It happens to everyone - sometimes, you have nights where you just can't fall asleep, no matter what you do. It could be for a number of reasons, or no reason at all. And this is what's happened now: you've been laying in bed for what feels like hours, just tossing and turning, and nothing seems to help. So what's left to do? Get out of bed and go wake someone else up, of course. If you're not getting any sleep, then why should they?
i n s t r u c t i o n s • Post with your character (note the name and fandom in the subject).
• Other people reply to you by generating a number from 1 to 10.
• Have fun!
o p t i o n s 01 • FEAR. Maybe you're hearing strange, indeterminable noises; maybe there's a severe storm happening outside; maybe you watched a scary movie before bed? Whatever the reason, you're terrified and it's keeping you awake. You just want to wake someone else up so they can protect you from the monster in your closet.
02 • HUNGER. Your stomach is growling and it just won't stop. Or perhaps your throat is so dry you could cough up a tumbleweed? Well, you've gone to the kitchen to remedy this and hey, that was a pan that just dropped on the floor. It was loud enough to wake the dead! Oops.
03 • PAIN. Your body is completely worn out, be it from exercise, battle, sickness, or what have you. Either way you're in enough pain to keep you from sleeping, so maybe someone else has a home remedy or something, or can at least help you take your mind off of it.
04 • SOLITUDE. For some reason, your bed just feels so empty at the moment. You're feeling terribly lonely and really just want someone to keep you company for a while. Maybe it'd be easier to fall asleep if you're with them...
05 • DISCOMFORT. Your room is an oven. Either that or a freezer. Or maybe this bed is just really uncomfortable? Who knows why you can't get to sleep, it feels like it could be anything. Why even bother trying? Maybe someone else can preoccupy you until you feel tired enough to ignore your discomfort.
06 • PENSIVE. Something's on your mind, and no matter how hard you try to focus elsewhere, it's just not going to work. Your body may be tired, but your mind is incredibly busy and it's virtually impossible to get to sleep. Surely, talking it out with someone else will help?
07 • SADNESS. Something terrible has happened that day, perhaps; or you could just be severely depressed. Either way you're trying your hardest not to cry yourself to sleep, and it's not working at all. Better find a way to get it out of your system somehow; you need a shoulder to cry on.
08 • ANGER. You are just... fuming. Who knows why - that annoying dog is barking again, or maybe the people next door are getting busy and keeping you awake. Whatever the reason for your ire is, you'd better put an end to it so you can get some damn rest already! Go wake up a friend so you can complain to them.
09 • RESTLESS. You're far too energetic to sleep right now. Maybe you're just trying to do so out of necessity - you have to be up early tomorrow! But you just don't think you'll be able to fall asleep for a while now, so why waste the time trying to sleep when you could be doing something else? Namely bothering someone else - you're totally jealous because they're getting more sleep than you.
10 • WILDCARD. Choose one of the options above, or make up your own scenario. |
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gameofsocks) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
bakerstreet2018-01-29 10:55 pm
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"Oui, monsieur," he said cheekily, a grin quirking his lips as the French rolled smoothly off his tongue. He then continued, in a case of being the boldest he's been thus far, "I think I'm more of an Albert de Morcef than an Edmund Dantes." It's a bold claim, since Dumas went out of his way to emphasize how Albert was good, kind, and brave, and Elio was rarely sure he's any of those things.
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He sat back in the armchair, long legs in front of him. The only problem with being so tall was that he didn’t know where to put his legs sometimes. “Have you read any Russian literature?”
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Elio’s eyes were drawn to those long legs, lines that led up to narrow hips, a tapered waist, and—Elio had to tear his eyes away before he ended up staring again. “I, yes,” he shrugged, “But not in the original language. I don’t know Russian.” It’s an easy admission since he’s already trilingually fluent, a claim few others at his age could make. “Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov... The classics.”
He sat up, pulling a pillow over to hug to his chest as he crossed his legs. On the pull-out bed, he’s still a little shorter than Illya, and he had to look up to properly face the other man.
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Illya figured he didn’t know Russian, but was still duly impressed that Elio spoke three languages. “‘Crime and Punishment’ I always liked, and many others. Russian culture, it is very vibrant.” Illya was never one to miss a moment to wax poetic about his country. “‘Doctor Zhivago’, also very good, though relatively new.”
Whatever the Party had to say about it be damned. Doing work in other countries meant that he was exposed to things other than state sponsored news. Personally, that was one of the things he liked most about his job.
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One thing he’d always noticed as different about himself was how open with his emotions he could be. Elio didn’t know if it’s due to how he was raised in a multi-cultural setting, or if it was just how his parents taught him, or something all about himself, but it always felt strange to him, the way his schoolmates were so threatened by vulnerability.
He rested his chin on the pillow he was holding, and hummed in thought. “I’ve read Crime and Punishment, but not Doctor Zhivago. Tell me about it?”
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Surprisingly, the big Russian man in the chair opposite Elio liked love stories. For the fact that he didn't show emotions often, things could still touch him. He didn't show it publicly very often and he didn't talk about it. Crying in school meant getting picked on, and he was already the kid whose dad had been sent to the gulag. His schoolmates didn't need any more ammo.
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“Love is a universal constant, and a way to make anyone relate to anything,” Elio pointed out. “It doesn’t have to be romantic for someone to have experienced some sort of love, so the trials that come with it are ones that people can understand it and have an emotional response to.”
