onepassingnight | 001 ♕ The Little Prince

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001 ♕ The Little Prince

A droplet of water, then another, another, another, soon it's a steady noise, constant as the ticking of a clock. The sound echos faster, picking up like a heartbeat against the darkness. Small sparks of white dot the sky lighting up like fireworks but remaining suspended against the false navy backdrop-- pinpricks glittering against a void. He can't focus on them for more than a rare few seconds, because his legs are moving under him, treading water. Running as fast and as hard as he can, to keep himself above-- he just needs to get to safety-- the tips of his toes and the pads of his feet dipping centemeters below the surface. Struggling desperately to keep above the mirror relfection in the water. It's becoming thicker, heavier, clinging to his ankles, pulling him down, cloying with it's grip.

No no no--

He gasped, arms outstretched, grasping at anything and everything-- but he can see nothing other than the water seeping into his clothes, grabbing at him, the father it dragged him down the darker the mirror turned; the surface no longer shimmering clear water but brilliant red blood. Transforming with his every reisistance, turning thick and heavy like quicksand; pulling and straining and pleading as his gaze shoots back up--help help, Raven, Raven, where are you?-- and just within his grasp is a hand. He reaches for it, for salivation in this faceless man. His fingertips curling against another's, a desperate cry tries to break free but this one is allowed no release; the quicksand already crawling up his sides, down his throat, he's suffocating even before he goes under.

He pulls at the hand again, please--

The fingers spread apart, letting his own sift through and he slips under, down into the blood, and then deeper, deeper, till it's no longer even blood-- it's just an inky blackness. There's no air for him only a burn in his chest; he's choking, fading, but just before true darkness takes him in he's breaking surface again. The whole world turned on his head as he drops from the water-- the rustling sounds that began in the darkness still echoing in his sudden freedom. His back hits the ground and he's shocked by the sudden spark of light and life.

An expanse of grass is laid out before any visitor, spreading into the distance as far as the eye can see. Checkered light and dark, but no less lush in either color. A flatland so expanse it's blatantly unnatural, only curving as if from the standing point below Charles one might be able to see the curvature of the earth. Dotted along the map are what appear to be giant blueberries, each smooth on one side and scaled on the other, ridges akin to fish scales defined across the surface closest to the sun on each. Every third berry has a stem protruding from the top, long curling barked wood spiraling in figures more natural to smoke than wood, speckled with illuminecent leaves. The dozens of green, gold and bronze leaves are all finely crafted glass, chiming gently in a breeze that couldn't be felt against skin.

Charles looks lost, recovering from the spiraling nature of his dreams, still dressed in his pyjamas. A soft cottony white, perhaps a size too big, striped with baby blue and lined in that same deep hue. His feet are warmed by a pair of black house slippers with two points on each in the shape of feline ears. His hair is skewed to one side more than the other, looking much like he was rustled out of his bed and into this strange dreamland without warning.

[OOC: Hello all! This is Charles' first venture into the joint dreamland. If I was unclear or if there's any questions or if I've done something wrong feel free to let me know! It's late at night so I always feel a little iffy about making posts, but I was overexcited so I did it anyway. Anyway, look forward to threading with you all. :) ]

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She is the Water. She is there in every drop. The blue is right, but it's her hair and her uniform; not the beautiful skin of Charles' adopted sister. When he reaches for her fingers, there is no reassuring grip, but a clinging and cloying one likely to leave him in the water's drowning hold instead. Likely to drag him into her sphere.

Then suddenly, he pushes through, beyond her grasp. He finds his way to freedom. When it finally ends, she seems calmer, just as he does. She steps closer, no polite keeping her distance now.

She reaches for one of the blueberries, to pick it up and hold it in her hand and examine it even as she finally speaks. She doesn't seem to object to his odd appearance, about the fact that he's standing there in his pajamas, though a quick look up and down suggests she sees it perfectly well, and notices. There isn't much a sharp mind like the genius Mizuno Ami misses.

"Charles Xavier." There's a faint smirk, and no explanation of how she knows his name from his alternates. "It's been awhile. Do you normally dress like this to receive guests?"

Edited 2011-11-25 14:05 (UTC)

For several moments it appears as if Charles might not be inclined to answer her at all; but he isn't ignoring her, or being rude, he's simply trying his best to process her looks. It isn't familiar-- not in any way, she's blue, though, and he does like blue. It's like him, he knows in some ways, but like Raven too. This woman, though, is not Raven-- Raven doesn't play these games with him, doesn't trick him with faces he doesn't know.

