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Post by nico on Feb 23, 2008 20:11:57 GMT
(Alright, here I go! I hope I'm doing alright)
The blonde boy sat in the lounge, sprawled out on a couch. His pale hair was gelled up into short meticulous spikes that gleamed wetly under the light. In his ear there was a small silver hoop, the skin around it was red and swollen hinting that the piercing it was recent and self-inflicted. The earring and the hair were symbols, they looked cool, but they were symbols too. They symbolized emancipation, that his body was his own and he could do what he liked with it and as an extension of that that his life was his own. Regardless of the high handed thoughts associated with his appearance he looked decidedly uncomfortable, his translucent eyebrows were knitted with worry. Guilt, he realized, he felt guilty. The very idea that he was sitting in a place made just for relaxing made him feel like he should be studying, practicing for a sport, or trying to learn that God accursed violin. At least his usual haunt, the library, held the pretense of being academic related.
Worse still he held a journal in his lap. Every since he was very small he had been warned against keeping journals. One of his ancestors, a man by the name of Adonis Gray, had been undone by recording his activities. He’d had a fondness for kidnapping muggle girls and torturing them to death. An auror had started asking too many questions and had even had the gall to ask for an inquest. Naturally searched of his home turned up nothing, he was a very neat man and always cleaned up after himself. Tragically (according to his father anyway) someone, quite by accident, stumbled upon his diary which recorded in gruesome detail exactly what had been done to whom and where the bodies were buried. Adonis Gray had lived out the rest of his life in an asylum.
The journal had been a gift along with a matching sketchbook and they were undeniably things of great beauty. The journal was bound in leather with the image of an ouroborus burned into the front. The details were amazing, the fangs dripped blood where they sunk into the tail and the scales seemed to glimmer with movement. The eye was a green button of what looked like jade jutting out from the leather. On the back there was an elastic strap which wrapped around the button fastening it closed. The journal and sketchbook had been a gift from Sprightly, the snake since he was a Slytherin and she had always been a sucker for theme gifts.
Even after six years at Hogwarts he had to struggle to pretend his father wasn’t leaning over his shoulder and watching him. In his mind he was bickering over whether he should use the journal or not or if he even had anything worth writing down. If he was busy thinking about that then he could pretend all the metaconversation in his head wasn’t every bit the waste of time writing would have been.
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Post by Citrine Bailey on Feb 25, 2008 6:07:23 GMT
Citrine wandered in curiously. She suddenly realized that the environment was new to her. There were many places in Hogwarts she had never entered. She steered away from popular areas like lounges and living rooms. It was just wasn't right for her to be in a room full of people. It wasn't very Citrine.
But, alas, here she was. She wandered away from her usual spots nowadays, escaping memories. She was ready to be happy, ready to move on, ready to be who she used to be again: daddy's happy little girl, cracking jokes and smiling carelessly. Still, though, no matter which personality she decided on, she'd always be alone. It was the way she was made. She stood in a corner, out of any potential walkways, and scanned the room. So far, there was but one, a boy, a Slytherin like herself. Those were her favorite. They were slightly more quiet, more pessimistic, more sarcastic, mmm, if only there were more like them in the world. She bit her lip and smiled a bit, a little hidden in the shadows. This was one of her favorite parts of her everyday black wardrobe.
Today, she wore baggy black, pinstripe khakis, old favorites. They fit like an old pair of pants would, loose, worn out, lovely. She had an ipod, a cell phone, chains, and other useless utensils in her below the knee pockets, so the pants were heavy and made music when she walked. She wore a long sleeved black shirt over her top half, stopping short a few inches, right below the belly button. Her pale, smooth marble stomach was flat and sporty as her hips swayed with her walk. Some days, she realized that she actually did have a body, and that feeling didn't last long, for it would be covered up soon. But today, she embraced the realization. Her jacket was still hanging on her dorm room door, for she hadn't yet stepped outside into the colder moonlight yet tonight.
