Hell's Pass Detainee.
I just figured it’d be fairest to let you guys know before shit effects me worse.
I’m not in the best part of my life right now, and I’m considering leaving the group.
This really is a fantastic place, and you’re all so cool-
I just have
A lot
On my plate right now. To deal with.
I’m sorry.
Self injury had been a part of Dylan’s life for years. He had given himself more scars than he could count— for multiple reasons. At times it was because he wanted to die; at times it was because he wanted release; at times it was because he wanted to feel, and other because he didn’t. However, most of the time, it just felt good. He enjoyed the pain. The sting was enough to break through the drug-haze, and it brought a sharpness to the dull life he lived in South Park, Colorado.
The remark brought the hint of a smirk to Dylan’s lips. “Bien qu’il ait été conçu comme une insulte, je prends ça comme un compliment. Cela signifie que j’ai accompli ma mission.”
When Christophe claimed his focus again, he listened carefully and nodded. “Oui, monsieur.” It was said with a hint of sarcasm and defiance, but he was sincere in his agreement to comply.
The shorter boy brushed his bangs from in front of his face and sighed, taking another drag off his freshly lit cigarette. <Cet hôpital ne me rendra pas leur salope.> Dylan sighed, looked around, then took a seat on the ground, legs stretched out in front of him as he took another long drag. “Est-ce juste moi… Ou est-ce les jours ci semble anormalement long?” Perhaps it was the equivalent of “cabin fever.” He shook his head in irritation.
Christophe raised an eyebrow at Dylan calling insanity his mission. ‘Mission’ wasn’t one of his casual words. “C’est un objectif étrange. Qu’espérez-vous accomplir?”
It all felt a little better now. Surreal in how the other wasn’t taking this conversation to be so much of a big deal anymore. He’d even agreed on Christophe’s opinions! But feeling like he could calm down, put him on edge. Which was why he was here, he supposed.
When the goth sat, Christophe almost sat with him, but instead favored the corner he’d kept himself to. He had better peripheral vision of the workers inside at the higher vantage point of standing.
Does the day feel long? Christophe rested his eyes for a moment in agreement.
“Oui. Il se sent comme environ deux semaines maintenant…”
“Alors, qui sont ce Georgie, Henri, et Evan vous n’aimez pas?”
Dylan cast a glare over at Christophe, “Quelle a été votre premier indice?” He held out both arms and tugged up the sleeves on his jacket, exposing bandaged wrists. “Pourquoi devrais-je le combattre quand je n’ai rien à atteindre pour? Rien! Le mieux que je puisse espérer, c’est la mort. C’est la seule “liberté” je vais jamais.” The Goth shook his head and growled out, “Bien sûr… Je ne vous attendez pas à comprendre.”
Truthfully, he /wanted/ to punch Christophe. Instead, he took another long drag off his cigarette.
<J’ai besoin de descendre de ces pilules. Je ne peux pas être comme ça. Qu’est-ce qui se passe pour moi? Je n’ai jamais pris en charge avant, mais ce n’est tout nouveau niveau d’apathie. Ils ne peuvent pas prendre ma colère de moi! C’est tout ce que j’ai laissé! “rouge en colère Goth,” c’est qui je suis!>
“Christophe. Oubliez J’ai dit que, s’il vous plaît. Le plus tôt je descends du Valium, le meilleur. Je vais sortir d’ici, et non pas dans un corbillard, soit.”
Though, even Dylan knew he could not do it on his own. He’d need allies, and if Christophe thought he was a submissive little cunt, that was not going to happen.
Christophe had scars.
One really terrible one from when he’d stepped in a human-sized bear trap. Almost cut his ankle clean off. Plenty from guard dogs. A few from ammunition. Bumps and scrapes and stubs and chips and fractures.
But every single last scar of his was payment for survival. It was, “Brave through this pain and you’ll be rewarded with more hours of living- however many that may be.”
The exact opposite purpose of what he was being introduced to here.
