Whatever happened for the rest of the night, Flash no longer cared. The idiotic ball wasn’t his problem, it was obviously a cover meant to distract the members of the Ministry by giving everyone an alibi. With so many people around, they wouldn’t notice Mari going missing long enough to seal Flash into his room. Shut him away until she knew how to deal with him. Perhaps it was the company he chose to spend his time with at Hogwarts, or the severe shock he had suffered, but he didn’t want to shut up and behave. Not this time, even though logically he knew he was only preparing him for a much greater punishment later on. He knew it was wrong, that it was stupid.

He just didn’t care. He was tired of feeling scared and alone, feeling like darkness was always pressing in on him. Wringing out the last drops of his will to life, leaving him craving the gentle warmth of nothingness. An escape, he just needed to escape from it all. If he felt of sounder mind, he mind had chided himself for running away from his problems instead of simply enduring them. Mari and Val would never break out of their room just to go outside. Just to defy some sense of injustice.

He wasn’t going directly outside though. It wasn’t only fresh air he needed, that alone wouldn’t help him escape his own thoughts. A book wouldn’t be enough, his mind would be far too loud for him to concentrate on reading. He wanted something better-- he needed someone to talk to. Not just that, he needed someone he could disappear into. Break out of his room and escape into someone else... that was the grand plan for his rebellion. The library would be his first destination, the place he sent Dmitri Jones to. An hour or so ago, he didn’t imagine he would have any particular reason to speak another word to the boy in his life. Flash normally only familiarizes himself with people he thought would be useful, whether that was for some specific purpose or simply because they made him happy. Dmitri didn’t seem to be interested in getting to know Flash better, or making him feel happier, but he was there. If he was lucky, and said just the right thing, he might let Flash in.

He snuck down to the kitchens where he looted the liquor cabinet for Darius’ favorite Kentucky bourbon. He would never have thought to nab such a contraband item before, but he started to wonder if Darius got tipsy at these events for a good reason. He seemed to enjoy it, so at the very least he could experiment with numbing himself the muggle way. With the amber bottle under his wing, he continued to the trophy room where all of their brooms were kept. He was sure Darius wouldn’t mind if he borrowed his, it wasn’t as treasured as Asha was, though the staff kept it well taken care of. The vast difference in crowdedness was palpable within moments of leaving the ruckus of the bustling waiting staff. Like his family, no one had noticed him coming and going at all. Perhaps it was the confidence in which he walked around his own house, or perhaps it was that they didn’t care so long as he stayed out of their way.

His arrival would be heralded by the obvious sound of the large wooden door leading into the library. Unlocked of course. He hoped his reintroduction wouldn’t prove to be too unpleasant an intrusion, he was sure that it would already be less than ideal. Still, he would do everything in his power to make it worth it. Give him whatever he wanted. He would beg.

Quickly catching the bright bleached hair among the stacks, Flash approached him slowly, though he was a sight. He had obviously changed into something more casual, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and an expensive, polished broom in the other.

”Hello again.” Flash’s voice was quiet, and a weak, crooked smile was on his face. ”Have you been able to amuse yourself?”

@Dmitri Jones

Contrary to Dmitri's original plan, he did not get to read an awful lot in the time he was left to his own devices in the vast library. True, he was surrounded by an unfathomable collection of knowledge any bibliophile would drool over—gilded tomes begging to be cracked open, old, leather-bound texts that promised a rich discussion on history and magic—but the experience wasn't quite the same now that he was alone.

Though the previous banter was frustratingly one-sided—what with the other boy's infuriating insistence to be civilized and... likable (read: annoying)—the older boy was ever so slightly disappointed Flash Holmwood so readily retreated.

Well—Dmitri did express a desire to escape from the inane crowd of kissass adults mingling back in the ballroom (sorry, Aunt Tabby), and the young heir humored him by offering the use of their personal library. He could hardly complain.

Dmitri doesn't know for sure, but he felt like this wasn't the exact escape he hoped for.

For one, everything that surrounded him reeked of luxury and good fortune; two things he has never been blessed with in any way, shape, or form. His disdain for wealth only escalated with every moment he spent in the room. A tactile inspection of the expensive vases and implements that arranged around the room told him that the value of this entire library could probably transcend the cost of his own life. The decorations' tasteful arrangement and the cleaned, cared-for heirlooms spoke of a privilege Dmitri could not even fathom. A far cry from the few rusty trinkets and cobwebbed photo albums he managed to save from his dead home.