Stepping out of the corner darkness, she sauntered toward a chair across from where the lone boy sat. She pulled her legs up into a crossed position, placed her elbows upon them, and let her palms support her head. It was a comfortable, slouched position that revealed Citrine's true, lazy personality. Psychologists say that body language says a lot, and she sometimes tried to prove this theory. She waited until the boy made eye contact before she would try to smile at him. Until then, she sat quietly, eyes still scanning the room, the walls, the paintings.
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Post by nico on Feb 25, 2008 6:27:15 GMT
Nic looked up, his mouth blossomed into a smile that seemed too wide for his narrow face to contain. In an instant he wished he had brought his sketchbook instead, he wanted to record the girl in charcoal so he could look at her whenever he wanted. Her almost aggressively calm demeanor was like some jungle cat, a lioness perhaps, at rest. Cool and languid but ever wary and dangerous. It took about five seconds for him to realize he was smiling at her like a moron and that he should say something so that he didn’t come off as a total freak.
Quickly he crammed the journal into the crack of the couch beside him, still empty and unused. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure” he said, his previously manic smile fading into something more practiced, a sly grin. “I’m Nicodemus Gray, in case you haven’t heard” slightly self aggrandizing, but a passable introduction, it was at least better than nothing at all.
“I was…” there was a beat. What was he doing? Sitting alone in a place usually full of boisterous happy youths? Acting angsty over a journal? It would be hard to say anything cool but he decided to try something, an old standby of his.
“I was hoping someone beautiful might show up. Place is right dead for a lounge. I guess all the brainless types that usually hang out here got tugged out of school by their worried mummies and daddies, eh?” he finished seamlessly. One could hardly notice the single moment of doubt before he sized the situation up and continued.
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Post by Citrine Bailey on Feb 25, 2008 7:06:35 GMT
She needn't continue, she felt his smile. Looking down and catching his gaze, she smiled back, a warm, real smile, the kind that one couldn't contain. The kind that you felt on your face, your eyes glowing. There was something about this mutual smile that gave her butterflies. Those were always a bad sign...She bit her lip and looked down at her chucks, the shoelaces dancing between her fingertips.
Looking up again, only slightly, she raised one eyebrow at the boy's sly presentation. Boy, did she like the smooth ones. He seemed sure of himself, something she liked. Often a man's low self esteem was nothing short of unattractive and even annoying. As he shoved a journal away, an unnecessary act for she had obviously already caught him, he introduced himself. Nicedemus Gray, a positively beautiful name. She lifted herself to eye level again this time and let him speak; his voice was an interesting sound wave.
She heard the word: beautiful. It was unexpected, as always. Her blood red hair fell in front of her face and she felt her emerald eyes piercing through into the man's soul, trying to read him. He was silly, sarcastic, and she loved every bit of it. Speaking smoothly, sensually, a trait she tried numerous times to rid herself of, she introduced herself.
"Citrine Bailey, I'm not good with greetings. 'Hi' doesn't fit me right, 'hey' sounds a bit off, 'greetings' makes me sound like some space nerd, and 'salutations'...yeah, not my cup of tea. I sometimes go with 'bonjour,' but then I come off as French, and that's just not right. I'm all about Ireland, that most beautiful homeland in the world," she smiled and offered a handshake, slipping out of her lazy position. Her body was very flexible and the switch was a simple one. "Then again I don't understand introductions in the slightest because in the end, well, you'll just call someone whatever the hell you want to call them, won't you?"
She leaned back into the chair, this time lifting only one leg up to her chest, and letting the other one hang on the side. This leg she now let her head rest on, still gazing. It must have been the lighting.
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Post by nico on Feb 25, 2008 7:40:58 GMT
He smiled at her little discourse on greetings “I suppose so" he answered "You must think about things an awful lot” he teased “Like a really cute version of obsessive compulsive disorder. Me? I just say things which, on the one hand, might explain why I have very few friends” he shrugged at his little jokes. He was growing steadily more comfortable with his decision to come to the lounge. The thought of a group of boys his own age seeping testosterone and talking Quidditch gave him hives. Talking to a girl, however, and shamelessly flirting was a favorite sport of his.
