maskormenacelogs | a nocturnal vacation, unnecessary sedation

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a nocturnal vacation, unnecessary sedation

WHO: Dodo & Cory (actually, Dorian Gray and the Corinthian)
WHERE: a coffee shop
WHEN: last Wednesday, around 5pm
WHAT: nightmares & immortals get a drink
WARNINGS: n/a, will edit if needed!

Dorian just woke up. He's borderline nocturnal, he picked 5pm for a reason. He had work in two hours and Dorian wanted to get himself properly caffeinated before dealing with customers. Dorian looked impeccable as always, as he slid into the seat across from the Corinthian—because of course Dorian was late. He was Dorian.

Still, he's not as late as he could be. The nightmare was interesting, someone who Dorian wanted to figure out what his deal was. After all, with all the bizarre things and bizarre creatures he's met, Dorian's never met a sentient nightmare before...there's so much Dorian wants to know about the Corinthian and he's not entirely sure just where precisely to start.

There was a moment where Dorian took a sip of his coffee, holding a finger up to prevent Corinthian from talking to him. One large sip of coffee later, Dorian lets out a sigh of relief as he feels the warmth sliding down his throat. He'll be awake and alert soon now. He gives the Corinthian a slightly sleepy and slightly smirky smile.

"I do hope they didn't try to force a caramel frappe whatever on you. I picked this place because it serves actual coffee but I'm afraid the Starbucks trend of coffee messed with to the point that it isn't coffee anymore has started to spread."

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The Corinthian has never actually had coffee.

To be fair, there are a lot of things the nightmare has yet to experience in his three-year incarnation. He has the floating, broken memories of some things - wine on the bank of the Italian Rivera, a cafe at midnight in some small European city which had never before saw the level of bloodshed his predecessor trailed behind him - but so much of the nightmare's life has been spent in the Dreaming; insubstantial. He doesn't need to eat beyond his ever-present craving, and so he often doesn't. But need and want - those are two different things.

For a creature forged of Dream's hand, the Corinthian knows much of Desire.

He has a feeling his new friend does as well, when he settles in with Dorian at the small coffee house. There's a small cup of regular coffee in his hand, as black as the miasma he catches glimpse of surrounding the immortal. He would expect no less of Oscar Wilde's titular character - particularly a version who survived much longer than his literature would have suggested.

The Corinthian smiles, sipping his own bitter, heated drink with an appreciative murmur. All three mouths grin, although it's impossible to know - he wears his sunglasses at night indeed.

"No. It's... regular." It's fine enough, for something which doesn't pop with satisfaction between his teeth or roll thick and coppery down the back of his throat. It will do. "Are you such a purist in all things? Or is it immortality has given you a distaste for change?"

"Mmm, I'm fine with change. You've got to adapt to change as an immortal, after all." If he didn't change, if he didn't adapt with the times, then he'd just end up a sad bitter recluse, living alone in his decrepit house by himself, the Mayfair Monster in all his glory.

Of course he was going to adapt. Dorian lets out a small laugh, taking a sip of his coffee before he continues.

"No, the coffee thing is just because I'm a snob and a purist." At least he'll admit that in all his snobbish glory.

"Mm. It takes some longer to realize that than others." Particularly those less sociable than the man who traded his soul for undying beauty. A man, the nightmare's noticed, with a darkness as deep and black as the coffee in his mug. A future night visit may well be in order - wanted or not.

The Corinthian leans back in his chair, tilting his head to a curious angle. There's a hum of approval for Dorian's honesty. Whether it's natural or an influence of being within the Corinthian's sphere, well. He can't quite tell. Needless to say, the nightmare's new ability has already had some interesting effects.

"And adapting to this hub of worlds - how has that been for you? I'm interested still to know more of you and this place. It's netted so many, and yet none have been able to gain control of their comings or goings, in all this time. I find that curious.

...And you have known Lady Death."

Which is something in itself, for someone still living and breathing.

Dorian can't help but smirk, the corners of his mouth playing up as Corinthian mentions Lady Death. "The interesting thing here was that Didi wasn't like the Death you knew—she was remarkably powerless. She was still Death but she wasn't as omnipresent as she was in your world."

He can't help but imagine that based on Corinthian's reaction, the Death he knew was infinitely more powerful in his world. Dorian liked Didi, but he couldn't deny that their relationship was tepid at best. She thought she'd come for him one day; he thought she never will.

"She still knew, though," Dorian mused, with a shake of his head. "She knew about me and my...gifts." His immortality. "Adapting's been easy, however. I'm always best at adapting to the strange and unusual. You can say I've been doing it my entire life."

"Powerless?" Oh, skepticism lies heavily beneath that word, and deeper in the frown which follows. The Corinthian folds his hands atop each other, resting his chin on the natural bridge thoughtfully, the coffee curling steam beneath his fingers.