And for another, the quiet that he once saw as a fortress of safety, a net he could trust to fall back into when anything seemed to be too overwhelming... now threatened his sanity.

What was once his sanctuary, now seemed so... terrifying. Silence bred thoughts. Made them so loud and so... stark.

This was a bad idea.

Hastily, Dmitri pulled a random book from the nearest shelf, desperately flipping to a page in the hopes that an interesting read could drown out the sound of his galloping thoughts: thoughts of his misfortune, of anxiety, of his mother, of uncertainty.

It was in this frantic reading marathon that Flash made a return, the library door admitting a boy that looked... worse for wear.

It wasn't anything on his external appearance that seemed discordant. If not for his tight grip on a bottle of what seemed like some cleaning solvent and a broom, and the tightness on the corners of his once-constantly-smiling mouth, no one would have known anything was wrong at first glance. But Dmitri was more observant than that.

Because the boy held in his eyes a familiar emotion. Something the older Slytherin has seen too many times in the mirror.

Pain. And no small amount of "lost".

The crooked smile he flashed Dmitri was so transparent, it was a surprise it did not burst into a thousand shards of clear glass. Internal struggle momentarily forgotten, the older boy cleared his throat and put down the book he was currently poring over. He was careful not to put some affectation of sympathy in his voice that might honestly break the wound-too-tight, easily-startled foal that Flash seemed to be at this moment, as he spoke.

"Why yes, I have been. I have to thank you very much for the opportunity to browse your family's collections." Another throat-clearing. The stark contrast between this Flash and the boy from an hour ago made him uncomfortable. As if he was dealing with an entirely different person altogether.

And maybe he was.

Dmitri looked into his eyes before sparing a glance at the objects in his hands. "Are you well...? Not that I care, of course!" He backtracked. "I may look like it, but I am hardly a butler fit to polish your broom for you if that's what you would want me to do with..." he gestured towards the things he was carrying, "...those. Wh-Whatever those are."

Nobody ever said Dmitri was as eloquent this deep into the evening.

Intently hanging onto Dmitri’s words, Flash’s smile skewed even further at their utterance. He should have known that in his state his face would betray him. He didn’t have the willpower left to make it look right. No matter what they said, no one really wanted the truth, they only wanted things at their prettiest. Their most agreeable. Dmitri continued however, assuring Flash that he didn’t care. Flash’s confused mouth quivered before letting out a small, weak laugh.

”Alright…”

He didn’t have time to think of how he might reply, before it being insinuated that he might have been thinking to bring Dmitri some work to do. Well, certainly he couldn’t believe that, it was ludicrous to think anyone would… though, he realized the two of them were strangers. So vacant of familiarity as to be accused of having bad intentions.

Flash’s features softened, like a thread being pulled out of the hem of a frayed sleeve. Dmitri had no expectations of him, it was a blank slate. It was comforting. Flash took a few steps closer, sturdier on his feet than his barely lucid behavior seemed to imply.

”You can’t think that.” Flash breathed the words, vague admonishment in his tone. ”I looked around, but I found there was nothing I wanted to do more than talk to you.”

The hand holding the broom clenched, knowing he was risking further rejection by being so bold. It was only the fact that he had so little to lose. Besides his pride, which was already shaken beyond its limit, like a clouded snow globe. Easily, Dmitri stood to lose much more, depending on his cirsumstances. Flash didn't even bother to know them before inserting himself.

”I was hoping I could steal you away from whatever you were doing.” Flash stopped before he came too close. He had no intention of invading his personal space. ”May I? You would be doing me a favor.”

Unironically, he used the same words his sister had said to him only a few moments ago. It was… manipulation. He wanted Dmitri’s attention more than he wanted Dmitri to enjoy himself. Selfishness. Not that he had any mind to stop himself. He was already off the rails.

@Dmitri Jones

It became more and more confusing, as of the moment, who among them both is out of his element, and as time went by, Dmitri got increasingly suspicious—and honestly, worried—that it might turn out to be himself.

Though Flash, moments ago, looked quite harried in his casual wear, something Dmitri said seemed to have made him feel well enough to, once again, stride straight up into the older boy's personal space and shoot him a lopsided grin. It should have driven the taller Slytherin away—hell, it already frightened him, being around the exhaustingly, annoyingly, agreeable version of the boy, once more. But a few moments with the Holmwood heir seemed to be the less intimidating course of action than yet another moment spent alone with his runaway thoughts.

Though he was loath to admit it, in this entire night, the only time Dmitri did not hear the buzzing of his inner voice among the complex narrative of his depressive mind, was when he was engaged in a conversation with the younger Slytherin.

