The Common Room Showing 1,001-1,050 of 1,208

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

And boy, was it a good thing that she would--because Carlos himself was slipping, and quite fast. As if to confirm this, his hands pressed tighter over his ears and the crease between his brows deepened as he squeezed his eyes shut further. He was trying very hard to ignore the hum, and the images that were flashing across his eyelids to accompany it: a huge sugar cane field, baking in the hot sun; a small group of shacks with clusters of people standing outside of them, all dark from their work and worn and beaten-down; a man with a whip, one of the brutes, shouting at someone that he couldn't see; and finally, perhaps most hauntingly of all, a girl about Juana's age lying in the dust, blood trickling down from the wounds on her shoulders, her back, her head. She was not moving. "¡Vuelve!" he screamed aloud, and wehther he was addressing the image behind his eyes or trying to talk to Juana was unclear. His voice was shrill, almost a screech, a desperate sound that tore up out of his throat like a banshee's wail. For he wasn't entirely sure if the hand on his head belonged to Juana or the dying girl--in his mind, they were one. And it was excruciating. He had just found a friend--and now, so soon, he could not tell if she was being taken from him. "No te mueras, no te mueras! He visto lo suficiente, he visto lo suficiente de la muerte! No tú también! ¡No me dejes!"

((Come back! Don't die, don't die! I've seen enough, I've seen enough of death! Not you too! Don't leave me!))

[*~Silvypoo~* (Chaser of Artemis), Life's a dance, you learn as you go.]

And so she pulled him closer to her, almost on her lap now in a comforting embrace. Her arms wound tightly around him, her hand still embedded into his hair again and the other was tucked underneath his strong chin, pulling his head in her direction to look her directly in the face. "Mírame," she said quietly, tugging gently at his ear as if trying to pull his hands off of them. "Estoy aquí. Siente mi pulso, vivo. Me ves respirar y escuchar los latidos de mi corazón. Estoy vivo y contigo, cariño." The word "honey" was not used in a compassionate way (she was much too worried to worry about compassion) but in a way that was meant for comfort. She was honestly very worried for the mental well-being of her friend. What if she couldn't soothe him? What if she couldn't calm him down? Then her life would be in danger here and Carlos could very seriously harm her. "No hay ninguna muerte aquí. Mira en mis ojos. Quédate conmigo." To make sure that he did look into her golden eyes glimmering with worry, she kept his face facing her, making sure he looked her in the eyes. Maybe if he looked into her eyes he could stay grounded, avoid the beast, force the beast away to oblivion for as long as she could.


[Look at me. Feel my pulse, I'm alive. See me breathe and listen to my heartbeat. I'm alive and here for you. There's no death here. Look in my eyes. Stay with me.]

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Carlos had to do something to block out the hum, and so when his ears were uncovered and his eyes forced to open he simply lowered his hands and began to clench them into fists, tight fists, over and over and over again. He was staring at Juana as a drowning man might, his eyes huge, shining with hysteria and fear and desperation. "Ayúdame," he begged, and his voice had quieted considerably, from desperate screech to low, almost terrified pleading. It was a terrible feeling, that of one's sanity trickling away by the second, and the young Hispanic could only take so much of it without beginning to act out. He grabbed at her wrists with both hands, locking them into a grip that was probably too tight to be comfortable but not in any state of mind to notice. "Juana, ayúdame, por favor. No puedo decir lo que es real y lo que no es más. Haga algo." And in the heat of the moment, the boy forgot that the golden-eyed girl was probably just as helpless as he was--she had never tried to bring him back from the edge before, after all. But he either didn't realize that or didn't care, because he was looking at her with desperation and had her hands in a death grip as if she knew exactly what to do to calm him down. Without his marbles and his favorite candy--both of which had been left in his dorm, casually tossed on the bed (he had never dreamed that the wonderful feeling of aliveness would give way to hysteria so quickly)--he was in no shape to help himself. He could help her help him, maybe, but beyond that, he was fairly useless.

((Help me. Juana, help me, please. I can't tell what's real and what's not. Do something.))

[*~Silvypoo~* (Chaser of Artemis), Life's a dance, you learn as you go.]

Juana was scared, oh so scared for him and when he grabbed her wrists in that painful grip with no hopes of escaping, she was suddenly scared for her own safety. More scared than she had been before. Her warm embrace of comfort was gone, now there was nothing to bring him back to her except for her words, and she was worried that that wouldn't be enough. "Ya no estás ahí," she muttered quietly into his dark hair, trying to convince him and calm him at the same time. He was severely starting to hurt her wrists, and she felt the need to clench her own hands as he had before to take his mind off of the hum, not that she would know. She just wanted to ease the pain as best as she could. "No estás en la plantación. Nunca tienes que ir allí, no nunca. Quédate aquí, en el asilo, conmigo. No dejaré que te vuelvas a ir." She would do whatever she could in her power (not that she had much in this situation, and she hated that, especially when Carlos needed her) to save him, get whatever horrible things that were in his head out so he could go back to the sweet, lovable gentleman she knew. She let her words sink in and pulled him close again, into a tight embrace done as best she could do with her hands tight in his grip. Slowly, she rocked him in her lap, burying her face into his hair, muttering mindless spanish into his skull as she did so.

[You're not there. You're not on the plantation. You don't have to go there, anymore. Stay here, here with me. I will make sure you don't go there again.]