It was a dangerous game, flirting, which was why he didn’t keep many female friends. He had the nasty habit of being meaninglessly sensual with any girl he met, something which invariably let to pent up sexual frustration all around. So he kept it to acquaintances. There was a small following of girls who liked to come up and talk to him just for the compliments, the kind thoughtless ego stroking that he gave in liberal amounts to anything lacking the Y chromosome. The reason he didn’t keep many male friends was simpler, he didn’t want them thinking he was a poofter and he didn’t want them introducing him to their girlfriends.
“So” he continued to keep the conversation going “What brings you out of the traditional dank Slytherin haunts and into this dismally cheery place?” he asked, the same sly grin as before softening his angular features and turning his potentially barbed question into a light joke. His calm voice and easy demeanor made him seem sweet almost instantly. It was as if everything about his personality was tailored to say 'I'm harmless. You can trust me. I wouldn't hurt you if I could'. This seemed odd coupled with his hawkish features and general lean hungry look, but if anyone could make it work it was Nico.
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Post by Citrine Bailey on Feb 27, 2008 0:12:03 GMT
She smiled at her shoelaces when he mentioned obsessive compulsive disorder. Oh, the endless possibilities of things going wrong upstairs, she thought. "I know I'm only proving your theory, and I don't mean to, but have you ever noticed how...easy it is to lose it? I mean, if you've got one disorder, the symptoms will be three more. And then the prescriptions for said symptoms have side affects, and those side affects bring on more things going wrong. It's insane...literally."
Citrine looked back up and caught the gaze of the boy across from her. Damn, was he gorgeous. She refused to take too much notice, though. It was common to find those flirtatious, self confident boys who know perfectly well how much they flirt. At least she was one of the girls that understood this cycle. Who says it's so wrong to flirt back half heartedly? Give them a taste of their own medicine? This was new to Citrine, flirting, but then she had observed long enough to understand more than most "professionals." She knew by the end of the night, she'd just be another pretty girl to add to the list. It doesn't measure to how important other things are in life.
She knew also, though, that she had a talent with friendships...with boys, anyways. There was something about girls that made her roll her eyes and cringe. She most often wanted nothing to do with them. Having grown up with brothers, she learned the ways, and adapted to indifference and immaturity. She handled it well, and most guys, if they didn't find it attractive, found it comforting. She'd be a keeper, whether romance was on the menu or not. Sometimes, though, it was hard to get the image across. And sometimes it was harder to flirt without having to stop yourself from growing attached. Still, it was only round one where she sat.
"You ask me what brings me here," she began, choosing words carefully and thoughtfully, a trait she loved about herself. "Sometimes the same old scenery...and even the same familiar faces...well, they get too familiar." She looked up, eyes sweet and mouth half smiling. "It's nice to see something new; it's almost always beautiful, you know?" She hugged her leg and kept her arms wrapped around it, comfortable and anxious.
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Post by nico on Feb 27, 2008 7:06:54 GMT
He winced inwardly, her reply to his question was probably the single most inane pseudo-intellectual crap he’d ever had to listen to. Almost reluctantly he swallowed the thousand acid replies to what she’d said. Too well he knew that beauty was not such a subjective thing that newness could appeal to it, it was depressingly objective. What was beautiful began so and remained so while what was unpleasant or ugly was likewise exempt from change. The new and the unfamiliar were usually simply that and too often frighteningly alien. Still, he was a gentleman and no matter how irritating a lady was, no matter how blatantly wrong in her ideals, it was important to remain polite
“I like for the places I visit and the people I know to stay the same. You wear ruts in them, like a favorite chair or the edges of a book going soft when you’ve flipped through it too many times to count” he answered gently, completely honest for once. If you cycled through the old to the new too often then things became transient and unimportant, like clothes or magazines. For simple things this was no problem, the pretty girls he lead around on his arm were nothing to him. They could change week to week. His room though hadn’t changed at all since he was eight and the blue bunny wallpaper had come off the walls. His furniture remained as static as a redwood forest.
