Down the Drain pv sebastian & prat closed

A judgemental voice jolted Archer back to his unfortunate location. His tone was vexingly self-assertive, figure poised in a confident strut that demanded the authority Archer would not give as his reflection appeared in the mirror behind him. He was far too exhausted to deal with the boy with kind words and reckonings for him to leave; no, nor was he in the mood to, the helplessness of the last duel still painted with clarity in his mind. Turning away from the furnishing and redirecting his glower the newcomer with unwavering eyes he raised the scissors threateningly as if they were a weapon and said through gritted teeth, “If you really think it’s so bad I’ll shove this down your throat and then you’ll shut up about it.”

Eyes widening as his words rang back to him he stood stunned by himself, sudden claustrophobia washing over him in the suffocating environment. Searching Sebastian’s face for a reaction as an odd guilt descended over his own he let the scissors clatter onto the tiled ground with a resounding drop. About to burst into an apology he began the word but soon the door clattered open once more to reveal a figure much more well-known.

The arrival of his captain was a respite from not just Sebastian but himself he greeted with welcomed arms despite having rarely talked to him in private before, and that was only ever about his performance on the piste, it seemed. Quite literally, Prat Pass would find a pair of slender arms wrapped around his tall frame, a step further in search of comfort as he put a reassuring hand on Archer’s shoulder. Clasping him close as if the boy was all he had left he expected the usual tears to come just as they had when in the same position with Matthew, yet his ducts stayed completely dry. If what had last happened was a flood now raging in his heart was a forest fire. “No…” he murmured, “I wish I were.”

Despite previous abhorrence of such a display of vulnerability now it left Archer bewildered that he no longer felt such emotions. What was brewing in his tightened stomach was something completely foreign, completely out of control, and completely perilous. Mixed with a maelstrom of teenage hormones, recent grieving, and piling stress, Archer need not be an expert at potions to understand that it made an explosive combination. In an action almost beyond his control he gently let go of Prat, unwilling to harm the captain he respected — unwilling to harm a friend, and turned rage-filled eyes to the boy who had unfortunately walked in on his miserable day. Clenching his fists at the unwelcome stranger, there was no further comment as he warninglessly sent one aimed for the younger boy’s stomach.

There had been no logical reasoning behind a rationalist usually so organised’s sudden attack, for Archer was not petty enough to experience such an outburst simply because of having had his new haircut insulted. Everyday keeping himself contained and composed was a struggle, and when he couldn't he sought the comforts of his dormitory to sob into a pillow and bang on the wall uselessly. But he had grown tired of that. He had sat with his sorrow long enough for it to bottle up into rage, so drastic that anything and everything could have been a shattering point. What Sebastian gave was just an excuse, a victim, something for it to be let out on; he had just lit the fuse at the perfect time.

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Monday, 17th March; Lavatory

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Prat's eyes were narrowed, staring at the boy as he turned on his heels and left the room. The sting of unprovoked insults lingered in the room, a mark of the unwarranted hostility that had been thrown around a while ago. Prat's hand was slightly curled into a fist by his side, knuckles turning white with restrained.

The boy had no idea what he was talking about when it came to Archer. The audacity to insult someone who could ruin your day or even your week with a simply spell was—way more foolish than it was inexcusable. There were several different ways this could've gone wrong for him. It was too late for a retort but the incident was etched into his memory. Were they to ever cross paths again, he'd remember to keep this in mind. But until then, it was a better idea to bide their time with no impulsive moves.

With the boy leaving, Prat's gaze turned to Archer, who held scissors in a firm grip. The tension in the room was palpable, thick with the sudden flash of aggression that had just played out. Prat studied his friend, mind racing to understand what he had just witnessed.

Archer who usually seemed calm and collected from their very limited interactions now withheld an intensity that was slightly unnerving to see coming from him. Despite knowing Arch as a skilled duellist, this uncharacteristic display of anger was something new to Prat. He took a step forward, voice soft as he reached out to gently ask for the scissors from Archer's hand, careful not to startle him, "Hey Arch, get that down okay?"