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

(("Into his skull" is a very awkwardly worded phase--also kind of creepy-sounding. "Into his ear" might be better. XD))

And, for lack of anything else to do, Carlos let go of Juana's wrists, threw his arms around her slim shoulders, and clung to her for dear life. He kept his eyes open, because his older friend was right--he wasn't at the plantation despite the overwhelming hum in his head, and perhaps if he kept himself alert and looking around it would be harder to sink into the flashback which was lapping at the edges of his mind. He focused on one particular spot in the deep red rug (a white spot, as if someone had been painting on the floor and spilled some of it there.) It helped--much more than he thought it would0--because the more he thought about it, the more he realized that there had never been a lot of white at the plantation. The tans and greens of the fields, the yellow of the sun and the blue of the sky, yes, but no white. So he had to be somewhere else. Even in his frenzied, broken state of mind, the young Hispanic could recognize that. "No puedo estar allí," he muttered, more to himself than to Juana. He began to repeat the phrase like a mantra, as if reciting it would in and of itself vanquish the hum, the hysteria, the beast: "No puedo estar allí. No puedo estar allí. No puedo estar allí. No puedo estar allí porque no había nada blanco."

((I can't be there. I can't be there, I can't be there, I can't be there. I can't be there because there was nothing white.))

[*~Silvypoo~* (Chaser of Artemis), Life's a dance, you learn as you go.]

[xD]

"¡Si!" Juana all but purred in outright joy. Perhaps she was reaching him, pulling him back into reality and out of his past. His terrible, horrifying past. He wasn't making any sense to her, but still, he seemed to be listening and understanding her words. Maybe this was working better than she thought, and so she clung back to him, in a tight embrace, a small smile of victory playing with her full lips. "Estas correctó! Usted está aquí. No hay ningún blanco, sólo aquí, así que por supuesto que estás aquí." There was relief in her voice, relief that she didn't have to do much coaxing and convincing anymore because she thought he was mostly with her again. It wouldn't take much convincing now, and Carlos would be himself, the beast would leave them alone. Still, to be sure: "Ahora, bestia, deja mi chico! ¡Vete! Ser ido contigo!" She spoke this sharply, voice regaining strength, almost angry, as if yelling at a person who had hit Carlos and was now taunting him for it. Perhaps that could get the beast to leave him alone.

[Yes! You're right! There's no white there, only here, so you have to be here! Now, beast, leave my boy! Leave! Leave him alone!]

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Juana was very sadly mistaken if that was how she thought the beast actually worked--but there were a special set of circumstances that made her words more effective than any sedative: in that moment, she sounded exactly like his mother. She'd just spoken, word for word, precisely what would always become Dora Rivera's mantra whenever she was called in to help her son out of a mood. And it had always worked for her. Now, though the golden-eyed girl was clearly not his mother, the words did wonders. It was as if they themselves were pouring strength back into him, helping him claw his way back up to sanity. It took all of his will, but Carlos began to fight back. He pushed at the beast and drowned out the hum, up until the point when the creature as again locked (struggling madly, but locked) back up in the dark corner of his mind. All at once, the Hispanic boy relaxed in his friend's arms, and when he returned her hug it was not desperation that fueled his movements but pure happiness. He squeezed her hard around the middle as he cried, "Juana, eres maravillosa! ¡Lo lograste! Usted me ayudó a vencer a la bestia! ¿Cómo sabes qué decir?"

((Juana, you're wonderful! You did it! You helped me conquer the beast! How did you know what to say?))

[*~Silvypoo~* (Chaser of Artemis), Life's a dance, you learn as you go.]

A relieved sigh forced her shoulders to sag where they had been stiff, rigid with unease. If he was relaxed in her embrace, then he was fine, and she could be too. She clung to him tightly, returning his hug as she smiled a wide, relieved smile into his shoulder. Luckily for them, the beast was gone, it had turned its ugly head towards her, and she had miraculously escaped unscathed and unharmed, and for now, the beast was gone. She hoped it didn't ever return, and if it did (she knew it had to) she hoped it wasn't for a very long time. "No lo sé, cariño," she told him honestly, still bot releasing her hold on him when she shrugged. She didn't want to, not yet. she was still so happy that he was back to being himself. "He intentado lo que pensaba y esperaba que iba a funcionar." She pulled back a little to see his face--not the beast's face but his--hopefully smiling that smile at her. "Lo hizo."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"I know it did!" Carlos was smiling, the huge, relieved, and happy sort of smile that only those who thought all hope was lost only to have it return to them could manage. He began to laugh, quite loudly (after all, they were alone--though he doubted he would have been able to turn down the volume even if they hadn't been) and then pulled back out of Juana's arms so that he could roll around on the floor. Simply ecstatic to be back without having had a meltdown, he did just that, and he didn't care that he was probably embarrassing himself or at the very least the golden-eyed girl who sat before him. It was so good to vanquish the beats without a meltdown doing it for him, and this was a special occasion because he hadn't even had Jolly Ranchers or his marbles at his disposal. If it embarrassed Juana to see him rolling about like a dog thrown a bone, then that was just too bad. The young Hispanic had to celebrate somehow, and he didn't necessarily want to kiss the girl (he thought that it would be a very awkward, not to mention untimely and poorly-thought-out move.)

[*~Silvypoo~* (Chaser of Artemis), Life's a dance, you learn as you go.]