An Endless - powerless. Trapped. He can barely conceive of it. The last time such happened... he was unmade for what followed. No, his predecessor was. He was not the only one to fall in such a manner, either; the gap left in Creation by a caged Endless proved too tempting for many dreams and terrors. What wide, terrible crevasse would a collared Death leave in the world?

A thought he's distracted from following for too long, as a man at the table behind them responds to a simple query from his wife with the casual confession that he's been sleeping with her sister for the past eight months. The Corinthian tilts his head, amused, not turning to watch even as he hears the table erupt into a cacophony of gasps from nearby eavesdroppers and screaming rage, the clatter of an overturned chair and desperate, blubbering, bewildered attempts at explanation.

The Corinthian smiles a slow, secret smile, acting as though he doesn't notice. (Or that his presence isn't the cause for the sudden bout of honesty.

"Adapting, yes. I am little surprised by that. But thriving - I have to wonder. Have you found things worth your immortality, in this world?"

Dorian can't help but raise an eyebrow at the drama of the table behind them. Well. That is juicy and seemingly out of nowhere and entirely irrelevant but something that he's going to probably tweet about later because Dorian is nothing if not a jackass.

At Corinthian's question though...he just gives a little smile. "Things? Not entirely. As much as I love stuff, things come and go—though I do adore my Vespa." It's red and cute and it hovers and Dorian is entirely that sort of pretentious douchebag to drive a fucking Vespa around town.

"People are the interesting ones. There's someone back home worth my immortality and thankfully, he showed up here. There's been others who were potentially worth it, but alas, most of them choke when the pressure's put on."

"And are you often the one to apply it?" An innocent question accompanied by a grin that's anything but. Twin expressions hide behind his sunglasses, which for now only reflect Dorian' Gray's false youth back at him. "The pressure.""

He takes a sip of his coffee, letting the bitterness linger, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, before nudging the cup further away. Not a taste which satisfies. But then, so few things do.

That will need to be remedied soon.

"I would also hear of the one worth your time."

The one worth his time...Corinthian doesn't need any pressing or any creepy lie powers for Dorian to gush about Toby. He can't help but smile, gentle expression on his face as he leans back in his seat, wrapping his hands around the coffee cup as he talks.

"His name's Tobias Matthews. We're due to be married sometime soon, which is proof enough. He's absolutely wonderful and someone I'd love to spend immortality with."

And, based on Dorian's slightly dopey expression, he's someone Dorian adores to bits.

"Vague," the nightmare notes, turning his head to look elsewhere in apparent disinterest. Lovely little dreams have never interested him beyond their potential for ruination. Gentle sighs and tones lifted in wonder bore him.

He expected better of the infamous Dorian Gray.

"Do you require an author for all your stories? I would hope this to be one you could tell on your own. ...Or is that there is nothing in this one worth embellishing?"

Dorian can't help but frown a little as Corinthian turns his head. More than anything, he hates being ignored. And it looks like this disgruntled little dream has it out for domesticity. Time to change the topic. That frown's still on his face as Dorian takes a sip of his coffee before he continues.

"I can't tell you my entire story. A hundred and fifty years worth, we'd be here all damn day! But a chapter though, that's easily doable. Where shall we start? A tale of ghosts, a tale of demons, or a tale of death?"

He likes to talk. And he'll happily talk about himself for Lord knows how long. The only problem is, what on Earth to start with.

"I have nowhere to be." A throwaway line, but the smile is back and so is what one could assume is his attention. Not entirely true - the Corinthian's purpose remains ever-present, built-in, and there are millions of dreamers in this world he could show his attention.

But there's time for that, still. He doesn't need to sleep; there's no schedule.

"Death." The nightmare doesn't even pretend to draw his choice out. "Whose is it a tale of?"

"Oh, we've got plenty of options for that," Dorian adds, with a dark little chuckle. Because they do. His life has been steeped in death, from his youth to today. "Family, dear friends, or dear lovers? Or perhaps myself?"

He's got a feeling he'll know what option Corinthian picks. After all, Dorian is very much alive.

"Yourself, of course." Not least because Dorian's bound to take more interest in his own story if the subject is one dear to his heart.

And who could be dearer to Dorian Gray than himself?

The little chuckle was endearing. The Corinthian's smirk twitches, but he stays silent - a ready audience.

How expected. Dorian can't help but smirk as he takes a little sip of his coffee, wetting his whistle before he starts talking for like a fucking half hour.

"Terms and conditions of my immortality means that I die plenty of times. But only two of those times did I stay dead...and yet both of those times I was resurrected later." He doubted he could truly die, after all. "The first time I died, I sacrificed myself to save someone who I thought deserved saving. Constance Harker, my former governess. Her spirit was trapped, unable to fully ascend or descend to wherever she was going. I killed myself to save her soul, stabbing my portrait and getting trapped in the canvas in a misguided act of sentimentality." His tone is full of contempt and full of scorn. Constance Harker is a walking trigger warning and there is some obvious bad blood between the two.