Christophe knew there were certain people in the world who harmed themselves. He wasn’t stupid. He just thought- he just didn’t think…
It actually happened in real life. Why would it?
So many signs. Hell, the criteria to get sent here in the first place was to either be a danger to yourself or others. But Christophe lived a life where the only time someone wanted to die was when they were already about to, and being tortured. And Christophe had never had sympathy for even those people.
He dropped the cigarette. It was starting to hurt.
A near-burn as a reward to let go.
He opened his mouth to try and bombard Dylan with reasons to live but he just couldn’t come up with any. There was just. Living.
Then there was the plea. To forget it. It was all the Valium talking.
Well, it obviously wasn’t only the drugs. They gave Dylan drugs because he came to them with scars that he put on himself.
But it probably meant something that some part of Dylan didn’t want to die. It was against the Mole’s nature to leave a man behind.
“Une fois, j’ai rencontré un homme qui a gardé deux alligators comme animaux de compagnie et les nourrit de viande d’alligator seulement. Et vous êtes le plus fou personne que j’ai jamais rencontré.”
He shook his head but kept his eyes open and fixed. Which must have made him look crazy. Then he found Dylan’s face again, and made his look stern.
“Non, vous écoute-moi. Ce qui est bon pour vous, c’est vous arrêtez de prendre ces médicaments putains comme chienne, et vous apprendre à cesser d’être fou. Okay?”
After a moment of awkward silence, Dylan blew out another puff of smile and spoke up once more. “Pardon. Je ne suis pas d’ordinaire si bavard.” It was true. He was generally very tight-lipped and unwilling to strike up conversations that weren’t about music or something equally non-conformist. Not to mention his usual conversations were with Henrietta and Georgie.
Christophe spoke, and Dylan listened.
“Ah, mais vous avez tort. Il n’y a rien pour moi de revenir. Rien.”
The irritated Goth took out his pack of cigarettes, flagged down the nurse and requested she light him another— she hesitantly complied, and offered the same to Christophe. When she left, Dylan returned his gaze to “ze Mole,” disguising his interest with apathy instead.
“Peut-être c’est la raison pour laquelle je ne donne pas une baise quelles pilules qu’ils me donnent. Je parie que je sembler assez pathétique, hein?” He couldn’t remember a time when he’d complained so much, let alone to an absolute stranger. Save for his “you just don’t know what real pain is” speech he gave Kyle in elementary school.
“Peut-être que je suis mieux mourir ici. Le moins que l’ces salauds pourrait faire, c’est de me mettre hors de ma misère. Fuckers.” It had never been like Dylan to roll over and submit to anyone, let alone doctors spewing bullshit about a “cure”. Perhaps this really /was/ the Valium talking.
<Je ressemble à une chatte putain, et je sais que je fais. Pathétique.>
With the red fading from his hair into a rather un-manly shade of pink, he probably looked like one too. He was not very fit, either.
“Je me demande si ils me laisseraient me teindre les cheveux ici… à moins qu’ils pensent que je vais avaler le colorant ou quelque chose. Idiots.”
He had been shocked- reduced to staring, and a bit open-mouthed at that. By the time his head caught up to his body (pulsating veins, a fight-or-flight feeling building in his stomach, a pressure to the frontal lobe,) several sentences had been expressed that compounded until he bit into the side of his cheek. The cigarette he’d been given clutched in his hand, threatening to burn through.
The mixed look Christophe gave this new strange confession was one part confusion to two parts equal offense and enmity. He spoke with a tone uncertainly mad. Like a child trying to convince his parents that Santa was real. Nothing about his body stance was relaxed. He looked like he was either going to punch Dylan, or throw up.
“Tu es fou. Absolument dingue.” His tone darkened, more certain- more headstrong. “Vous appartenez ici.”
The blonde was gaining a hold over the situation, listening to the words. He had lost that much control that he had actually slipped into French. It was rare when he did that sort of thing, but he didn’t want a passing nurse or orderly to know what he was saying. He took a deep breath once Christophe stopped his ranting, straightening himself up and stepping away from him.