She let her arms fall across her stomach when he left her. She smiled at his laugh. It was a good laugh, maybe a loud one that was only the tiniest bit unnerving, but it was a good laugh, one without any of the earlier darkness. That was the good thing. A chuckle of her own escaped her, but how couldn't one? Carlos's attitude was an infectious one, and that was good considering that the beast had just been present moments before. Her chuckle was light, even joyful with her own relief. "Good. I'm glad. I didn't like to see you like that," she admitted as she picked herself up off of the floor and sat onto the couch. There was no need to be right on top of her fellow Hispanic anymore. "It was.... unsettling to say the least."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Carlos finally calmed enough to where he could lay still, and was left simply grinning at the ceiling. He wasn't grinning at Juana's words, of course--he found them to be rather disheartening, considering the fact that he hadn't even been in the clutches of the violent side of the beast--but simply because he knew that there was no use in trying to force himself to stop. There was absolutely no way he would be able to not smile, especially now. Finally, not bothering to turn and face the golden-eyed girl, he spoke. "I understand, and quite frankly I'm sorry you had to see me like that. Any other time I would have been in my room--but I was feeling so...alive earlier, I never dreamed that I would go into hysterics. I just kind of thought the high would wear off on its own." Of course, he was not going to mention what had caused that high, because doing so would only result in questions, which would result in the beast's inevitable comeback. All the same, Carlos thought that there wasn't any point in trying to hide the fact that he--the beast, rather--had enjoyed himself in the first place; there would certainly be new rumors circulating about him now. If Juana had to find out (and he knew that she did) he wanted it to be from him.

[*~Silvypoo~* (Chaser of Artemis), Life's a dance, you learn as you go.]

"Don't be sorry," Juana said immediately, her gaze on Carlos's face where his was on the ceiling. "I think it was probably best that I saw you like that at least once. It's inevitable and I'm glad I found you at one of your calmer times rather than any other time." She couldn't stop thinking about how lucky she was that Carlos hadn't gotten violent, hadn't found her when he was on his violent high because that would just mean that things would have taken a wrong turn and no matter what her heart wanted, the rest of her would immediately distrust him, at least for a little while. She didn't want her trust to go away when it was starting to become so strong. "I'm really glad I was able to help you. What would have happened, do you think, if it hadn't had been me? If I hadn't been able to help?" She knew she wasn't and wouldn't ever be excluded from his violent streaks, but she could see that there was something she'd done that had helped him, whether it had been because it was her or because of something else she didn't know, and she was honestly curious.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Then my mind would have been chaos for another couple of hours and I found have eventually gotten it all out, either through crying or causing some scene--forcing the guards to sedate me, even though I hate that--or through...other means." Carlos was understandably hesitant to say the words, but it was all too obvious what they meant: he would have gone for another patient, or perhaps outside after some animal, and the beast would have had its fun that way; it would tire out, so to speak. Though the Hispanic boy himself had come to terms with the violence and the manic glee that came with it, he didn't know if Juana had, and didn't want to lower her opinion of him (not to say that it hadn't already been lowered through this little escapade.) Though part of him was wondering if she would have to see the beast, the true beast, at some point--and if she did, why wait? Why hide anything? Because I'm not that kind of person, he thought bitterly, answering his own question. Because I'm a coward and I would rather put her through that later rather than sooner. I would rather have her confide in me, trust me, and then bring down the house around her ears. That's why. Because deep down, I'm still a slave. I am a slave to the beast. Of course, he wouldn't dare say any of that out loud. Not to Juana, not to a doctor, not to Sera, not even to his mother. Those were thoughts that were going to stay in his own head. Saying them, after all, just might make them true.

[*~Silvypoo~* (Chaser of Artemis), Life's a dance, you learn as you go.]

The golden-eyes girl knew or at least had a very good idea of what it was that Carlos meant by other things, and the thought made her stomach churn in disgust. She wasn't one with the stomach for gore (which was why, in dire situations, poison was her friend) and didn't like blood, even the sight of his scars had given her the urge to vomit. She couldn't imagine Carlos going out and purposely hurting someone, purposely making blood spill and bruises show. She supposed that was just it, though, Carlos wouldn't be the one out causing havoc around the asylum, spilling blood. It would be the beast, and the beast was different than Carlos, though it had the same body, same voice, same face. Carlos was her friend, but the beast was her enemy. It was hard, having a friend you were trying so hard to trust, and then have a thing inside of him that you couldn't trust at all, and they were the same boy! But at the same time, they weren't. The whole thing made Juana shake her head in confusion. She had begun to rely on him, she could see that now, but she was also afraid of the beast. She forced herself to turn her attention back to Carlos, as he was the one who was having issues. "Are you okay, now, Carlos?" She asked him, tilting her head slightly. Again, she couldn't help but place her hand under his chin, bringing his head towards her again. It was a way of telling if he was lying, she supposed. Then she could look into his eyes and see if he was bluffing, but most of all, she could see that he really was okay, because the young Hispanic was still slightly worried for him.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Sí," Carlos replied with a little sigh. He didn't resist as Juana brought his head down, though he had to physically fight the urge to jerk away or smack her hand. She was a friend, he reminded himself (or rather, reminded the lingering traces of the beast.) Not a brute or a high-and-mighty doctor. She was a friend, and her touch was welcome. He had to remember that. "Sí, estoy bien. Gracias, Juana. Gracias por ayudarme."

[*~Silvypoo~* (Chaser of Artemis), Life's a dance, you learn as you go.]

"You know I'm here to help you, amigo," she said with a little smile, reading his eyes half-heartedly and seeing nothing to worry about and so the smile broke through her worried frown. She didn't like the thought of being around the beast when he broke free, but something had worked today, something had gotten him out of his trance today, and she was sure she had something to do with it. Whether she wanted to or not, she had to help him when he got like this because he had helped her and she had to help him now. It was a hard, regrettable choice, but it was one she had made. "I'm going to help you from now on. I'll see if I can't rid you of the beast."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

((We must fade here. I have to throw all my energy into Raven now.))