There was nothing I wanted to do more than talk to you.

It seemed that made two of them.

The only reply the bleached-haired boy could muster was an audible swallow paired with a hesitant nod.

Take me with you.

Whatever it was that Flash Holmwood planned for the both of them, you would have thought Dmitri signed his soul away with the way his hands were shaking and his heart was pounding.

This was very new to him.

For so long, he found it very difficult to understand why some people seemed to find it necessary to interact with others beyond propriety; found it hard to comprehend why most students his age back at Hogwarts seemed to be actively seeking such connections with more fervor than doing their own schoolwork.

Almost as difficult as it was to admit that he, himself—mere days before visiting the home he forcibly and actively tried to forget—needed it now, too.

A nod, conflicted, like he was accepting a dare. The power of suggestion was… exhilarating. He wished he could hear Dmitri’s thoughts, and wondered all of the hows and whys. There was nothing more interesting than getting to know someone else. Everything about them, informed and molded by their environment, their biology. Everyone fit together like a circuit, the same destinations reached by vastly different patterns. Life was so much more intricate than any puzzle or story, and the thrill of being in control of it lit him like a match head. The palace was falling down all around him, but Dmitri wanted to spend time with him, which preoccupied his tangled mess.

Flash’s expression showed a brief twinge of sadness before he looked away-- guilt, for being happy.

”This way, away from cameras.” Flash’s voice had little humor as he turned the rest of the way away and walked out of the library, expecting to be followed.

It was that easy, wasn’t it? Was that how Val got that man to follow him into the woods, did he trust Val? Did Val lie? Was he expecting to die that day, did he deserve it?

Not moments after turning away, darkness started flooding in. Images, which made him shiver as though caught in some errant freezing wind. Any silence was too much silence. There hadn’t been much of a pause before Flash looked over his shoulder. He had known Dmitri was following due to his footsteps, but he wanted to see his face. He was uncomfortable. Flash turned around, treading the well known path by stepping backwards to keep the same pace as he faced his hostage.

”What do you think about… flying to the roof?” Instead of a placid saccharine smile, Flash was watching Dmitri’s reaction carefully, looking tiredly bemused. ”That way if you don’t like something I say you can just push me off it.”

Filling the void of silence by saying his thoughts out loud, he was powerless to wash them clean of his bitter mood. He made a kind of grimace, perhaps cringing at himself, before laughing lightly. More ugly behaviors he avoided-- laughing at his own jokes, dark humor. He usually kept it to himself. Floating adrift in frantic escape, he hardly cared how shameless he was being. How he came off. None of it mattered anyway. From one side to the other, his feelings lept and crawled.

After Dmitri’s answer, they would be at the balcony. Tucking the bottle into the waist of his pants, he would lean against the broom as it started floating a few inches off the ground. Adjusting himself to sit to one side of it rather than straddled, he left room in front of him. Most brooms could easily fit two people, he had done it all the time.

”Don’t worry, I’m a fantastic broom rider.” He didn’t want another situation where he had to convince someone to get on a broom. Some people weren’t used to it, but Flash had a broom ever since he could remember. ”Sorry that you’ll have to take my word for that.”

He was telling the truth of course, he wasn’t the type to joke around and pretend to fly terribly to make his passenger freak out, unlike one Darius Holmwood. As hypocritical as it was to tout safety on the same hand that offered belligerent danger. If he was following along, he would understand that the roofs were where the cameras weren’t. An oversight, though the family was much more concerned with gathering intel than it was actually preventing the house from outside threats. Perhaps Ruka was right, maybe it would be easy to come and slaughter his whole family in the middle of the night. How hard would it be, really?

Instead, the ride would be incredibly brief. There was not much height to scale, and then they were there. The nighttime air was a boon and a curse, a relief and a memory. Besides the dark, textureless silhouette of the deep forests all around them, there was only sky and stars stretching across the open globe. Far from the city, no one around for miles, it was starkly clear. The brisk air demanded a fire or a blanket, but instead they only had the warm fire of whiskey.

Flash knelt onto the cold slats, normally one to demand a greater degree of comfort, resigning himself to his reckless behavior. He was there now, and looked up at the sky listlessly. He wouldn’t last long if he kept waxing into depression. Flash started fumbling with the cork to the clear bottle, popping it off with a jerk. Bracing himself, he lifted it swiftly like a veteran taking a swig, only to cough violently when the effect was so much stronger than he had any right to imagine. It tasted like poison, burning his throat and nostrils like lit gasoline. Lurching forward with one hand steadying the bottle and the other holding him up, he shivered again, though this time out of revulsion. No muggle drink had any right to taste that volatile. There was something that followed, though, like a great, muffled numbing.