"I don't know you," He's almost positive of it-- or as positive as Charles can be of anything, because his mind doesn't really process properly anymore. Breathing out a gentle sigh he takes a small step back; his attention drawn to the berry in her hand. "I don't-- I don't know you." It sets him on edge, not knowing her, feeling no familiarity there; a clinical sort of mind, like those doctors. Was this a test? More testing? His stomach tightens and he curls his arms around his waist protectively.

"Don't eat that." He says in warning, though it's hard to tell if it shouldn't be eaten or if it just wasn't for her. The blueberries the size of softballs littering the ground all seemed clean and fresh; the same could be said for the larger ones, the size of houses, with the tree like stems growing more berries protruding from them.

"I don't know you."

"You mentioned that!" Her lips spread in a somewhat amused grin. She loves lording it over someone, even in that small way, that she knows so much more of what's going on than they do. She doesn't seem to feel bad in the least for leaving him confused by offering no explanation. There's a sense of energy to her now.

"I'm Mercury." She does, at least, give her name, even as she considers the berry in her hand. She looks at it, and back at him. "Why not eat it?" It looks delicious, from where she's standing. The fish-scale impression doesn't turn her away.

"Hg--" He comments, brows knitting at the name. "H-g, Mercury, yes." It's a name he might be able to remember all things considered; blue and chemicals, things he knows-- though her nature is abrasive in a way he's sure would be easier to remember. Or recall, to be more specific, he forgets little, but being able to draw it back to the surface of his mind is a bit of a challenge. It's all a mess, upstairs, so to speak but he can reach in and sometimes grip the right thing or two.

"It's not yours," Not his either; he only liked blueberries in the muffins his sister would bring home, in the things he could taste people in the town eating sometimes-- but not these, no, those were hers to cook with or make jam with. Not his. Not Hg's. "They're for my sister."

Mercury is an element, quicksilver. Mercury is also a thief, a trickster god as much as the messenger and the wisdom god. The pause might mean she's considering keeping it. But in the end, she doesn't. She tosses it lightly towards Charles.

"I'll let it go this time," she says, as if to emphasize the choice is hers.

Fingers extend and curl around the berry once it's thrown to him, a curious expression on his face at her nature. He couldn't understand the unnecessary aggressiveness, though his experience was limited to the doctors, his family and Raven. She reminded him in some ways of the three-- though little of Raven, perhaps it was the blue-- he wasn't entirely sure. His fingers flex around the berry and it's plush and soft but not for him, either. Lowering down he gently sets it on the ground, watching it roll away and into a proper place as if there was some sort of invisible hill on the flat lands.

"Thank you," He murmured though he didn't know if that was the proper response or not.

It's proper enough. "Since it's for your sister," she remarks, which may be facetious or may contain a grain of truth, coming from the only child who'd always wished for siblings.

She's just used to being aggressive, excessive, forceful because she never was before, because she can't just sit and wait for the things she wants anymore. She can't hope; her only chance is to make it for herself. At least, except among her actual enemies, she's a lot more bark than bite.

"Do you still play chess?"

His brows lift at the mention of chess; a game he had often watched Brian Xavier play, it had interested him-- he had the mental capacity for it, if not the attention span. Good and bad memories laid in that, playing with Brian had been pleasant till it, too, began to feel like another test.

"Sometimes--" Truth be told he thought about it, watched others play, sometimes slipped into the mind of someone at the park and helped out; if the meant to or not. However, he rarely got to play like he wanted to.

"Want a match?" There'd be no help her out; she was a national champion in her own right. She grins invitingly. A sharp mind to go against was always worthwhile, and Charles Xavier had quite an admirable one when it came to the game, as far as she recalled.

"Sure, I don't have a board here, not really." The checkered landscape hardly counted, while the berries and bits could be pawns, they were much too large-- or Charles was much too small-- regardless it wasn't the land for a game so much as cuts of grass patterned into the distance. "Do you?" He cocks his head to the side, looking her over, though she doesn't appear to have one, he's never one to outright deny the existence of the unseen-- he was, after all, a telepath.

"I can," she says slyly. And out of what seems to be nothing, a queen piece forms itself in her hand as she stretches it out. It looks as though made of clear glass; it's cold as ice to the touch.

It's a curious thing to him, in some way, he understands he must be sleeping-- even he knows that this skewed reality is far different from the one he should be used to. He reaches out, tapping it with his finger but then frowns just a little bit at the cold pulling back. "Do they have to be cold?"