Prat hadn't ever seen this side of him and it left him feeling a mix of surprise and confusion. He wasn't sure what came over the boy. He had to tread carefully, today was not the day he wished to report a stabbing to a professor, that too so soon into his days as a prefect.

"It's alright" Prat assured the boy, "we'll talk about this later" he attempted to place a hand on his shoulder as he offered him some solace. Their friendship began similar to how two co-workers befriend each other. But it was times like this which tested the very fabric of bonds. And as much as Prat was taken aback by the sudden outburst, he wasn't above overlooking it depending upon the person, specially one such as Archer.

Prat took a moment to collect himself, fixing his clothes before speaking more. "I can see you're upset" adding "and i'm not saying you don't have the right to be, but stabbing is a no-no. It's not going to solve anything and would only make matters worse for you."

He sighed, "Frankly, i'm glad you didn't actually go through with it." Turning towards the exit, he began once again "If you need someone to talk, i'll be here. But for now, both of us should depart. Let's forget this ever took place."

With that he made his way out, with the idea to pretend this never happened.

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@Archer DuncanXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxXArcher Duncan

banner by Alyssea Brown | interacting as Archer Duncan

Insanity, as Sebastian would define it, was merely another byproduct of the all too familiar grief, an eating plague at the root of every troubling issue. A raving lunatic waving a pair of rusty scissors into someone’s face met every criterion with ease. Although often prided on his rationality elsewhere, the strategic mind reasoning through calculations and statistics, rarely faltering on emotional distractions, the learnt façade of a cold logician proved that it was not holding on without its own cracks. Somehow, however, Sebastian was still ignorant enough to believe this was still on the matter of hair. Taking a step back though with hands still tense around the weapon of a stationery, Archer’s hand lowered in hesitance, but not before signalling he was vigilant to every movement, and anything could have been a catalyst for him to bring it down.

When the force of his punch left and Sebastian recoiled Archer could describe the vigour in his blood as nothing else than sweetness. It was not, however, the common, expected, lowly sweetness of revenge, for, his scales of sensitivity now tilted and screwed with the rest of his world, nothing in his victim’s words had provoked him. No, it was simply the sweetness of lashing out, of finding a target and dismantling it, of ripping it to shreds, of envisioning committing the act of leaving him wounded and actually having enough of a backbone for once to do it. No more of hitting pillows until their fluff threatened to burst, or sending spell after spell towards a poor puppet, inanimate even as it fell defeated. Humanity would have faced its emancipation if only every condolence they had left to deliver came from experience rather than faux sympathy. In this world meant to be fair under creation, if he was suffering, why was no one else sharing his fate?

Regarding Sebastian with cold eyes as he straightened, brown was now not flecked with a glorious gold but several shades darker, glinting almost sadistically under the dim lights of the bathroom. Helpless with a sound of surprise, there he stood, blinking up at him, arms folded against his stomach where he had hit and with enough audacity to paint his face a mask of incredulity after his words. Thinking so highly of himself that he found it unfathomable anyone would lay a finger on his pretty hair his indignation matched Archer exactly in his rage.

For his mother was an infinity more righteous than Sebastian, or even Archer himself, could ever dream of becoming, and if Archer had committed an act of injustice when he punched the other worthy of a detention, fate should have been awarded the chair itself for its deeds. Burning through her fields of magi-science but more importantly with a fiery adoration towards him, none of her angelic acts even made the flames licking at her house’s wood falter. Saint or demon, white or black, good or bad, all men died and everyone awaited the same judgement on a lopsided scale, so why must he continue to be that splitting image of godly perfection. And just as he had inflicted pain on an innocent bystander whose only crime had ever been a few stray words of insult, the world had taken the life of a woman who had only every contributed to it, and only ever shone undying love to her child.

And if Sebastian had decided he would rather have lost control of himself that second just as Archer had? Then the Duncan was all Drake’s. There was not too much of him left to take.

