushing on her cheekbones. A perfectly shaped set of lips rested near her chin as it twitched to an embarrassed smile. A finger of hers ran on her face to brush away the strands of gold that hung on her temples, but the young man stopped her, brushing it away. Then Xenia snapped into reality.

“O-oh…Charles,” she says sounding discomfited. “Um, yeah, I was just thinking that maybe we can all hang out in the mall and stuff?” She proposes but Gabriel was clearly against the idea of spending an afternoon with her plus someone else. Though, he doesn’t show, instead he pretends very optimistic about the idea and plants a wide, theatric smile on his lips.

“That’s perfect!” He exclaims out loud – or maybe a little too loudly. “I heard there’s this…um, well, a new café downtown and they’ve just opened.” Xenia grinned childishly and jumps, hooking both her arms around the two arms of the young males. “Let’s go!”

Christian did not deny how uncomfortable all this lovey-dovey gestures of the two cause in him. Embarrassed for their sake, he chose to look the other way, turning his face and feigning an interest in the passing scenery rather than stare or look anywhere near those two as they displayed their affection in public. Affectionate gestures were simply not something Christian was used to. Growing up in a family as steeped in rigid rules and pride as his was, he still found it unnervingly difficult to comprehend why anybody would not feel uncomfortable being affectionate in public. When one's own mother hesitates to give her son a goodbye kiss in public, it is hardly surprising why her son finds the socially acceptable behaviour of couples strangely over-intimate.

Then Xenia piped up, immediately the first destination she mentioned, had been mall. Christian shrugged: Xenia had always found something in shopping, had adored it when he saw it pointless except to replace the old and used. Xenia didn't quite see it that way, obviously.

There was a fleeting dismay of having an interloper in what should have been a date showing on Gabriel's face when Christian glanced at him. Or at least, Christian thought it was fleeting dismay, for the smile that came next seemed genuine enough, sincere enough. His mention of a cafe too sounded very much enthusiastic, cheerful, not the accusative tone Christian had expected him to adopt at the prospect of having to ruin a date for a group outing. The smile that crossed Christian face was almost exasperated at the enthusiasm both his best friend and her boyfriend exuded at the idea. "[Well I certainly hope they have cafe au lait at least," he stated as Xenia hooked her right arm around his left, and dragged him down the street.

[one xREDballoon]

Madam Koi

After all these years...XXXXX

Trevor Valentine

...I still love you.XXXXXXXXXX

About two steps off Iriel's porch, Trevor turned around and with a big grin on his face he yelled, "I'm going to take that as a kiss!" Of course, it had been a shy brush of lips against his cheek that really couldn't pass for anything like a kiss, accept maybe a greeting kiss. But Trevor would take it as a full on kiss just because he wanted to. If he could read Iriel's mind, he probably would've done all those things, too. Because he really wanted to just take his hand and tell him he loved him because out of those four years he'd been gone, he'd only went on one date, and the only person he thought of the whole time was Iriel, and anyone else he thought of the past four years he was gone was Iriel, and that he did want to stay forever. In a sort of way, the pearl had been all those things, which was why Trevor had given it to him.

Of course, Trevor would never say any of those things, he'd show Iriel how much he meant to him. Coming here after being told Iriel never wanted to see him again, that should've said something to the other. Trevor's gift, that hug, him attempting to stall as long as possible, and the fact that he'd just yelled something about a kiss loud enough that the people across the street looked over in curiosity, all those things were Trevor's ridiculous ways of telling someone he cared. It was that alone that drove most of his dates up the wall, but Iriel had stayed for the longest, and the brunette would not give him up. On top of that, he'd said he'd see Trevor next time. Which meant there would be a next time! That just sent Trevor's heart fluttering all around his chest in an excited flurry. Never mind the fact that he'd cut his sentence off, he had said there would be a next time, and that was enough for him.

With that jolt of excitement running through him, walking home was quicker than usual. He knew that if they ever did get back together, things might not be the same. They'd been eighteen at the time, now they were both twenty-two and he wasn't sure about Iriel, but Trevor had a job sculpting. But he'd make sure, unlike the last time they dated, he'd make more time for the other and shove aside his sculpting for other times. Last time, it had been vice versa. There would be so many changes, Iriel would definitely have to fall for him hard again. It would be completely about Iriel, Trevor was certain, anything else could have time later. He wasn't sure what it had been that drove the other away, but if it was his quirky ways of doing things and lack of attention, it was a thing of the past now. Trevor wouldn't push him away again, he'd make sure of it. He hadn't a clue that Iriel was planning something for him however.