"They're ice." Oh, she could keep them from melting, as she does whenever she plays with a set like this. But it takes energy, and she'd prefer to be able to focus on the match.

In most respects, it is beautiful to him. The way that the grass was laid out, the way that stems sprouted from the berries. The way that the spiraled wood twisted and took shape. It was unfamiliar figures to him. He walked along the grass, taking in the environment, feeling the air. It was unnatural, clearly, not only in the way that everything looked, but how it felt. The air was still against his skin, but moving through leaves.

It hadn't felt as odd as it did when he saw those familiar pajamas. He had those. And that face. The hair. It was like staring in a mirror in some ways. This person closely resembled him, but it wasn't him. Something was off, different. Unusual. It wasn't his dream, though. How could he be a stranger in his own dream?

He had to be careful and approach with a caution that he rarely used around other people. His pace had come to a near halt when he got close enough look him in the eyes. Charles searched for his words, afraid to take his eyes off of this other of himself. That caution replaced with some concern. "Your dream is quite lovely. I can't say it's familiar."

"I like it," For a moment there's a tug at the corners of his lips, but the expression doesn't quite stay-- it hardly ever does. For a moment he just stares past him, into the distance, at nothing-- because he's not sure what to make of Charles; this Charles-- it wasn't him. He could tell, too neatly pressed to be him. He doesn't believe he's real either; no, that would be silly-- he could belong to that part of his mind, the normal part, the one that let him know there was something wrong in his head. He wasn't oblivious to it, not with the way Raven had to care for him and help him out-- but he doesn't think on that for long either. Can't. Doesn't want to.

"It's not familiar to me either," Not really, his dreams rarely stayed the same; prone to drifting off in the ever changing world of dreams sometimes he wasn't even entirely sure they were his own. A twist of his wrist, the hem of his pajama top gripped between his fingers, curling reflexively and a bit unsure of himself around... himself. A pause as his head lifts up, curiosity written across his face,

"Are you me?"

"I don't have a good answer, yet. Yes and no," Charles said. He approached him, his eyes scanning over this Charles in front of him. He watched the small movements of his body, not moving into his mind. Not yet. Not without permission. If this other was a telepath, Charles kept his guard up securely. He would know if the other decided to take a walk in his mind.

The way he carried himself, though, was different from himself. He didn't move, though, afraid to somehow cross a line into territory that was not his own. There was uneasiness in his body, and Charles didn't want to upset -- himself. This himself.

"I think we might be different. A bit different, actually." He was interested, ever the scientist and researcher, in how they both existed.

There are the faintest brushes of his thoughts against the edge of Charles' mind, like a light tide upon the shore-- not invasive, just there. He hasn't got the ability to stop it, so he just idly wanders around the outside of his thoughts, like a kid not invited into the game and settled at the sidelines. He is unperturbed by this, or rather enjoys it a little bit even, it's long since been a time where he was solely in his own head without the pain that came from the metal wound so tightly about his head. He likes this quiet-- wonders if it's from his imagination-- if the man wasn't real he'd have no real thoughts, would he? though he seemed very real, real and different. Interesting.

"I like your clothes." He murmurs appraisingly. It's not too different from some of his own, comfy sweaters, vests-- soft things he favored over the starched feeling of pressed shirts and medical gowns. "I don't like shoes so much, though."

Charles could feel him brushing against the barriers in his mind. At least he wasn't trying to intrude. There would have been problems if he had tried to invade his mind. Charles knew those times where the control over the skill had to be learned. "I only get to use my legs in dreams. I like shoes," Charles offered, a grin creeping at the corner of his mouth. This other was very polite, "Thank you."

"Your name is Charles, correct?" he didn't want to assume.

"Why?" That was curious, he had not expected such an answer and didn't see any of the social faux pas with asking. A pause before he tacks on, in elaboration, "I like the feel of carpet under my feet-- not wood or grass so much, too cold." Not that he figured this other would care, no probably not, but he didn't mind talking too much-- when he was talking he was thinking less and that made things easier.

"I am Charles." He nods gently, nudging one of the overgrown berries with his foot, watching it tumble to the side. "Are you Charles too?"

"An accident," Charles feels it is enough of an answer. If they had been awake, this other Charles would have been able to see the fact that he had been wheelchair bound. "I used to." When he was younger, at least. Charles could remember not wearing shoes around the house. He made a point that unless it was too cold, he wouldn't even wear socks. Not that there was anyone around to correct him on it.