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"Do you believe that love is trite, then?"
He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs, one ankle resting on the other thigh.
This conversation was actually more interesting than he had expected it to be.
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The change in position opened up Illya’s hips, the shadow between them just dark enough to hide everything from Elio’s gaze, and he nearly forgot to answer, distracted as he was.
Illya’s question was one he had a lot of opinions on, though, and he couldn’t help the vehemence with which he spoke: “Love is important. Love for family, for friends, for a place or a home...” Even if he didn’t understand how or why things had changed so quickly, Elio loved his parents, and knew that they loved him. “Romantic love too, even if... Even if I don’t fully understand it.”
...Did he love Oliver? He thought he did, but he knew enough about life to know that he’s still too young to fully understand what love really was. But he saw it in the way his parents interacted, and his parents friends, and even if he didn’t understand how it himself, he knew it to be something special.
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It was true, and maybe that was what made him hold his cards close to the vest when it came to feelings. He knew he had feelings for Gaby, and that they were most likely returned, even if neither of them wanted to admit it. Illya also had feelings for Napoleon that he found unsettling. Sometimes it ran hot like desire and sometimes it was cooler like a good friendship. Whatever he felt for Solo was much more complicated than it was with Gaby.
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“Is it better to speak or to die?” Funny how that particular phrase stuck so strongly with him. “Love’s a risk to everyone involved, but maybe... Even if it hurts, that’s a kind of hurt that’s worth it. Because then you’d have felt it.”
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It probably would for him, if Gaby or Solo told him to go to hell. He'd get mad. He might even smash something. Getting mad was so much easier than being sad and hurt.
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“My dad,” and his breath hitched, thoughts and words catching for a moment before he gathered himself and continued, “he said to me at the end of this past summer...”
And he had to pause for a breath, a brief inhalation and a slow exhalation before he could continue. “If there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don’t snuff it out. Don’t be rough with it. Withdrawal can be a terrible thing when it keeps us awake at night, and it’s not any better to watch others forget us faster than we’d want to be forgotten... but not feeling anything so that we feel nothing? It’s a waste.” Another pause, and he ducked his head, coloring. “Those aren’t his words exactly, but it’s pretty close.”
He could no longer remember exactly what it was, not a word-for-word recitation, but he remembered almost all of it. It had struck deep, holding fast to his heartbroken self.
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That had been his modus operandi for years. Being numb to things was better than loving and having it ripped away from him. Perhaps Elio's father was right though, and it wasn't the best way to live.
The kid had struggled a bit to get that out, and Illya thought it had to do with the fact that his father was missing. The Russian leaned forward in his chair. "I want you to know that we do not think your father intentionally participated in anything. As far as we can tell, he is not guilty of a crime, except perhaps bad judgement."
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He blinked wide-eyes slowly. It wasn’t that he didn’t know that, but it was still good to hear. No one’s actually said anything aloud yet, not really about his dad. Both the other agents had done their best to reassure him they’d keep him safe, even if Elio doesn’t really know exactly what he was being kept safe from. Illya hadn’t said the same in so many words, but it had come through in the way he’d moved and drove and how there was still a part of his attention on both the door and window. Elio wasn’t really scared, not for himself. He was terrified for his family, though.
“Thanks,” he said, instead of voicing his thoughts and insecurities.
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Whoever was behind this was trying to tie up loose ends, and Elio might be a loose end, even if he didn't think he was. An innocent kid didn't need to die because of his father's mistakes.
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That didn't help, and Elio looked down with a frown. “What if you can’t?” He had to ask, voice small. What’ll happen to me then?
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Surely the kid had some other relatives if worse came to worst. Illya was usually pretty straightforward, but he was aware that Elio knew there was a possibility that his parents were dead. There was no need to be blunt about it. And the truth was that Illya wasn't really sure what would happen to Elio if his parents didn't make it through.
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Other arrangements was what people said when they didn't know what those arrangements were going to be, only that it wasn't going to be stay. Elio wondered if it wouldn't have been worse to flee with his parents or, perhaps, to simply let himself be caught and die.
He could sometimes be a little melodramatic--that, he knew.
"Thanks," he bit out, shutting his eyes for a moment. He'd hoped that, maybe, he could pretend they were back in the house with the orchard and pool--but, no. The city sounded entirely different, even this late at night.
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The kid was upset. Of course he was. Despite being a Russian giant, he did have a heart, and he felt it being tugged at.
"Are you hungry?" Elio hadn't eaten much at dinner. "We can order anything from the room service. Waverly is paying."
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“I’m,” Elio started, and then paused with a scowl. “Isn’t it past midnight?” His eyes flicked up again, catching and holding Illya’s gaze. “Are you hungry?”
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"They have many things... antipasti... panini... Open 24 hours." He passed the pamphlet over to Elio.
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He took it and, the quiet night making him bold, leaned bodily against Illya's side as he skimmed the options. "What are you in the mood for?"
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"Is there pizza?" Illya asked, glancing over at the menu on Elio's lap. "Get that for me at least. Mushrooms and spinach."
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"We're in Italy," Elio pointed out, "Of course there's pizza." There were many options, really, It wouldn't be as good as pizza from Naples, but never let it be said that Italians didn't know their customer base--tourists came for pizza and pasta before anything else. "Would ordering two be too much food? We could share one."
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