[*~Silvypoo~* (Chaser of Artemis), Life's a dance, you learn as you go.]

[Okay.]

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Jason was not a frequent visitor to the common room--to many nurses and not enough cover--but there were days when he forced himself out into the too-warm confines of the asylum's one cozy room, if only because it was good for nurses to see him out and about because it got them off his back. Occasionally, the blonde sociopath would even come out of his dorm without some hidden agenda in mind, and sit quietly before the fire as he listened to patients gossip (the common room was, after all, as good a place as any to go when one wanted to catch up on news.) Today, it was more the former than the latter that made him show his face in this frustratingly guarded room. Lately, Jason hadn't been in the best of moods--his almost-attack on the snot-nosed punk in the cafeteria had worsened his mood to the point where he was about ready to snap the neck of the first person who so much as looked at him the wrong way, and to make matters worse, he hadn't seen Cleo around for at least a week. She was always his personal little stress-reliever; what he was supposed to do to calm down without her, he didn't know. Obviously, playing with weapons was out of the question (though, coincidentally, Ares sat comfortably in his back pocket this afternoon) and confining himself to his dorm only made him bored and agitated. So, finally, the blonde sadist had come out to the common room, sprawled out lazily in his usual chair by the ever-roaring blaze, and settled down to see if he could find or hear something worth his time. Here, he supposed, was as good a place to stake out as any.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

The Frenchman, on the other hand, tended to frequent the warm confines of the common room. You see, Evander loved his games, and what better place to play them but in plain sight? And so there sat the rather showy Evander, legs spread in opposition to his head which rested on the arm of the chair. He, too, had a rather trustworthy blade stuck in his back pocket; for once he wasn't toying with it for all eyes to see. The overly-placed guards probably wouldn't much like him for that.

Evander didn't have much to complain of as of late. His sister was fine, he was fine. Evander was fine, but Evander was bored. The only challenging conversations came with Juana, and she had been busy of late with her little Hispanic toy. And so it was entirely accurate to say that Evander was promptly bored. He wasn't out looking to pick a fight, but much like Jason, he was listening. Watching. Even partially hoping for one.

His blue-ish eyes had noticed Jason a few minutes earlier, and now rested upon the sadist with curiosity. He had seen Jason around, of course, but the elder Sauveterre had never spoken with the blonde man. The phrase curiosity killed the cat was never more true than when applied to the lion himself. But Evander was enjoying the silence-- or the bits you could get from this crowded hellhole. And so, despite the curiosity, Evander did not ask after the blonde sadist across from him.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Jason had felt the eyes on his back, of course--someone had been staring at him for quite a long time now--but up until now, he hadn't spared much thought to it. Up until now, it had been one of those trivial little irritations; another thing he could add to his list of things he was not a fan of today. But it was in that moment (the very same moment, in fact, that the Frenchman behind him decided not to speak) that he grew fed up with pretending not to notice. The blonde sociopath craned his neck so that he could see behind him, dark green eyes showing the barest hints of anger. "Yo," he said to the lanky man splayed across the couch. His tone was not angry, per se, but beneath the unusual calm within it there was a rapidly flowing river of agitation. It was clear that, despite his most-amiable posture and tone, it would not take long before he plunged right in and didn't come out. Some part of him hoped that the casual green-eyed man knew how to dance his way around the volatile. "You got a problem or what, man? You have any idea how long you've been staring at me? I'm not a fucking art sculpture."

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Evander laughed. A downright chortle escaped his lips, and a bright smirk had even found it's way onto the Frenchman's lips. Oh, he could tell he would like this boy. He would like this boy quite a bit.

In most circumstances, Evander would have played innocent. He would have started his favorite game, pretending to speak no English and to be confused and hurt. But Evander didn't bother with Jason. A simple look at the boy told the Frenchman that such lies would not be so easily believed. And so Evander simply offered an amiable shrug.

"My apologies, mon frère. I didn't realize that I was staring." Evander's hands went up in surrender before folding over his stomach, and the Frenchman passively turned his gaze away from the sadist across from him.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

" 'Course not," Jason agreed with a little roll of his eyes--but the smirk that was crawling up onto his face proved that he wasn't as miffed as he pretended to be. "Everyone knows the French are airheaded. No, wait, shit. That's the Poles. I think." One eyebrow was raised. "Is it the Poles? I can't even fucking remember now. I guess all this irritation isn't all that great for my sanity or my memory." He let out one short bark of a laugh, then folded his large hands over his stomach--perhaps mocking Evander, perhaps not--and crossed his legs. His amiability was the product of one thing: the lanky Frenchman had not tried to play any games. He'd realized that trying to bullshit him would lead into dangerous waters, and he had refrained. The blonde sadist could respect a man with a decent head on his shoulders, and thus, Evander had been treated to a little joke (politically incorrect though it may have been) rather than a punch in the face. Jason hoped he appreciated it--in his current state, no amount of amusement or amiability could last long. But perhaps he wouldn't have to play nice for Evander. Perhaps he could let go a little bit. That, he thought, would certainly be a relief.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

And Evander could certainly take a joke; he wasn't about to get all defensive and irritated over a silly comment. Lucky for both of the psychopaths, Evander was in a very amiable mood that particular day. No malicious intentions, no thought of going after the blonde across of him. No nothing. In all honesty, Evander was enjoying his calmed mind for once.

