(Untitled)

[40410]

Who: 40410 and paper_knight.
Where: Mark's room on the second floor.
When: Sometime on the evening of the 10th.
Rating: Something something for drugs and mature subjects.
Summary: Alex finally met his own mirror (and his mirror's +1). Then he got away again. Now he's seeking help. In person. What the--
The Story:

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[paper_knight]

Mark's returned to his room to brood--and type. The party's been a minor disaster: no mirror, no daughter, and at least two encounters with strangers wielding edged weapons. When he feels he's accomplished nothing, Mark makes work for himself, even if it's simply writing about how he's accomplished nothing.
At Alex's knock, though, the rattling of the typewriter ceases, and a moment later the door opens a crack.

In a moment of deja-vu, Mark almost shuts the door in Alex's face, because Alex doesn't visit in person, but his main impression of Mirror Alex was tight, garish clothes and a shit-eating grin, and the person on the other side of the door possesses neither of these things.

"Alex?"

[40410]

Alex has one hand at the throat of the hoodie, closing it up to his chin. The hand is as still as he can hold it, because he knows that jostling the bites any more than he can avoid won't exactly help him keep his composure. He's not quite drugged enough that he can meet Mark's eyes.

And his expression's... weird. His expression's weird, especially for an Alex Kralie. It's not a big mirror smile or a chronic lineface: it's the dregs of a smile, but stretched thin with shame, as the chemical elation of the ecstasy wrestles with the rational parts of his brain.

But Mark is amazing. Mark can make it better. (And Mark doesn't have previous horrible experience of him being drugged. Sorry, Sofia.)

"Mark, can I come in? I just need... some help, or some company, I don't know."

[paper_knight]

Well. Something's clearly happened, and that excuses any strangeness about Alex's behavior. And he's not about to deny a request for help, especially not from Alex. So he steps back, swinging the door wide.

"Of course."

[40410]

"Thanks. Thank you."

He hurries inside, shoulders tense. He's conflicted, but it isn't a case of not knowing whether he feels good or bad: it's feeling both at once, the two slamming together and-- turning into images of what just happened. He feels sick, like it's trying to force its way up through his throat.

"I couldn't just go back to the room. It's... quiet, I'd just start thinking about... things."

He doesn't register the strangeness of it yet, there's too much else to occupy him, but the sense of mistrust (anything he says might enable an attack, might be used against him) doesn't have nearly the weight it usually does.