A hand slid upwards to run through his unruly blonde hair, smoothing it back until he was sure it was perfect. His next assessment was to run his hand along the angry red mark around his neck. He was certain that it would remain for a few days, but he could probably scrounge something to cover it up.
He was looking anywhere but at Christophe. There was a sort of shame about the breach in language. Not to mention he had practically broken down in the middle of the hallway. He sighed deeply, turning blue eyes to look at him.
“Yes…you’re here now…frankly it was just a moment of actual attention that got me locked up here. Not like he ever gave a damn anyways,” he stared at Christophe hard. It was something he did when he was trying to figure something out, drifting out from reality to scheme and plot.
With the adrenaline rushing through his head he found it very hard to concentrate. He hated when he lost control. Absolutely hated it and Christophe was always at the center of his loss of control. It had to have been a trend.
“It doesn’t matter now…this place is locked up tight. I’ve tried, but it’s not worth it. They just up whatever medication you’re taking or dope you up so bad that you don’t know which way is up,” he sighed and shook his head, glancing down the hallway before back to Christophe.
“I do think we need a private place to talk though,” a slight smirk spread on his face that was meant to be mocking…since it was directed at Christophe it was a bit more playful then it would have been with someone else, “don’t expect me to speak that foul language often.”
This was ridiculous. Christophe finally took a conversation’s depth seriously, and Gregory turned it back playful.
He felt like shrugging and throwing his hands up in defeat at God.
But… he supposed… This was Gregory pretty hurt, and lost. Maybe he just didn’t know what to do with himself.
The idea was cemented in Christophe when he stared into the look.
Not the look that read “Christophe, don’t be an idiot- please do sit down,” or the look that read “I’m going to kill you for this,” but one that Christophe saw more often given to inanimate objects. Maps and once, a chessboard. Plans and a shorter than usual list of supplies. Streetways that were narrower than the vehicles brought. Only seldomly was it used on people. Gregory almost always had a hold on them without trying too hard. The ‘figure it out’ eye-narrowing.
“It doesn’t matter? You don’t think it matters, that we’re being oppressed here?” This was one stance he wasn’t going to flip sides on. It had to be that Gregory wasn’t able to escape yet only because of how distracted he was over Christophe, or that he just hadn’t thought of something, or he needed Christophe’s stealth or brutality or something. It had to be.
Because leaving this place, Gregory in tow, was Christophe’s priority #1.
He exhaled. Closed his eyes. Let his head drop back, exposing his neck. Took a moment to breathe.
Then stood up, thoughts still heavy with the need to protect, and guided Gregory that last short few feet to D2.
A smirk formed on his lips when he was given the advice— yes, he would definitely use that information later. “Merci.” Dylan couldn’t help but wonder why Christophe was giving him advice, but either way, he’d take it. Right now, he felt inhuman, and although that seemed like a dream from outside of the hospital, now that he’d obtained it… it was an absolute nightmare.
The answer came as a bit of a surprise to him; not the part with Gregory, but the fact that he and Christophe had so much in common, despite their physical differences.
“Intéressant… Vous savez, c’est presque drôle. Comment nous sommes semblables. Quand j’étais très jeune, mon père est mort. Le bâtard était l’anglais. Il était beaucoup plus âgé que ma mère, qui était au collège quand ils ont rencontré. Je suis né en France, mais nous avons déménagé ici quand j’étais un enfant. J’étais bilingue, mais je l’étais… timide? Je l’ai fait mal à l’école parce que je ne pouvait pas bien lire. J’ai rencontré les Goths peu de temps après mon père est mort. Ils m’ont emmené à l’intérieur et je suis devenu l’un d’eux. Une conforme à “l’anticonformisme”. Qu’est-ce une blague, hein? Je suppose que j’ai confiance Georgie, et peut-être Henriette. Mais Evan est un salaud. Il pense qu’il vaut mieux que nous. Il essaie toujours de nous faire sortir - nous mettre à notre place, je suppose. Il a le mérite de “créer” nous.”