Iriel could certainly hear him, hear his very loud ,and startlingly very obnoxious voice, even through the heavy mahogany door that kept him safely out, even through the thick glass wall that separated the interior of the drawing room from the outside yard. "I'm going to take that as a kiss!" He had fair screamed, and Iriel was intensely grateful for a moment, that there were heavy curtains to obscure the view from the outside in. These measures he implemented at once, almost throwing his books onto the table in his rush to the glass wall. He paused there, when he was met with the sight of Trevor, skipping down the steps, much like a child who had been given candy. Endearingly so. Iriel couldn't resist the half-smile that crept upon his face at that instant, or how he immediately lowered his head and glanced back to the curtains he had just gotten hold of.

He sure as hell wasn't going to let anybody see that.

The curtains he drew, dragging them with him as he strode purposefully along the length of the glass. The view vanished, both the outside in and the inside out, replacing whatever view there had been with the sight of the heavy forest green that was the fabric of the curtains. Iriel turned back with a frown however, when he realised that they had also blocked out most of the light as well. Win some, lose some, he supposed, as he shrugged carelessly and picked his books back from the table and made to leave the dimmed drawing room for the comfort of the upstairs study.

The gleam caught his eye then, and he turned back to find the forgotten gift, its lid somehow ajar to reveal the pearl inside. He sighed, once, then reached for that as well, the pearl that was far too large to be used in any jewellery, yet one which was so charmingly nostalgic. Or was it only so because of all the memories it contained?

The buzzing of his phone in his left jeans pocket snapped him out of his musing, and Iriel paused upon the first step he had just placed his foot on. With some difficulty, he transferred the books to his right arm, and took the call with his left. "Yes, Charlot?" He immediately used the name that had been displayed on the caller recognition screen, "Yes, I did apply to work on the Monet. Are you calling to tell me... Yes. Work there?" He resumed climbing the stairs, his green eyes preoccupied with scanning the walls, at the hanging glossy printed reproductions of the art he had loved best, yet not really seeing them. "Why would that be any... Well, true... Thank you Charlot." The call ended just as he stopped in front of the study he had previously used as his work space, and he stuffed the mobile back into his pocket before turning the knob. Accepted! The painting had already been taken from the exhibition where it had stood and was already in the archives to be worked on. Just in time, it appeared, as Charlot had been quick to inform him in his snooty tone, since they planned to move majority of the less popular paintings into the archives to make space for the visiting exhibition of sculpture.

Sculpture...

Iriel shook his head as he sat in the overstuffed tartan armchair he had always favoured. Now he was definitely going to meet Trevor again. It would be either good or bad, Iriel was convinced. It would certainly also allow the plan to be put back into action... He pulled out his phone once more, and considered it hesitatingly before texting the message.

Eleven thirty tomorrow, Ste Marie's Art Gallery.

-Iriel

He had no time to reconsider, as his thumb automatically hit the send button, and the message whizzed its way right into the inbox of a certain Trevor Valentine.

[one xREDballoon]

нow cαn YOU possιbly cнαnge anyτнιng x » x

___________________________________αnd peαce ιs noт тнe нeroιne тнαт sнouтs αbove тнe cαuse
___________________________________ιт's noт тнe sтuff тнαт kιlls you тнαт keeps your lιfe αт bαy
__________________________________________________ Illusions in our pockets make our feathers float us high
__________________________________________________ See These are just placebos to make us feel all right
__________________________________________________ Cause love won't ever cure the chaos,
__________________________________________________ And hope always feels so short in sight.

•••xxx

Hinata had tried to convince himself that it was not as his mind was insisting. That, when he had turned to hurry after Angeal, the man had not already been looking intently -- curiously, even -- had him, and then at the picture. He was once again praying, before he knew it, to the gods his mother had believed in though he did not. Please, let them not notice, let them pretend it was of no serious concern, that no curiosity might be aroused... Oh who was he trying to kid, it was obvious he had seen, why bother? There had been that moment, that one heart-stopping moment, where he had turned, had, for a fraction of a second, met his gaze eye to eye. That one moment where Hinata's eyes had widened for a fraction, had seemed to be snared totally within some trap he had never seen himself walking towards, much less step into. His cover was blown, he had thought, it was all over before it'd begun.