He feigned hurt, though, and placed a hand over his chest. "Mon chéri, I'm offended. I am most certainly not airheaded." But his words were touched with sarcasm, and the good-natured smirk allowed his joke to be obvious.

"Besides, blondie, not as if you're one to talk." A smirk and an arch of an eyebrow.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Blondie?" The smirk widened, the eyebrow crept up a little higher. Jason could appreciate the humor in Evander's tone and expression, cocky as it may have been (that didn't matter, his own brand of humor was just as arrogant, if not moreso.) "That's the best you can come up with, mon frère?" He copied the phrase he'd heard Evander use a moment before in a rather mocking way, his attempt at an accent droll and very nearly stereotypical. Two could play at his game. "Surely I've got to be more interesting than that. Or do you just suck at nicknaming? I'm willing to bet it's the second one." Perfectly amiable, with no hint of danger. If anything, the sociopath looked almost amused--perhaps this wasn't going to turn out to be such a bad day after all. The Frenchman could take a joke, at least. That was something.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

"Mmm, neither, as a matter of fact." The Frenchman offered an arched eyebrow to the sadist across from him, and even a little chuckle escaped from his lips, one of which he bit down on out of habit. "I just don't exactly feel as if you're worth the effort, mon frère." The last words were spoken with a narrower gaze, and a judgmental smirk. "And we are most definitely going to have to work on your French. C'est trop drôle."

Evander looked the boy up and down, turning his piercing gaze to the sadist and now studying him. Jason didn't seem to be all that much to worry about, or at least not at the time being. Evander could even see amusement in the sadist's gaze, mixed with the threat of irritation.

Oh yes, he and the sadist would get along just fine.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"It is funny," Jason agreed with a little smirk. His understanding of French was minimal, but he had been required (by his parents, not the school) to take it in high school, and though it had bored him out of his mind, he had still tried his hardest to get decent grades in that class--which meant that, by now, he had a very basic understanding of the language. Certainly enough to play at Evander's game,. "That was why I even attempted to speak that snotty language of yours in the first place, my friend. It's a funny fucking language. More amusing than English by a long shot, that's for sure." The smirk widened at this, and the blonde sociopath even went as far as to chuckle. He looked the Frenchman up and down with the barest courtesy flick of dark green eyes, determined that no, this wasn't a show of his and yes, they seemed as if they were getting along quite well. That was a good thing. He was in no mood to pound the tar out of anybody today (at least, not anymore.) It was tiring work, getting into fights. And though he was every inch as tall as Evander and twice as broad, he had a feeling that it would not be an easy battle to win. Oh, he surely could win, eventually, but it would take a long time and an awful lot of bruising on both sides--not something Jason readily looked forward to. He liked his fights easy and quick unless he was in the proper mood, which he most certainly was not in this afternoon. For now, he decided, he could let the Frenchman have his fun. Who could it hurt?

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Evander laughed. "Snotty? Mon frère, I don't know whether I should be offended or amused. Lucky you, I'm feeling the latter." Evander offered a chuckle and arched his brows.

" Depuis que vous avez pris à l'école secondaire, je suis curieux. Combien parlez-vous? Vous comprenez même un mot que je dis, mon frère?" Curiosity and curiosity alone coloured the tone of the Frenchman, and he even slightly cocked his head to the aside. No ulterior motives. Mere curiosity. Evander was quite a curious cat, and for once he felt as if such wonder would not bring about his downfall.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Oui," Jason replied with a curt little nod. "Oui, un peu." His brows drew together, and a little pout of thought now shaped his lips. It had been a long time since he'd spoken French, but his parents, as pompous and reputation-oriented as they had been, had insisted in between bouts of verbal abuse that he speak a more "cultured" language than English, if only because they would not have their perfect little boy--who was not so perfect at all, not that they knew--seem like all the other children. No, he had to be special. He just had to stand out. And so they had made him take French. His skills had grown rusty over the year he'd been in the asylum, but he understood Evander perfectly well--enough to formulate a response, if a short one. He now looked at Evander with a little smirk, to cover up the grimace that wanted to claim his expression at the thoughts now running through his head. That wouldn't do well for the game, now would it? No, the blonde sadist could not have that. And so he rooted around in his mind for a moment, found the words, and offered a slightly wider smirk as he asked, "Etes-vous impressionné, joli garçon?"

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

A giddy little giggle escaped Evander's lips, a giggle that quickly morphed into a full-out chuckle. He lifted his hands and ran them through his hair, a wide smile in place as he shook his head slowly.

"Oh la la, mon frère. You offend me with your school-taught language." A bright chuckle and another shake of his head, almost disbelieving. It took a few moments for the pretty Frenchman to compose himself, and even as his laughter died away his smile was still glued in place.