He only changed things when it was important, his earring, his hair, they were important changes. The way some girls would dye or cut their hair dramatically just for a change tended to upset him. It seemed that if things started looking different they would probably start acting differently as well. He knew why it bothered him so. It was a simple matter to trace back to the point in his life when he’d first started to despise careless changes to the world.
Unbidden the simple answer, which had first irritated him so, brought back a flood of memories bittersweet and almost painful in their intensity. It was strange how a simple thoughtless sentence can inspire so much reflection and contemplation. The distance between his mind and body showed on his face, his eyes were fuzzily unfocused and his mouth, first set in a hard line, whispered a single word: “Sprightly”. He didn’t seem to notice he’d spoken, or even that Citrine was still there beside him. He’d simply zoned out for a moment.
(Hi. I just wanted to point out the difference between author and narrator here. The first paragraph, which is pretty harsh, is Nico's point of view. Not mine.)
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Post by Citrine Bailey on Mar 2, 2008 2:50:51 GMT
(It's all good. My character can be a little harsh, too. But it depends on the author's mood, I suppose. Heh)
Citrine squinted as she heard the boy across from her whisper something. Her hearing was wonderful; after all, she was a creature of the night. If only it was just a metaphor. It almost sounded like a name, a strange one at that. But she wasn't one to talk. She often found herself whispering a name...but she was was usually half asleep while doing so. He haunted her dreams enough for that name to become nothing but a whisper.
She shook her head and took her thoughts away from it. Tonight was the night away from those thoughts. That was what she had made it. She smiled up at the stranger before her, trying to keep her attention at bay. She wondered what they could talk about. She wondered how to respond to his statement about familiarities. Sure, she loved her friends, but they were changing...fast. Unlike her, they were growing more and more unhappy. For once, she wanted to enjoy life.
So many she had encountered did not appreciate their gift. One bite and they were super humans, strong, beautiful, fast, borderline immortal. They looked at their fangs with shame, but she gawked at their beauty. She wanted to run faster than the wind and leave all those weaker behind. How could they want to die? How could they think this was a curse? And who cares what was sin? They were already dead. Heaven and Hell weren't exactly destinations anymore.
"So, what's so special about you, then?" She smirked, expressing her understanding of such ego. She knew he was confident just as much as he did. She wanted to know why. [/sup]
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Post by nico on Mar 2, 2008 6:36:16 GMT
He jerked his head up slightly, snapped out of his dreaming by Citrine’s question. It was an interesting one and it revealed ever so much about the fire haired girl. Unlike many she didn’t need for him to be shrinkingly sensitive, to listen patiently to all her whines and pedantic cares about the world although that was a role he played happily enough. She was an interesting creature, she seemed to like the calculated coolness and constant poise that lurked under his cheerful flirtatious personality. Most people found the idea that Nico was actually paying attention somewhat off-putting. Those people had no sense of adventure and no willingness to be studied by him.
More and more he found himself, not just attracted to, but positively fascinated by the girl he had so accidentally encountered. It was odd to see someone so aggressively content. He had encountered people who were aggressively cheerful before and they were almost always using it as a mask for their pain. Citrine was different, more like she saw misery as a bad fashion choice and had thrown it to the wayside. Reluctantly he paused his attempted dissection of her personality and cleared his throat before answering her.
“Why would you assume there’s something special about me?” he asked, an eyebrow crooking upward “I’m just an above average sixteen year old human boy. Pretty face, healthy body, quick mind. I’ve got all of those but I’m not the most handsome or the most athletic or even top of my class. The real thing that makes me special is that people are willing to follow me, I talk and usually they listen” he chuckled and slung his legs up onto the couch in a more comfortable relaxed position.