Charles nods his head and don't move, just watches this other version of himself. "My name is Charles." They weren't the same, though. "But if you prefer, you can call me Professor X." It was like staring in a mirror and all that you got back was a distorted image of yourself. It appeared the same in one glance, but was different. It could be odd to call someone that was you - but not, by the same name.

"I'm sorry," He murmurs gently-- hoping that was the right answer. It's obvious he's unsure about his response by the way his eyes search over the Professors face as if trying to gauge his reaction. A shift of weight before he looks down again, not the best at maintaining any sort of eye contact, instead toeing the grass gently with one foot.

"Professor X?" That causes a small eruption of laughter from him, not sure what to make of the name. It sounded so different from anything he had encountered. "I like it."

"I like it, too. Friends gave it to me." He didn't know this Charles' background or who he knew. He wasn't about to introduce people that it was very possible he didn't even know existed. The children were more his students than his friends.

Despite the obvious discomfort that the other had, he was very respectful. "It isn't so bad." Although it was, and this other could probably tell by his surface thoughts and feelings that he was lying. He should know better, but chose the answer that came naturally to him.

"Just very different. I don't think the ground is going to give you any answers, though, Charles."

"That must be nice," A little flicker of a smile, but it's hinted with sadness. His own ability to make friends was rather stunted; most couldn't handle him-- others it was best he avoided-- he wasn't able to keep in his own head and it caused problems. Only one real friend for him, or a person to carry his burden depending on how one looked at it. "They must think your special, for a special name." It was less jealousy than one might think, he really believed that, and was happy for this other that was so much like him.

"I think--" A pause as he tries to arrange his words, tries not to intrude or offend, "-- I think, it's always hard, when something is wrong with you-- if you, when you know there is. Because, you're different-- even if-- even though you might only be different than you use to be. Different than you know you should be, it's bad." He pauses, hearing the words and lifting his nervous, flighty gaze from the grown to look the Professor in the eye again.

"It's nice of you-- though, to pretend, not want to make people feel bad. Lots of people don't-- won't do that."

"Mutantkind is very special. People like you and me." Charles shook his head. "Names like that, being treated like that isn't reserved for me." He smiled, shifting his body a little bit, enjoying the feel of his feet on the ground. He didn't get to feel it outside of dreams anymore, and this other him was right - it is a good feeling, even though he wasn't about to take off his shoes.

This Charles had a careful consideration in the way he spoke, and he could appreciate the effort. He knew that he had his own problems himself with knowing the right things to say at the right time when he was trying not to use his skills.

It was odd, difficult, to look himself in the eye. A different himself. He struggled to focus there. He hadn't fully expected the other to say anything. "It is my weight, and mine alone."

He paused, quickly changing the subject. "Don't you enjoy being different?"

Edited 2012-01-05 02:28 (UTC)

"Is it?" He pauses for a moment before he frowns, shaking his head a little bit and twisting the edges of his sleeves in his palms, trying to keep from fussing about too much. It was a bad habit his mother had always chided him for, his ever building anxiousness-- but the constant noise made it so hard to behave. It was hard to sit still when people were thinking things you didn't want to hear. He wants to know more about nick names and even the Professors inability to walk but he doesn't continue once the subjects changed. Not that he realizes the faux-pas, but more because he isn't so dim as to not notice the fact that Charles hasn't waited for an answer from him. That he wouldn't be able to know what it was like, he could barely understand other people let alone the suffering they went through outside of a purely empathetic stance-- subjected to the feelings and emotions they projected.

"No, it's-- it's too noisy." He twists his hands harder, the fabric wrinkling under his hands as his limbs are all drawn in close, protectively. "I wish I could be normal, that I could take care of Blueberry and Raven-- and fix things, that's... I want that. Not this. Not the-- the things.. the noise." He sucks in a breath looking genuinely afraid for a moment. "I don't like being broken."

If that was what Charles had been taught, then he needed to spend time in new company. He needed someone with him that would tell him that he wasn't broken. That implied that there was a weakness, and he wasn't weak - just unpracticed. He wasn't sure of his circumstances, nor did he need to know. Charles was trying to keep his mind in a safe spot, keep this other Charles out. He didn't want him to be subjected to his own feelings. If it was too noisy, he could use that peace and quiet.

He shifted a little uncomfortably as well. "You are not broken, Charles. Far from it. You just need practice. Focus -- you can learn."

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001 ♕ The Little Prince

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