Standing undeterred at the berating flung at him, his body rigid in position as if about to spring towards him again, all of Sebastian’s words landed in deaf ears. His brows barely furrowed, eyes barely widened, mind barely registered any of the deprecating words at all. To think he gave a damn about his hair, or even how inconsiderate his actions had been was so foolish it was almost facetiously humorous, yet in a completely innocent, blissfully rose-tinted manner he wished he could return to. How did any of his mere syllables matter after the bereavement that left an unfading scar on his chest?

As he stormed out, Archer could not have bothered to follow, or to care much what became of the boy born out of a negative chance encounter.

“Hey Arch, get that down okay?”

Vaguely, he felt Prat took a step closer to him, leaving him with nowhere else to go but back, almost as if he was being forced into the cold porcelain of the sink despite his captain’s tenderly concerned attitude. Not realising the pair of useless scissors were still held firmly in his Archer, almost instinctively, moved to raise it against Prat as he neared, before he took hold of himself and allowed his hand back to his side, knuckles still white against the handle. His head turned, sliding away as the heat of uncertainty rose to his cheeks, and for the few moments that seemed to drag along into eternities, he said nothing.

Despite the hand of Prat’s, outstretched for him to place them in, Archer let the scissors clatter onto the ground with a resounding noise, stark against the usual soundscape of running taps or flushing toilets. Not looking at the thing while it fell, the tip of his boot shifted ever so slowly, ever so slightly, as if he was about to begin a waltz to steady music and nudged the metal thing away, kicking it to edge of the drainage pipes where the floor met the walls, and hoped it would stay there lest he found it of more use truly in Sebastian’s throat.

“It’s alright, we’ll talk about this later.”

Despite the reassuring nature Prat’s voice held, the words only sickened Archer to his stomach further. At the hand placed on his shoulder he tensed, glanced at Prat with the shake of his head, and slunk out from under the touch. He had thought the outburst of today had proven his point enough. Unlike the weak boy crying in the Rehearsal Room where his only comfort was a boy who would only backstab him, he longer required a hand supporting his hip to stand when he could burn out a path for himself. Archer did not need his solace. “Prat,” he said the captain’s name almost as if it was a insult, tasting sour in his voice as he averted his eyes, as if they had not already been far enough away from the ones of Prat’s. “We’re not talking about this—” and between gritted teeth, “EVER.”

“I can see you’re upset… right to be… no-no… worse for you….”

When Prat was collecting himself and allowing the silence to hang between them, the air had seemed stale with electricity. In fact it reflected perfectly how much Archer did not even want to work his respiration system properly today. He knew he could not lash out against him as he did with Sebastian, or, more fittingly, with Matthew, for while Sebastian was a mere stranger he could not bear to lose a friend again. Yet not one word out of Prat’s mouth meant anything to him; in fact he dared say it dehumanised him and undermined his maturity. How Prat could talk to him as if he was a child under his care rather than a peer who had, for one, seen far worse things than he could ever imagine was completely beyond Archer.

“Frankly, I’m glad you didn’t actually go through with it.”

Frankly, just because Archer had enough respect not to say it, did not mean he did not want Prat to get the hell out of his face and his business and himself which most certainly did not need consoling.

“Let’s forget this ever took place.”

The sigh that followed Archer’s lack of response almost seem to be the one of a parent giving up on a whining child unhappy with his early bedtime. He scowled unpleasantly, lowering his head as he tried to hide the expression than realised it was both futile and meaning. Instead, Archer pushed himself up from the cold porcelain against his back, seeing sense in at least Prat’s penultimate suggestion and too preoccupied to raise disagreements with any other ones.

No, it had happened, and everybody had better remember it loud and clear.

Breaths heavy as he took a sidelong look at the mirror, scowled in disgust, and left with the scissors still forgotten on the cold, damp floor tiles, he cursed under his breath while following his captain out of the suffocating lavatories, “Fuck.”