“One of the things they don’t tell most kids is that it doesn’t matter if you’re the fastest in a footrace or get the highest score on a test. In the real world the school’s star athletes probably won’t go pro, they’ll get a lame job working retail or something” he shuddered at the thought “The smart kids can become professors or researchers and write books about the mating habits of erumpets” he rolled his eyes as if this were terribly boring. “It’s the manipulators who become con men, high ranking ministry officials, aurors, contract killers, foreign liaisons, and actors” he smiled and arched his back slightly so that his shoulders cracked “All the things I wanted to grow up and be back when I was a little boy” he paused in his little speech so that he could finish big “So, Miss Bailey, I am special in the most ordinary and dangerous way imaginable. I was born and bred for it. What of you?”
His demeanor had changed only slightly, he looked a little less friendly but the playfulness had not left his voice. The same mischievous grin that made him look as if he might, at any minute, steal a kiss then dart away had not left his face. He had just taken off the silly soppy sweetness. It was less akin to removing a sword from its sheath and more like reading the unexpurgated version of a book.
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Post by Citrine Bailey on Mar 2, 2008 7:01:30 GMT
Citrine listened with averted eyes to his speech. She liked to listen and, from what she could gather from the few minutes, he liked to talk. But then, the talkers usually wanted to hear more, didn't they? Opinions were nothing but that...why people thought contradiction was so appalling bothered her. The point of an opinion is contradiction and defense. Citrine thought it funny, the way he answered the question.
"Who says I was saying you were special?" Citrine snorted. Of course she was saying that. It was necessary to tease, even if it made no sense. "Though, we all are in some way. And I'm not quoting some professor or sappy ass parent speech, I'm merely saying that...well, just the fact that each of us is one person, that there are so many people out there and yet they're all different...that gives us each something special." Citrine tried not to gag. That was the most cliche load of crap she had ever said. Somewhere in there, she had a point. Alas, as usual, she couldn't express it quite the way she wanted to. She tried to steer it into another direction.
"Never mind about that. I like what you say about the future, and what we all turn out to be." Of course, Citrine didn't think so much about that. The way he referred to the puzzle pieces of society...including "manipulators." So what did that make her? She tried to picture herself in such a category. She was a walking corpse. Careers and insurance policies weren't exactly what mattered most. Finding dinner, her own manipulation, that mattered. "I guess what you see is what you get. I'm no rare piece of talent. Physical fitness makes no difference in my life. I just have my shell, and my thoughts. It's almost like I'm...not really here." She didn't want to use the word 'corpse.' Not just yet.
She looked into his eyes again, feeling like she accomplished nothing with all the talking she had just done. She wanted him to speak more. She was more of an observer than a speaker, for she had so much trouble actually expressing what she felt. She could do it for others, but never for herself. Citrine was a fallen muse, and all she wanted was to hear someone else's music.
She smiled at him again and looked around, trying to figure out her next sitting position. She analyzed, and listened to the silent room.
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Post by nico on Mar 2, 2008 10:08:16 GMT
He grinned at her swift retraction of the word ‘special’, it was pure revisionism. Granted, most people would back away from supporting him after that little display of hubris. To his disappointment her response was, again, appallingly trite. It was precisely the sort of thing his father had insisted he ignore. If he’d attempted to bring any of that ‘the most important thing is just being me’ crap into a discussion he would have gotten an earful and probably lost his dinner as well. It was a shame that she wasn’t coming up with more interesting counterarguments because she was clearly very smart and very individualistic.
“You present a valid-” he paused and made a disgusted face at his painfully politically correct attempt at a rebuttal. He made a quick decision to dispense with the gentlemanly crap and argue properly. “Oh, to hell with it… Your entire premise is flawed there. If everyone is special then no one is, not really. They’re just different. Different, as I believe I pointed out earlier, is not necessarily a good thing. Now this is the part where you call me a heartless conformist then I’ll call you a dangerous iconoclast and the entire scene will unravel with tedious predictability” he sighed, apparently with the strain of the imagined argument “Let’s not, alright?” he smiled and seemed to assume that she agreed since he went right on talking.
