come_sailaway | literally and figuratively at sea

Entry tags:

literally and figuratively at sea

CHARACTERS: Dimitri, Fio, you!
DATE: June-July rollover
LOCATION: All over
SITUATION: Various
WARNINGS: trauma, mental illness -- not necessarily foregrounded, but they're the constant background radiation of Dimitri's life

pleasure to meet you, under the circumstances --

sabigoe

Dimitri doesn't like sleeping. As such, he hasn't returned to the cabin he woke up in since his 'orientation'. It isn't his cabin -- there's a second bed, and it's plainly been slept in. The picture books on the bedside table made something in his chest wrench the first time he saw them. Dimitri's only shared a room once before, under ... unique ... circumstances, but he knows he won't make a good roommate.

So he just won't go back to the cabin. Easy.

Forty hours later, his body is approaching its limit whether he likes it or not. Despite all his fears, and against his better nature, he wobbles back to the cabin, driven by hindbrain instinct to collapse someplace protected. He crumples facedown onto the bed and out of consciousness without registering the room at all. At least he's so exhausted he doesn't dream.

He's still wearing his boots.

i. you can check out, but you can never leave

Having somewhat acquired his bearings, and moderately assured that the ship won't <em>actively</em> try to kill him, Dimitri once more makes a foray into the sensory nightmare of the infinite Tommy Bahama. He needs <em>something</em> that's relatively more clothing-like than the pajamas he turned up in. And, ideally, a weapon that isn't a broken lampstand determined to repair itself.

But the infinite Tommy Bahama is, well, infinite, and the options are both baffling and bewildering, a dazzle-camo of chaotic prints and synthetic dyes in colors Dimitri can barely process, let alone name. Even if he were a fashion-minded person -- and he isn't -- he's wildly out of his depth amidst the sea of Margaritaland prints. Before long, despite his best efforts, he's lost all sight of the entrance, and is developing a pounding migraine.

... he might need some help.

ii. manually enforced rest cycle

Discovering the gym and sports deck is a god(dess)-send for Dimitri. He has one reliable way to cope with stress, and that's pushing his body hard enough he doesn't have to think. The weight-training equipment in Calgone looks more like a collection of torture devices than anything he wants to operate, and even in Fódlan they've invented the concept of spotters; he tried bouncing one of the hard orange balls(?) on the sports deck and sent it rocketing over the rail to parts unknown, but the running track, at least, requires nothing but him and his body.

Northerner that he is, there's the heat to contend with, but "fortunately", night is also the time he's most desperate for a distraction. So he's up on the sports deck running lap, after lap, after lap, after lap, after lap, after ... huh, is the sky getting lighter?

Try to interrupt him, or catch him when he finally staggers off the track to scrape the sweat off and collapse somewhere. Whether he makes it to an actual bed or folds up in a comfortable-looking corner, the Goddess alone (or you, the responder) can decide.

iii. foreign waters

The pool intrigues Dimitri. He's been taught to swim well enough to save himself from drowning, but the idea of recreational swimming is a foreign one -- for most of the year in Fhirdiad, if you wind up in the water, your immediate priority is getting out of the water before you freeze or drown. If it's not the cold, it's torrential meltwater floods. Also, the idea of putting an artificial pond on a boat just seems excessive. And then there's the unsettling, sterile clarity of the water, and the acidic smell ...

You might find Dimitri skirting the edges of the pool like a skeptical cat, poking gingerly at the water's surface, or -- if he's feeling particularly brave -- sitting on the edge of the shallow end with his pant-legs rolled up and his ankles dangling.

iv. wildcard

This ship is bigger than some of the palaces Dimitri's seen. It just keeps going. In an effort to familiarize himself, and to feel like he's doing something productive, he's gone exploring, improvised spear slung over his shoulder. (It's a lampstand he broke the shade and base off of. It makes him feel better.)

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After a day of roaming around the ship, checking on friends and searching for all sorts of distractions, Fio finally returns to her cabin. Pushing open the door, she stands rooted in place in the entrance. For a split second, she thinks her previous roommate might have returned... especially since this stranger has a similar yellow and blue color scheme going on. But she's quick to realize it's someone else, at least. Flynn rarely came back to the cabin to sleep...

"Uh... um..." She just makes a small, confused noise. Is this person in the wrong cabin? She's far too nice to just kick him out. (As if she's physically strong enough to do that!)

Stunned, she stands in the doorway a while longer as she contemplates what to do here. Ultimately, she decides there's no harm in letting the man continue sleeping. Exhaustion had really gotten to him it seems, judging by how he forgot to remove his boots...

It's going to be difficult trying to tug the blanket out from underneath him. Instead, she wanders over to her bed, grabbing her own blanket, and moves to drape it over her new sleeping roommate.

Mizuki lives in the pool far less than he used to, especially what with how many other options he has for water now. The chlorine made it particularly unfun to breathe in, after all. Sometimes, though, he's perfectly content with hanging around, anyway. After all, it's where he's made a lot of his friends, and where he's managed to save a few people from accidental drownings, so maybe he considers himself an impromptu lifeguard of sorts? You know, if lifeguards sat at the bottom of the pool daydreaming while cloaked in a camouflage that makes them look practically invisible. That's what lifeguards do, right?

And furthermore, when people touch the surface of the pool curiously, clearly unused to swimming at all, it's fun to wait until they dip their feet in and then grab at their ankle with one of your icky, slimy tentacles, right? That's also what lifeguards do, clearly. He's very good at his not job.