"I'm not gonna lie, mon frère, though. I'm rather impressed you managed to understand me with that crude variation." He offered a couple of petite claps, the smirk returning, joining Evander's good-natured smile.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Jason actually laughed. "Je fais de mon mieux, mon ami," he replied with a jaunty smirk. It took a moment of deep thought, but he finally sound another few phrases that would suit this little game quiet nicely, and he spoke them with an accent that was so much better developed from the one he had been using that one might have thought it came from a different person entirely: "Savez-vous combien de temps il a été depuis que j'ai parlé français? Vous devriez me donner un prix ou un truc comme ça." In all reality, the sociopath was surprised at how much he was remembering, how much was coming back. After all, he had never really liked French class--he had barely scraped by with a B back when he was actually in school (and only then because he feared a lashing from his father)--but now, at the prompting of the lanky Frenchman, it seemed that all of those lessons were coming back. He supposed that it might have had something to do with the fact that he was semi-mocking someone else rather than trying to be outright nice; he always found it easier to remember words and phrases when insults (or in this case, amused but cocky little quips) were involved. He had to admit, it was certainly enjoyable, to sit here with a man who was just as twisted as he was and laugh and talk. It was quite enjoyable indeed.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

"Oh mon Dieu, vous êtes mal mes oreilles." Evander mimicked pain, a visible wince crossing his features, and he mimed covering his ears with his hands. "It's like torture; you need to stop." A good natured laugh, however, escaped Evander's tight pressed lips, and the Frenchman offered the roll of his eyes. "I get it, blondie. You're pretty decent at my native tongue. You've impressed me; congratulations." Evander smirked, and even went so far as to arch an eyebrow.

"So, mon frère, what's the name? I'd prefer to know with whom I speak."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Well wouldn't you like to know?" The amusement that glittered in Jason's eyes took some of the viciousness out of his tone, but his smirk was just as mean as ever. "You're the one who pretends not to speak English all the time, pretty boy. Guess the joke's on you now, isn't it?" The blonde sociopath let out a low, genuinely amused chuckle and arched an eyebrow at the Frenchman, as if daring him to contradict his words. There was no way he could do so and win; after all, he hadn't told a lie. Evander did make a habit of pretending not to know English--he thought it was a joke, a way to get under everybody else's skin. It was about time somebody turned the tables and succeeded in getting under his using the same (or nearly the same) strategy. "Besides," he went on, smirk growing ever-wider, "I like causing people pain. Torture is my thing, you know? I don't give two fucks if my French hurts you, my man. In fact, I love the fact that it does." The laugh that escaped him now was quiet, brief, and a little more unsettling than what had previously passed his lips. Whether the green-eyed man before him was actually in pain or not was debatable, but torture had been mentioned and that never did anything except for lift the sadist's sprits--just not in a particularly good way--whether it was meant to be taken literally or not. Today was no exception.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Piercing gaze was rolled with a good natured sigh. "Well, then, mon ami, I certainly am glad to be bringing you joy." A little grin and a sardonic wink, and Evander sat himself upright, resting his hands behind his head and deftly crossing one leg over the other.

" Laissez-moi deviner. Dix-huit, la folie, peut-être même le sadisme? Ai-je frappé la tache, mon frère?" A rather careful question.

Evander didn't know whether or not he would regret these words, or whether he should have held his tongue. But the lion was as curious as a kitten, and holding his tongue was not a skill that the Frenchman excelled at.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

This brought a scowl to Jason's lips. "Assez proche, vous le cul," he replied, suddenly sounding not so amused. Indeed, the barest hint of anger were creeping back into his voice. "Maintenant tais-toi." Had it been a good idea to ask him that question? No. No, a million times no. The blonde sociopath had come to terms with his conditions, and most of the time he was perfectly fine about revealing them to other people, but today did not seem to be one of those times. After all, he had not started his day off in a good mood, and though these jests with the Frenchman had helped some (not nearly as much as Cleo could have, but some) thoughts of why he had come to the asylum were not particularly good for his state of mind today. The anger had not gone away; rather, it had simply been humbled, pressed down by sardonic amusement. The green-eyed man's comment, as casual and almost mocking as it had been, helped in bringing it bubbling back up to the surface of his mind. He intended to make this clear to Evander, and if it meant striking a hammer against the friendship that seemed to be forming in between the two, so be it. There were some things in his life that no one got to talk about, that were strictly off limits especially when he was angry. Why he was here was one of those things, and the lanky man across from him needed to realize that.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Immediately, the murderer held his hands up in surrender. "Dis maintenant, calmez-vous, mon frère. Juste un peu de curiosité, c'est tout. Oublie ce que j'ai encore rien dit." Immediately, innocence entered the tone and expression of the pretty Frenchman, pale eyes wide and even slightly shining with surrender. Both eyebrows were raised in a rather shocked expression, though Jason's reaction led him to believe that his assumptions had been correct.

Boy, did the lion have a knack for reading people.

"Don't mind me, mon frère. Curiosity killed the cat, you know." Evander kept his hands up in surrender-- or rather, one. The other rested on his thigh, near his switchblade, ready to twitch at a moment's notice. The Frenchman certainly wouldn't win the fight, as Jason had nearly twice his brawn, but if it would come to it Evander would certainly leave quite a few marks. "Calmez-vous."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Sans déconner," Jason replied. His voice had calmed, just a little...or, perhaps better named, it had softened and become cold. A sort of purr, the tone rather reminiscent of one that Raven or the Frenchman himself would use, perhaps. Indeed, it sounded rather out-of-place coming out of the blonde sadist, but it was there--if only because the thought of death had been introduced to the conversation. Metaphorical or not, it certainly brought his dangerous side out of hiding, and the fact that he was also frustrated did nothing but encourage it. "Et il ya plus d'une façon à la peau elle."

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

"Maintenant, mon frère, je ne suis pas venu ici pour être menacé." His single hand remained up in surrender, and the other remained close to his switchblade should such measures become necessary. Evander couldn't picture it becoming a necessity; he and the sadist before him had gotten along so well just moments ago. Evander wasn't foreign to anger, irritation, even a loss of control, and he felt rather safe in his current situation.

Though, being threatened was not Evander's favourite thing in the world.