But then the man had just turned and walked on as though he had seen nothing. Was that deliberate blindness on his part then? “The young lord’s mother was a collector of such things. The General has little patience for them but his wife made them here greatest treasures. All the pictures in this estate are from her except the one you were looking at.” He stated in reply, while Hinata glanced nervously about, constantly on the lookout in case of any other incriminating portraits hanging around. His father had loved having portraits in the house, though he himself had never the patience to sit for a portrait. There was no telling how likely the portraits of his family may have ended up here, the entire collection of five, three of his mother, one of both parents, and of course, that stiff portrait of himself, aged seven and three-quarters. All by the same artist, of course, since he was an old family friend of sorts. Secretly, Hinata did hope, but for two contradicting things:

One, that all five paintings had survived intact, and would somehow miraculously be present in the mansion, awaiting his discovery.

Two, that the remaining four would not exist in the mansion, for it was certainly the most incriminating piece of evidence they could find of him.

Though of course, of what crime could they convict him, if he resembled the wife of a long-deceased Marquis? It wasn't as if anybody would remember that the man had a son. Much less to believe, that the man's son, would be this arrogant specimen of slave standing before them. It would probably seem more like a joke if anything, a little humour in a dreary day.

“That picture was chosen for her on her birthday by her son. Although…” Hinata glanced curiously at him as Angeal lowered his voice audibly, “That was long after the woman was gone…” Gone? Hinata raised his head, tilting it slightly in an expression that indicated slight surprise on his part. Gone where? For a moment, there was a voice in Hinata's head that wanted to say well, I guess I would go too if I had a son as snotty as that, but wisely, Hinata bit down on his tongue and said nothing. For all he knew, she could be dead. Yes, Angeal had said that she was 'gone', and technically, it wasn't a common thing for women to even have the courage to pack up and run. After so much oppression and strictness regarding their behaviour since girlhood, most would have given up, intending to be the sensible women society expected of them. Yet gone, Angeal had said, not dead... Family affairs, technically had little to do with him, and though he itched to, he decided it would be wiser not to ask, so impertinently.

"So... Young master chose the portrait for Madam after she left?" But then what was the point? Already, as the question left his lips, he was regretting having asked. But he made no sign of this, as he walked on, now to study the furniture of the room he had, in his panic, forgotten to study. Good dark wood, the faint smell of polish was a delicious note, lending it an almost endearing air. It was an excuse really, to study the furniture, to allow Angeal to realise, that it was alright if he decided not to answer. Hinata would have covered up his previous question too, had he thought of anything to say.


[ ••• ]

•••xxx

“Your arrival is a bit…messed up so to speak. The week after next would be the exact time in which his mother left. Homura will be nothing but insufferable until the event is over.”

He watched as Angeal smile, though he himself did not return the favour, rther, he turned back to the rigid wooden chair he had taken an interest to once more. It would be a while before he spoke once more. "Is that so?" Hinata replied, as he ran his fingers along the back of a straight-backed chair, "Do you hold some sort of commemoration? Her... death must have been hard to cope with, much less a commemoration. I suppose I should skitter out of the way and under the tables out of sight then. Since I seem to have done nothing except antagonise him so far." This he said with a wry smile, his face twisting in a way that best matched his sarcastic comment. All the while, he never looked up, only studying the chair as though it were a mysteriously fascinating piece of art.

“What’s with the expression Kau?”

Kau? Abruptly, Hinata looked up, obviously distracted. What was he doing here? Languid as ever, he stood up, brushing off his clothing despite the lack of dust, and turning to eye the new arrival critically. Yes, it was the dog, the mongrel that had the nerve to lunge at him just a few hours back. What was it doing here, growling with its damaged throat, and glaring with blind eyes? Here, Hinata's mind settled on a previous bit of information Angeal had told him regarding Kau, and he found himself tilting his head. Much more disturbing than Kau? While he did not look forward to becoming anything remotely close to this wretch before him, it did bring some sort of morbid curiosity: what could after all be worse than this state? Death seemed a much better option, than allow himself to have to rely so utterly on the people around himself. Hinata always loved his own personal freedom.

Curious, he had inched over back to Angeal's side, peering into the paper Kau had scrawled on. 'Master gone, Promised not to leave.' it read, but Hinata was careful this time not to reveal more. It was a mistake on his part to have allowed Angeal to notice him studying that painting of his mother, and to notice the insolent pride only those born outside slavery and servitude would posess. Heaven forbid if he realised that he could also read. "Is something wrong?" He asked, glancing up at Angeal's face, and then at Kau's, finding it strangely easy to feign ignorance, "What's that written on the paper?"


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