“The thing of it is, we’re all just like you are. You’re not a shell. You are, like everyone else, a collection of thoughts and memories and personality” he neglected to mention that he figured this was the soul, few people were comfortable with him having religion. “The shell is just a tool, everything about our corporal forms is just part of a toolbox…” he paused and studied her for a quick moment “I’ve gone and upset you, haven’t I? I didn’t mean to, if you like I can go back to being sweet again” he offered “I’ll tell you that you have adorable ears” the comment was only half joke. One of the things that really made girls perk up was complimenting them on something they weren’t expecting, never something trite like eyes or hair. Saying to a girl ‘You have gorgeous eyes’ was too generic, where saying ‘Pardon me, but I couldn’t help noticing you are so extraordinarily graceful. Do you dance?’ was usually enough to make them take interest.
(Meh. Short post.)
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Post by Citrine Bailey on Mar 5, 2008 1:38:49 GMT
Citrine wasn't sure how to react. First, he assumed that she was upset. She wanted to reach over and rip his throat out. It wasn't necessarily because she was, but rather because she was capable. She didn't get upset, especially just because of words out of a person's mouth. She crinkled her face, and opened her mouth to speak, before hit by another blow: her ears were adorable. How disgusting.
She pulled back, flat against the chair, expressionless. She wondered what he expected her to do. Perhaps her eyes were supposed to sparkle with flattery? Perhaps she was supposed to recoil and go on to put down every other part of her body so that he'd be quick to contradict? Citrine wanted to do something, to keep her from turning to stone, but she couldn't help but just sit there. Her eyes traveled back and forth, searching her mind for a response. She didn't want to just avoid it immaturely, but acknowledging it would be sickening. Wow, why am I so bitter? She snorted at herself.
Citrine looked up again and caught his eyes. "Cut it out; I have a sensitive stomach," she said with a smirk. "Well, you know what? You have nice...hands. Yeah. Take that," she said, nodding. It was true, actually. Citrine was proud to say that she didn't pay attention to the usual abs and eyes. No, it was about the way they used their eyes. She was more of a collarbone, shoulder blade, hips, and hands kind of girl. Did the hands look feminine or masculine? Were they rough? Were they clean? Little things mattered.
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Post by nico on Mar 28, 2008 4:25:26 GMT
Nico grinned wolfishly “There she goes, trying to play like girls aren’t delicate and like they don’t need sweet nothings whispered at them” he sniffed almost derisively at her. It was a stupid game, he was toying with her and it was cruel but an ill mood had suddenly struck him. He could take abuse unflinchingly, from snappish little quips to complete diatribes but he felt like being contrary. Besides, the response to his offer was something of a slap to his kindness.
It was not an exaggeration to say that his family hadn’t instilled him with the best ideals in the world. The one thing his father had taught him that he had really taken deeply to heart was that girl were supposed to be protected and looked after. ‘Don’t hit girls’ that had been an important rule and so simple to understand. Boys who hit girls were bad and that was simply that. The obvious unfortunate side effect of this was that he viewed girls as being delicate, not lesser but certainly fragile. They needed protection, they needed affirmation, and they needed guidance. Ever the crusading knight, perhaps in slightly tarnished armour, he took these tasks upon himself.
Regardless of his rude comment he seemed to take her retort about his hands to heart with no sarcasm at all. He held one slender long-fingered hand up in front of his face, noting the bitten nails and the slight calluses from playing the violin. They weren’t bad hands as hands went, good for building card castles or stroking hair yet equally useful for brawling. At any rate he was happy with them and most people who had worked with his hands had never complained. There were the obvious exceptions of the few who had been on the receiving end of a well aimed punch but the point there had always been to make them complain.
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Post by Citrine Bailey on Mar 28, 2008 18:10:15 GMT
Citrine watched as he seemed to examine them himself. His hands had obviously done a fair amount of work, most likely from building material or a musical instrument, that much was sure. When she did compliment hands, which come to think of it wasn't often, it was usually directed at those more rough. Feminine hands on a boy turned her way, way off. There was something about the roughness that revealed the strength, how well that boy could protect you, and what he cares enough about to produce labor for, like...like building material or a musical instrument.
"So what do you play?" She asked quietly and politely, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation.
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