His gaze narrowed ever slightly, and instantly his features became rather terrifying. When he spoke, his words were calm, measured, and even a little careful. "Et je ne prends pas bien aux menaces, mon frère."

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

Then suddenly frightening set to the Frenchman's features did not worry Jason. In fact, it almost amused him--the corners of his lips curved up in a little smile. A toothless, ever-so-slightly dangerous smile. "Peut-être que vous devriez apprendre à regarder votre langue, mon ami," he replied calmly. "Oui? Ce serait une bonne idée, vous ne pensez pas? Il serait bon pour nous deux." Dark green gaze travelled to Evander's hand, which he was keeping so close to one of his pockets. It seemed that he was not the only one holding a concealed weapon today. He quirked an eyebrow pointedly, and his dangerous little smile widened to include his teeth. Evander looked like a cat ready to strike--and now, though he certainly wouldn't be able to match the Frenchman's expression, Jason himself looked rather frightening. Amused, as if this little cat had just tried out tiny claws on his leg. Perhaps, he thought, this encounter would not end as well as he hoped it would. What a shame--he liked the lanky green-eyed man. He decided to try his luck at smoothing things over, at least, as well as a sociopath like himself could. But he couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice as he said: "D'autant plus que nous sommes tous les deux armés de couteaux."

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

A suspicious arch of an eyebrow, and an almost friendly smirk crossed the Frenchman's stern expression. Knives. He wouldn't lie, he liked the sadist before him. Only to be expected that similar minds would butt heads every now and again.

"Alright, mon frère , I'm not particularly itching for a fight I can't win. I think its best if we part ways for the time being. I'd hate to ruin whatever we've got brewing here." The last words were spoken with a hint of sarcasm, and his expression told the exact opposite. Oh, how he would have loved a fight.

But unlike many, Evander knew the concept of self control. And so the dashing French stood, and gave a rather mocking bow to the blonde sadist on the couch.

" Au revoir, mon frère. Remember the name Evander when you next come looking for me." A smirk, a wink, and then the Frenchman was gone.

((Fade?))

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

((Fade.))

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

For the first time in a long time, October Elise was out and about. Not Rosalind, not Rowena, and not Katrina. Tobie herself was out and wandering the asylum, and that in itself was a rarity. She had woken up, yet again, in an unfamiliar room, in an umfamiliar bed, with an unfamiliar person laying beside her. It wasn't hard to decipher that Rosalind had been out and having some fun again; no, the hard part was sneaking out of the stranger room and getting back to her own. A rather quick inspection had confirmed her worst fears, and it took all of Tobie's self control not to break into a full out panic attack and revert back into her head. She had to remind herself that she never got any time for freedom, and took a good thirty minutes to calm down, shower, and cleanse herself of the evidence she felt coated her skin. She had then thrown on jeans and a fitting cream-coloured top, and then went out for the first time in a long time.

Goodness, it felt good to stretch her legs. The trek from her room to the common room was quite a long one, and the insane girl made it an even longer journey by stopping in the cafeteria; Rosalind hadn't bothered to eat before she had her fun. After a quick meal (Tobie was terrified of running into an unfamiliar face that recognized hers) and then she made her way to the common room.

And there she sat. The long form of the girl was stretched across the couch, head against the arm of it and long, wet hair hanging before the fire. Her eyes were closed and for once the textbook insane girl seemed to be at peace. She didn't know how long said peace would last, and her alone times were never long enough for her to enjoy fully. But Tobie relished in the time she had, and so with a full stomach and a full conscious, she did nothing more with her time in the body than relax.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

((Poor Tobie. Miss Rosalind needs to settle down.))

Carlos was not too bent on disturbing anybody else's peace--his own was so hard to come by these days, he considered it pure insanity to ruin what fragile tranquility other people had managed to salvage out of the chaos that was life at St. Peter's. The Hispanic boy was sitting with his back to Tobie, in one of the plush chairs by the fire, his head tilted back against the cushion at its top, his legs crossed and hands set intertwined in his lap. His conversation--more like argument--with Juana in his dorm had drained him, left him little room for any feeling besides exhaustion. Not even the beast could find it to be within its power to start trying to break free of its cage; it, too, was weary. Fights of that magnitude took a lot out of both the former slave's sides, good and bad, and now he was in absolutely no state to notice the girl (one of four, though he did not know it) stretched across the couch behind him. For now, Carlos's thoughts were on recuperating. He was so tired, and he fairly hated himself for screaming at Juana even though she had deserved most of what he'd shot at her.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

A heavy sigh escaped the girl, and though her eyes remained closed, they squinted together ever so slightly as she knit her brows. To any onlooker, they could pass it off as a simple migraine. They would dismiss the actuality of Tobie’s expression and give it some mundane reason for existing. But in all reality, Tobie’s pained expression was due to the fact that she was arguing with herself.

She didn’t exactly know if she was physically arguing with her alters (most psychologists claimed that she should be unaware of them, or that she shouldn’t be able to communicate with them) or if she were moreso arguing with herself in her own mind, but all Tobie knew was that Rosalind was making excuses. Loud, obnoxious excuses.