That was more than he had told anyone in a long time, but he felt oddly comfortable speaking at the moment— maybe it was Christophe, maybe it was because he could use French, or maybe, worse yet, it was another effect of the pills. Maybe they were slipping him something to loosen his lips so he’d spill his guts to a therapist— he had yet to tell them anything useful.
“Ma mère a trouvé réconfort dans une bouteille. Quatre roses, bourbon, pour la plupart. Ou du vin, quand elle a senti classe.”
Dylan’s mother had once been very doting— she’s raised him well until her husband passed. Then, all hell broke loose. At a young age, Dylan learned what “mania” meant; it meant some days Mama was fine, and others she wasn’t. She suffered from a disease, he was told, callsed “bi-polar disorder” and when she didn’t take her medicine, her hair would be messy, with dirt under her nails. She would not wear make up and her smile would vanish. When she did take the pills, she gave warm hugs and lipstick kisses. He loved his mother, but he resented her mistakes. Hell, she’d made more than enough to condemn her, in Dylan’s eyes. When she finally reached out, it really was too late.
“Il n’ya pas de point à partir d’ici. Je veux sortir, mais je n’ai rien à revenir. De ce que je comprends, je ne suis pas le seul.”
Christophe felt accomplished at Dylan’s thanks, and straightened his shoulders.
It felt nice to be a little of use in this fucking hospital. Outside the wards, Christophe was a rebel for what was right. Sometimes it worked against his favor, like with the Canadian-American war, and it certainly didn’t seem so with all his anger, but all he really wanted from life was to live and liberate. Help people from their rulers, be it the government, a hospital, or themselves (the last of which, he didn’t quite understand the concept behind).
He was a restless guy when facing nothing to fight against; the sting he felt in hitting the wall the other day wasn’t in any way new. But maybe he could give these ‘residents’ something to rally over. A mass escape attempt, maybe. He’d bring it up with Gregory later.
Tophe simply listened and occasionally nodded through Dylan’s voice. He understood the guy.
He understood. It was a simple concept, but Christophe didn’t know what to make of it. He’d never been in this situation before. What could he say that didn’t make him sound like a complete dick? There was nothing, personally, that he felt if said to himself, he’d be okay with.
So nothing, then? Christophe had never wanted to console people. Now he didn’t know how.
He smoked.
“Il n’ya pas de point à partir d’ici. Je veux sortir, mais je n’ai rien à revenir. De ce que je comprends, je ne suis pas le seul.”
Those words gave him cause to look back over.
“Eh bien..”
He trailed off. Then he realized trailing words was for pussies and if he was going to start something, he was going to finish it.
“Tout ce que vous ont été prises à partir? Est toujours là, c’est mon hypothèse.”
The chain digging into his neck was becoming agitating as he pulled away. His face was flushed and he looked positively enraged. This was not the face of the rational young man that craved control. This was the animal that Gregory had locked behind that pretty face of his. A side that not many people saw. Christophe was really the only one who did see it. His father had seen that side of him as well, part of the reason he was locked up.
Gregory knew that Christophe was enjoying the fact that he had broken him. That thought alone was enough to send Gregory into another fit of curses. He brought his now free hands up to shove the male away from him. The hand that was still wrapped around his chain caused it to break. An angry red line was seen around his neck from the sheer force of the shove.
He scrambled up suddenly, his body coiled and ready for action as he glared at Christophe. No one really knew just how dangerous Gregory was. No one knew that he had an impressive collection of weapons that he could wield flawlessly. That pretty face hid a pit viper with plenty of venom. At that moment, he was ready to strike.
He was angry, frustrated, and desperate. Three emotions that Gregory could directly associate with how he felt about Christophe 99.9% of the time. The .1% were the rare moments when they were both at peace with one another. The times that Gregory wish there were more of…but…Christophe…he had to be so…so…insufferable!