"It was the last noble thing I did for a while. I was trapped in the portrait, trapped with my own sins and regrets. Then, someone made me a deal. Reverse my death by causing the deaths of others." He hasn't told many people about this—hell, he hasn't told anyone about this. But somehow he knows that Corinthian won't mind. After all, he did work for an Endless. And Death was always different about these sorts of things—perhaps Dream was also? "One for voice, one for body, one for youth. The fourth would have given me a soul, but I didn't need it that much. Three little trespassers in my house proved to be the perfect fit to bring me back to life."

Dorian takes another sip of his coffee, briefly letting Corinthian think on that death before he plows on to talking about his second one. Killing himself to save someone else, brought back to life by murdering three others? Nice job, buddy. "The second time, I was murdered by my lover: Yuri Petrov." He can't help it. A tone of fondness creeps into Dorian's voice as he mentions Yuri's name. "Petrov was secretly a serial killer named Lunatic, with the gift of controlling fire. He murdered those whom he deemed sinners, people who didn't deserve redemption. Apparently, I fit the category. We grew very close, Petrov and I. I'm completely unaware of his double-life, of course. So imagine my surprise when I see Lunatic in my house, in my room. Seconds later, he burned my portrait. He watched as I took on all my traces of age and sin, as I burned to death.

A few days later, I was resurrected, brought back to life. This time, it was through the nanites. When we're ported in, each of us is injected with nanites of some sort." Dorian's fingers go to his tattoo, pulling his sleeve back to show the faint marks of his tattoo, 'registered' blared on his wrist. "Don't ask me the specifics, but the nanites are powered by a mineral: continuum. Somehow, the linkage of the nanites, the Porter, and continuum is enough to bring any imPorts back to life when they die. The process is a bit faulty—sometimes instead of coming back, people's corpses get Ported out. But I'm living proof that sometimes it works."

He's almost done talking. Dorian moves his sleeve back over his tattoo before he looks back up at the Corinthian. "Satisfied?"

The first reaction, the most obvious, is the jump of an eyebrow to hear that Dorian Grey sacrificed himself for another. If the nightmare weren't aware of his newfound ability to create spaces of truth around him, he might have already questioned the credibility of this story's narrator.

What follows makes more sense.

Odd, but for this protagonist, sensible. Hypocrisy, violence, taking so much of others to preserve his own already elongated life - yes, that was more the Dorian whose tale he knew.

He can't help his grin as the story reaches its next chapter: Yuri Petrov. Oh, yes, the Corinthian had been reading some of his story. How convenient that it should intertwine with someone's eager to be a storyteller. So many require prying fingers; nice to have someone happy to offer for a bit of attention.

(It occurs to the nightmare, in an easy, peaceful thought, that he should pay both Dorian and his ex a sleeping visit. There are lessons worth teaching there.)

"Yes." A nod, an interested, pleased smile - an audience who found the show worth the price of admission. "Good deaths all. Interesting that these nanites could bring back your portrait as well. Strange. But interesting."

He tilted his head. "You haven't killed Petrov, your Lunatic, for killing you yet?"

Dorian can't help but scoff at the question. What a stupid idea, thinking that he hasn't killed Petrov, of course he murdered Yuri! Did Corinthian think he was going to let the other man be free?

"Obviously I killed Petrov. I throttled him to death myself." When Yuri was weak, when Yuri had been fought off by one of his other sinners, he called Dorian and he appeared. The murder was only a fitting response to all of the bullshit Petrov put him through. He gave Corinthian a little frown. Honestly, who did this nightmare think he was?

"The fact that it's not entirely public knowledge doesn't change the fact that it happened."

"Intimate," the nightmare hummed, taking a sip of his cooling coffee. Some sardonic edge tilted his smile - a self-aware whoops for assuming incorrectly. Everyone made mistakes.

Even this Yuri, apparently.

"But he's returned now. As you had. Without a portrait to call upon. I've been told of that ability in this place."

It interested him, in some faint way - mostly for its interference in Death's realm. He had to wonder how She'd taken it, when she found out. Probably better than another Endless might have; there was always a peace to her the Corinthian could never quite figure out.

"...And that it doesn't always work. It sounds like the Fates are not done with you both yet."

"About that. My portrait got brought over with me. Apparently, the Porter slotted it as a superpower, of all things."

After all, there it was in his file, portrait-based immortality. And honestly...Dorian really had no idea what to think about it. On the one hand, it was degrading, comparing his portrait to these sort of parlor tricks other people could perform. How was the thing that kept him alive even comparable to breathing fire or what-not? But on the other hand...considering that the Porter shuted Toby's vampirism as a 'superpower' as well, it just seems like it had a limited vocabulary.

It was a machine, after all. These things are to be expected.

"Fate's never going to be done with me," Dorian mused, as he takes a sip of his own drink. "I honestly doubt I could stay dead even if I tried."

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a nocturnal vacation, unnecessary sedation

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and then i write you a fucking novel

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