”Ugh.” Flash groaned, wondering how he even managed to swallow it. He was able to sit up, but more than one weird feeling came over him as he moved around.

Perhaps it was meant to be some kind of competition to see who could imbibe the most undrinkable substance possible. ”I’ll bet you can’t keep a straight face either, what do you think?”

@Dmitri Jones

Dmitri felt simultaneously numb and hypersensitive when he found himself following behind Flash without question.

If this were another time, and were the older Slytherin in his right mind (because what would have made the boy allow this to happen except the slow crumbling of his resolve and sanity?), all the Holmwood heir would get as a reply was a jinx to the face and a plain and prompt screw you for daring to command him. Him.

Dmitri Kazimir Jones.

But tonight was different.

For Dmitri. For Flash.

The boy who took satisfaction in being able to provide other people with what they wanted, a yes-man, a people-pleaser, reveled in the way he got what he himself wanted out of another.

Selfish, and conflictedly proud and guilty for being so.

And the boy who found solace in isolation, shelter in control, peace in loneliness, wanted nothing more than another person to hold it all together. Hold everything together for him.

Subservient, and weirdly enough, relieved at being so.

Because tonight was different.

For both boys.

One dreading a meeting with the dead, and the other reeling from coming from one.

Dmitri was glad of the fact that there were no cameras to capture his visage right there. No one had the right to see him like this, not even a piece of muggle technology.

Except Flash.

Because silent though it was, there was a palpable exchange—an unspoken agreement—to keep this moment to themselves.

They were using each other. And at that moment, they would not have it any other way.

In Dmitri's mind was static—but he felt weirdly comforted by it. By all of... this. And so, all Flash would get in reply to his nervous question was a nod and a small "Okay." Every step the older boy took as he tailed the Holmwood heir felt increasingly insubstantial, until by the end, Dmitri would have thought he was floating himself.

Like the broom in the hands of the other boy.

"Don't worry, I'm a fantastic broom rider." The boy said.

Dmitri replied, hesitant, but heavy with meaning and intention.

"Don't let me fall."

***

When asked about the ride to the roof that night, the older boy would not be able to describe how it happened.

Only how it felt.

It was a short ride, but up in the air, the wind was crisp, and the feeling of it on his tingling skin was yet another balm to his young mind simultaneously dismantling itself and trying to hold itself together.

When they landed on the roof, it wasn't the stars, nor the sky, nor the forest that Dmitri focused on. Instead, his eye was on the other boy, hanging onto his words and actions, puzzling over what all of this was supposed to mean and accomplish.

When he saw Flash raise the bottle to his lips, the boy came to understand.

Taking the proffered beverage in his clammy hands, the blond took a large gulp, balking at the awful taste at first, but marveling at the slow heat that followed the liquid as it trailed down his throat.

The heat spread rapidly to his limbs, softening his semi-permanent stiff posture, and melting him to the form of the roof. At least, that's how it felt like.

"Horrible. Good. Horrible and good." He took another sip, this time without cringing at the taste, and passed it back to the other boy. With the substance slowly permeating them both, the cold evening started to feel like an old friend. What Dmitri thought an old friend would feel like, that is.

Considering he has none.

In the silence that would follow, with only the soft whisper of the wind dancing among the crevices of the slatted roof to fill the void, Dmitri would shock himself by speaking first.

"Tell me what death means."

From the intense look in his eyes, this wasn't just a throwaway question.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was his mood, but either way, Dmitri felt like he was giving a lot more of himself than he intended to with that query.

Because it was worded in a certain way. Like a child learning a word for the first time.

Like he was asking Flash to define the word for him.

To make it make sense.

And it was unfair.

Because what did the boy know about death?

But he wanted to give him that burden, anyway—that weight to carry.

And it definitely was the alcohol that made him happy he could pin that on someone else.

Dmitri didn't put up any resistance, the wisecracking from earlier in the evening seeming to have drained from his vocabulary like a Saharan pond in a drought. Had something changed while he was alone in the library, in the way he saw Flash? Had it all only ever been a mask? Dmitri was a Slytherin, after all, and for many of the young children sorted into the house, appearances were imminently important. Not always for the same reasons, but part of having ambition was knowing what it took to achieve greatness. Sacrifice. Toil. Hiding weakness. The end result would all be worth it, wouldn't it?