I didn’t mean to, it wasn’t supposed to go that far, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I won’t do it again…

Another sigh. God, Rosalind needed to give it a rest. Perhaps the arguing was developing into a migraine. Tobie was unaware of the equally as exhausted Carlos, who sat just so that she couldn’t see her, and so she initially thought she was alone. And so she even went so far as to allow a groan to escape her lips.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

At that sound, Carlos's eyes shot open. It sounded so familiar...there was one brief view of an image, one split-second picture which flashed in front of his eyes: the crumpled form of a girl on the ground, long brown hair tangled in a complete rat's nest, hiding the bloody mass that was the back of her head. She'd made that sound, too, that loud, pained groan, as the bullet found her brain and she lay dying. With a sharp gasp, the Hispanic whipped around in his chair. " No en la plantación," he breathed, upon flashing back into reality and realizing that no, that was not a dying girl who had made that sound. It was just another patient--a headache seemed to be what was plaguing her. "Oh, mierda, yo no estoy allí. Gracias Dios." He gave his head a quick shake to clear it, blinked hard, once, just to make sure that the flashback would remain gone--he had gotten much better at controlling the small ones, as that had been, and no longer needed the assistance of a nurse--and now focused on the lanky form across the couch. "Pérdon," he called out, "is something wrong?" He didn't feel a need to translate--pérdon sounded enough like the English word pardon that he figured she would be able to get his gist.

[Annie, Have no fear of perfection-- you'll never reach it.]

Tobie’s eyes, too, shot open, and she all but jumped out of her seat, a little surprised squeak escaping her lips. “Oh, goodness, I thought I was alone.” Her voice was quiet, and even a little breathy, and it had a slight rasp to it; she hadn’t used it since she had woken up, and she could assume that Rosalind hadn’t exactly been using her voice either. Her lapis gaze landed on the Hispanic boy across from her, almost a deer-in-headlights appearance to them. An unfamiliar face. Great. Such sights were art to her eyes. She didn’t know who the boy before her was, and there was a very real possibility that he knew who she was. Tobie could only hope that he didn’t. The brown-haired girl sat up, pulling her long, wet hair over the front of one shoulder, and began to run her fingers through the tangled locks. She bit down nervously on her full bottom lip and cocked her head to the side ever so slightly to look at the Hispanic, looking him up and down. She didn’t think she recognized him, but she could never be sure. “No, nothing’s wrong. Just… my head is being a nuisance.” Not a lie. Rosalind was part of her head, and she was being quite the nuisance.

[*~Silvypoo~* (Chaser of Artemis), Life's a dance, you learn as you go.]

As usual, the common room was full of busy yet idle chit chat and packed full of patients and nurses alike. The most humiliating place for a distressed girl with tears falling down her cheeks, but she had hoped that the people would force her to not cry, but she failed. There was a moment of awkward silence as she fled to the corner of the room where she sat there for a moment and stared indignantly at anyone who dared make eye contact with her. Then conversation started up again, mostly because they had seen Rosemarie like this many times before. That didn't help to ease the tears.

How could she have left? She demanded of herself angrily, desperately wiping away her tears. He had needed her and she had walked out. Granted, she probably would have been hurt severely, that was a given, but it was so unloyal of her to just walk out on a shaking, mentally ill man who needed her help. Guilt and relief tore the inside of the former Hunter's heart, leaving an all too familiar hole that ached horribly in the center of her chest and trickling down into her stomach. She was such a horrible person for leaving, and if anything happened to Raven, it was all her fault.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

The sound of quiet sobbing went unnoticed by every person in the room except one: Carlos. He had been in the plush chair by the fire, his head tilted back against the padding, and he had been trying to dose--but then there was the sound of desperate footsteps and an even more desperate attempt to keep in cries. His head popped up; he recognized those sounds. They were familiar. Those were Rosemarie's feet and Rosemarie's cries. His friend needed help. Without further ado, the former slave rose to his feet and crossed the room to the redhead's little corner, and there he knelt down, extending one dark hand and placing it, very lightly, very gently, on her shoulder. "Hola, mi amiga," he said quietly. His voice was gentle, as it might have been had he been talking to a girl much younger than she. He looked at her with dark brown eyes grown darker with concern and weariness. He had been in this position too many times before. "Hush. Don't cry. You'll make a scene. I'm right here. Talk to me."

[*~Silvypoo~* (Chaser of Artemis), Life's a dance, you learn as you go.]

Startled, the redhead picked her head up and looked into the dark eyes of her friend. She had not expected to find someone here who was willing to lend a helping hand. Her quiet tears stopped for a moment and she took that moment to collect her cool as best she could. She wrapped her arms tenderly around the Hispanic's neck and pulled herself close into a hug of comfort. Comfort which she desperately needed at the moment. She was speechless, unable to make any sounds other than soft whimpers let alone whole words. She sat, softly whimpering in a way that resembled a hurt dog whimpering in pain. Of course it would be Carlos here to find her, he always had to fix what Raven broke. She knew she somewhat took advantage of Carlos that way, but she couldn't help it. She needed someone to try and keep her together and he was always there. Poor Carlos, always having to pick up the broken pieces. How does he do it? Her eyes clouded over with tears again and she turned into Carlos's dark shoulder, watching as the tears that fell soaked into his cotton shirt, absorbing them and turning the shirt into a darker shade of gray. I'm sorry, Carlos, she thought miserably.

[Hope , I belong here more than they do.]

"Shhh," Carlos whispered. He took her into a hug, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Not necessarily because he wanted to, but because the poor girl sounded like she was going to fall apart and she needed some comfort, some stability. He hugged her, and after that he held her, and all the while he murmured quiet Spanish into her ear. "Pobrecita. Estoy aquí. Estoy justo aquí. Todo está bien. Todo va a estar bien, yo prometo. Cálmate. Cálmate, mi amiga. Está bien. Está bien." He would wait, he decided, and he would not pressure her. She would talk when she was ready.