Gregory launched forward, his leg swinging around to kick at the male in the side. What Gregory lacked in upper body strength he made up for in lower body. Christophe was built simply because he dug those damned holes.
He also swung forward, lashing his arm out to throw a punch at the brunette’s face. In his anger, he actually cursed at Christophe in his native tongue, “Tu m’as laissé! Vous n’avez pas dit un mot, vous venez de quitter!”
Though he claimed to detest the language, it came in handy when he didn’t want another person to know what they were saying. Deep down, he didn’t really hate it, but in that moment he wasn’t so sure. He was using it to express his emotion towards Christophe, which were tangled together. He wasn’t sure how he should feel.
He threw another punch at the male, all while spewing rapid lines of French, “Ils m’ont traîné ici et que vous étiez nulle part pour être vu! Nous sommes censés être des partenaires et vous m’avez manqué! J’étais … alors … seul …” his punches died down, leaning forward to press his forehead into Christophe’s chest as he shook.
If someone walked by it could have been mistaken that he was crying when he really wasn’t. He was trying to gather control over himself. His fists clenched in Christophe’s shirt, using him as a sort of anchor as he breathed deeply.
Christophe wished he was the kind of person who could steel himself and swing the conversation back to more attractive things, like kissing the snot out of Gregory, but he had an ego and he had problems with the control he had over his anger and there was a fight going on and. He wanted to be a part of it. Damn it all.
He couldn’t help but feel victorious at the snapping of the cross chain. The fucking thing was gone. Gone. Of course, Gregory had spares a plenty, but this one was dead. Killed. Gone. If Christophe prayed, he’d thank the lord out of spiteful irony.
So concentrated on that victory, Christophe barely braced himself for the attack on his side. He could almost feel the blues forming below his ribs. Damn those prissy fucking runner’s legs.
The throw, he was more prepared for. Caught and swept aside. The French? He was not. Which made him a bit slow on the other punches. A good few of them landed in his scramble to make sense of the situation.
Gregory never spoke French to him. It wasn’t a surprise that he knew how- Gregory’d known him since they were small and he always knew which snippets to scold. It was just so jolting to hear it spoken. Gregory constantly complained of how foul the language was, and even if Christophe knew he didn’t actually hate it, it didn’t —hadn’t— mattered, because he’d always refused to speak it. Always. That was a thing. A thing that wasn’t done. And here Gregory was messing up the order of it.
He was pretty good at it, Christophe noted objectively. Fast speaking. Even if he couldn’t completely get rid of the tint of English accent. It was different than hearing people in America who knew French. He wasn’t sure yet if he liked the English spin or if he hated it more than anything.
When the punches died down alongside Gregory’s drive, Christophe rewound the conversation and tried to think of what the other had actually said.
“NON.”
Christophe’s hands, rough as his expression, molded themselves along Gregory’s sides- his fingers splayed out to the upper back. “Non, je n’ai pas fait cela.”
He waited until he heard a deep breath, and thinking maybe Gregory was going to branch out in anger again and this would be his chance, he spoke quickly. “Il n’y avait pas moyen de vous! J’ai essayé, il n’y avait rien. Rien. Et votre père n’a pas exactement permettez-moi dans la maison plus longtemps. C’était tout ce que je pouvais faire pour obtenir d’aussi loin que je pouvais avant qu’il convaincu ma mère de me faire signer à cet endroit ainsi. Mais elle a signé! Elle a signé, et je n’avais pas où aller. Donc, ils m’ont trouvé essayer de vous sauver.”
“Je n’ai pas fait cela. Je n’ai pas vous laisser seul. La seule raison pour laquelle je n’ai pas été vu, c’est parce qu’ils me voir aussi.”
He was almost growling out words now. He squeezed tight. He glared with small, heavy eyes.
“Mais j’ai échoué. Donc, je suis là.”
“…Nous avons finalement avons été enfermés. Trop fou pour la prison, hein? Je me demande ce que votre père a pensé a fait la distinction.”