Flash was hardly trying to break Dmitri down however, he wasn't a mark. He wasn't interrogating him or keeping tabs on him. In a way, he was still a guest of his. While he had abandoned the pretense of being a regular host, he was still interested in brightening the faded distance in his eyes. In fact, that endeavor was the sole purpose of imprisoning him on the roof to begin with. Making someone else happier... was the only foolproof method of escape he had yet to come across.

The first twitch of a smile came when Dmitri accepted the drink, making a similarly disgusted face at its taste. Finally, they had something in common. He had his own notes on the poison, and Flash nodded along as he muttered them. Another drink, it appeared he found a way to actually like it. A wonder. How can anyone tolerate such bitterness willingly... The bottle was being handed back to him, and he took it gladly, looking at it inquisitively.

Horrible and good. It reminded him of when Ruka told him that not all scars were bad. Was there a vestige of joy that could be salvaged from pain? Intending to find it, Flash drank again. The shock was diminished, but it still burned his nostrils like imbibing something deadly. It felt wrong, intentionally hurting his body. He had always been taught to treat it like property, to maintain its value through hygiene, diet, and exercise. What did it matter, it would all rot away eventually anyway. If he died tomorrow, would it have ever mattered that he was fit and healthy? Everything seemed so temporary... so tenuous.

After the liquid made it past his mouth, the heat of it gave him goosebumps. The stinging had left his mouth, and instead, a woody sort of sweetness was left in its wake. Flash held a soft smile trained on Dmitri, looking to have found a sense of calm once again. He was away from the cameras, away from his room, feeling light and hot. The cool air was surprisingly welcome as the occasional breeze brought relief to his flushed face. He leaned on the slats, resting his head on one hand while the other sat the glass bottle in-between them. The roof was nearly flat where he landed, so he didn't fear it sliding around.

The ingestion of the second round had a palpable effect, he felt an even greater numbness overcoming him, losing moments of thoughts to the ether as though they were untethered balloons slipping into the endless horizon. It was nice not to have to think every single thing that tried to filter across his mind-- he really did think too much, didn't he?

The subtle smile would fade once Dmitri spoke up again, Flash's face still holding its softness. Of all the questions in the world, why that one? Did he know, somehow? Could he read Flash's thoughts? Scanning his expression however, he couldn't help but see some sort of genuine need for the answer. He wasn't waiting to see Flash's reaction, he wasn't fishing for a topic of discussion. He wanted to know. Flash let his eyes trail to the forest line not far in the distance, wondering if the body was still there.

"I-it... uh..." A shiver ran down his back, feeling a part of the surrealness of the situation hit him in the face through the veil of alcohol. He knew the answer, clinically. He could answer like a professor was asking him. "When basic function stops. The brain stops sending signals to the body."

It wasn't as though he understood it perfectly, Mari hadn't taught him advanced biology, nor neurobiology, so he didn't actually know what exactly those 'signals' were, but it made sense even in laymens terms. Like a cord being cut-- a connection between what gave it electricity was severed.

"You... stop thinking, stop feeling, stop existing. You lose all potential." Without neccesarily needing to, Flash added his own perspective. The real dread of death was all the things one could no longer do. The end to chances, to hope. Strange, that he so often wated life to stop, to escape the pressure and responsibility and return to nothingness. It didn't mean he didn't want to be alive. To try again. "But... you said what does it mean?"

Flash sighed and leaned back further, lying on his back and getting a full view of the stars above. He wouldn't be staring and analyzing like he usually did, he was just deciding to trust Dmitri. He needed to trust him.

"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything. It just happens. Any time, for any reason." Flash held his hands on his chest, wringing them to generate some extra warmth. "It's horrible... isn't it? I read somewhere... everyone is equal in death, but... the deaths themselves aren't equal, are they? Sometimes they're... terribly unfair."

Flash's thousand yard stare looked out into the heavens as if seeking an answer. The feeling came over him once again-- that he could himself have been a body on the forest floor at that very moment. If he had entered the forest sooner, been a witness, he might have been. His brother could have killed him, and no one would ever know why. He would never get the chance to meet more people, learn new things. Suddenly... forcefully... put down, through no fault of his own. It made him sick.

Then, as the realization very slowly crawled into his increasingly addled brain, his eyes fell back on the blonde. He must have asked for a reason. Perhaps he picked up a particularly philosophical book. Did they keep a bible in the library? A torah? Flash had never delved into spirituality, and never expected to. He lived in the frigid world of facts and logic, where even magic held no mystique.

"What does it mean to you?"

@Dmitri Jones