(I love reading all this French because it’s helping me prepare for more French class ohmygod even if it is googled translated, I think, it’s great being able to try and read it makes me feel like a good student, )
ooc: I’m glad you feel that way.
Basically from this experience, the only words I’ve gained to my repertoire of French are all curses. For a grand total of like 5 words.
Dylan could feel that Christophe was studying him, and it made him feel a little like a lab experiment. He watched Christophe hit the mark that he’d failed to reach, and scowled. Damn these doctors and their medication. <They think they know best, but fuck them. Pigs. That’s what they are. Conformist fucking pigs.> The Goth lifted his green-eyed gaze to rest upon Christophe, studying him. Judging by the bags under the other man’s eyes, he didn’t sleep well. Or so he could assume. Either way, he was rather on the attractive side— not that Dylan really cared, of course. It was just something he noticed when picking him apart.
At Christophe’s question, he arched a brow. “Plus qu’un simple Valium, mais le reste… baiser si je sais ce qu’ils sont.” Dylan shook his head and blew out smoke, “Ces médecins trou du cul ne sais pas ce qu’ils font. Mais il était pilules ou des chocs, apparemment.” And that was the /last/ thing he wanted.
After a moment, he chanced another question. “Alors. Comment diable avez-vous devenus amis avec qui twat britannique, Gregory?” He was genuinely curious; Christophe didn’t seem like the type to associate with Goths, but he didn’t seem the type to hang out with snobby full-of-himself British blondes, either.
The short, darker-haired boy flipped the fringe from his face and sighed, “Je n’ai pas vraiment vous considérer comme le type d’aller pour que “je suis tellement parfaite” genre de chose. Je veux dire, le gars est une sorte de cock sucker.” The last two words sounded so strange in a sea of beautiful French words— even insults sounded lovely in French.
How could he not know?
Christophe had never, since he was young, tried any new foods even, if he didn’t know their composition. How could someone take drugs and not ask what they were?
The Mole lifted his chin and scowled out into the snow. That was supposed to be ‘normal’? One of the things they were trying to ‘fix’ about him was to just blindly accept mind-altering drugs?
He looked back over to those hazed green eyes. “Je pense que ce centre de traitement doit passer par le traitement. Les murs ici sont plus fou que nous sommes.”
He shook his head; looked behind him for anyone listening in. The nurse who was there to scold Dylan before was also busy watching some of the other patients. He leaned closer and whispered, because he felt bad to see someone like this- “Les infirmières, vous savez. Quand ils vérifier sous votre langue, il suffit de mettre vos pilules entre les dents supérieures et de la joue. Les recracher. Puis, pas de chocs.”
He probably didn’t have to whisper non-English, but it made him feel safer.
He took another drag, and brought his back up back against the brick again. So much snow. But the warmth from the smoke felt nice.
“Gregory?” He raised an eyebrow at the question and thought it over. He didn’t usually like to share, but Dylan was being open with him too.
Which set off a frenzy of paranoia but shit Christophe, keep that under control. He’s not a spy. He’s a patient. He’s fucked up like you.
Almost as a ‘fuck you’ to his psychotics, Christophe answered.
“Gregory et moi étions les deux enfants étrangers en Amérique quand nous étions jeunes. Nos pères étaient stationnés ici dans l’armée, et nous avons grandi dans une rue a fait du logement épouses de militaires. Aucun autre enfant ne voulait être autour des étrangers, et Gregory besoin de quelqu’un pour le patron autour. Si je suis allé jouer dehors avec Gregory, ma mère serait passer moins de temps à essayer de réparer mon introversion avec la religion.
“C’était il ya plusieurs années. Depuis lors, mon père est mort au combat, et son père a quitté l’armée pour une entreprise de l’électronique. Nous sommes allés à l’école ensemble. Il a bien fait. J’ai bien fait dans d’autres aspects.
“Il est très ennuyeux… mais entre vous et moi, je lui fais confiance. Et nous sommes tous l’autre a.”