Undine's just arriving at the pool in a tankini as the skittish cat of a young man pokes around. She's a short teenage girl, with blue hair and blue eyes, a blue mark in the shape of a down-pointing triangle on her chest above the neckline of the halter-top of the suit.

"You'll be more comfortable swimming in less clothing than that. Both Tommy Bahama and Bric-a-Brac sell swimsuits."

And with that comment, she moves to the deep end and jumps in, though she swims nearer to Dmitri to continue the conversation once she's gotten cooled off (not having realized the effect getting wet might have, yet...).

It is in the lounge that Nostradamus encounters the sleeping Dmitri. And dutifully, like a good court physician, he stops to check if the man is still breathing. And then he ambles off to his room to find a blanket in order to cover Dmitri, because that's just what you do, when someone's passed out in a weird place.

(His first guess is that this is sleeping off a drunken stupor. The Lord knows how many times he discovered the Dauphin and the bastard in similar states all over the castle and keep in recent years.)

Natsuno visits the Tommy Bahama quite often - he actually likes the patterns, and there's no reason to bother with laundry when he can just grab new stuff from the infinite store. He's considering a fishermen's vest (he needs pockets, okay) when Dimitri passes by, looking rather lost.

The pajamas only make it worse.

"Hey." Poking around the aisle is fifteen year old, whose stoic expression is in sharp contrast to the obnoxious polo shirt he's wearing. "You're new, right? The entrance is that way."

Dimitri screams. Trying to fling himself away has the opposite effect; he slips off the edge of the pool, getting a flood of chlorinated water up his sinuses and into his open mouth. It is the shallow end, but there's still a horrible thrashing moment before his feet hit the bottom and he lunges back into the air.

He wastes no time scrambling back onto dry land, coughing and shaking his head like a soaked dog. The moment's terror breaks through his usual restraint: "What the fuck?!"

[quick note: dimitri's 17; he's not a 'man', unless Nostradamus is operating on a 1500s gauge of adulthood.]

Sleep deprivation and alcohol intoxication are neurochemically similar, so Nostradamus could be wronger. After a couple hours of fitful unconsciousness Dimitri's recovered enough to startle awake when the blanket falls over him. He kicks out from the corkscrew position in which he's lodged himself in a chair, with another flash of panic as the blanket entangles a swing of his arm.

Nothing comes at him. A couple heaving breaths, and the blanket-wielder comes into focus. Dimitri glares, failing to achieve 'intimidating' and coming off more 'feral kitten'. " ... who are you?"

[Stede is heading to the sport's deck and this time he's come equipped with a Serena Eterna towel and Serena Eterna water bottle in a Serena Eterna tote bag. He is also dressed in a mustard colored Camp Aion t-shirt and red shorts that are perhaps a bit too short. Though he does have the gams to go with it. Spotting Dimitri, he brightens]

Oh, hello! Heading to do a little working out or sparring on the sports deck? I do like your little spear there. Very clever.

"My name is Nostradamus. I simply wished for you to be comfortable while you slept." Yes, the feral kitten glare is a familiar one, and as Nostradamus gets that reaction, he realizes just how young the sleeper actually is. Not that his age precludes this being drunkenness. There is no drinking age in 1500s France, after all.

"Should I leave you?"

Oh.

Well, okay, so he had meant to start the newbie just a little bit, but maybe that was a little far. He panics a bit as he falls into the water, and makes some effort to swim up and help him before anything happens, though it seems like he has himself sorted. Part of him wants to laugh at his overreaction, but another far stronger part of him is instantly guilty about it. He shyly pokes his head from the water and drops his camouflage, pouting just a bit.

"Are you... okay?" He's talking. So, like, that's a good sign?

"I wasn't intending to swim, but I'll take it under advisement." Dimitri's not comfortable baring that much skin, not least because the sun here is hotter than Fhirdiad's even at the height of summer, and Dimitri's pretty sure it would fry him to a crisp.

It is hot out here, though, so he sits on the edge, letting his ankles dangle in the water. "I can swim well enough to save myself from drowning, but doing it for recreation is a strange idea."

And then, because he is curious but doesn't want to seem like he's staring, "Pardon the intrusion -- you don't have to answer -- but what's that marking?" He traces a triangle on his own chest. "Is it a tattoo?"

Crests don't usually mark their bearers so distinctly. The indicators tend to be subtler -- like Dimitri's reptilian pupils, narrowed to razor-thin slits in the brilliant sunlight.

Fitness had never been pressed as a topic of great importance. Sure, throw a hundred kids into a wasteland and make them scrape for every minute of life they can secure, and callouses form over. Muscles tone, fighting styles emerge, and any vestiges of babyfat disappear between the hard scrabble of life and the slow suck of starvation. Put anyone in front of a wall of radioactive fire and tell them to run for their lives, and the adrenaline turns them into a track star. But Clarke Griffin's style of endurance had always been mental, never physical. She couldn't run the entire stairwell of the Serena Eterna without getting winded, but ask her to argue about the sanctity of human life and the truth behind desperate times call for desperate measures and she wouldn't even stop to draw breath.

But, hard learned lessons and the unpleasant reminder of being outright slaughtered in the battle royale a few months ago, diplomacy and conviction didn't stop you from bleeding out.

It's insomnia and the pervasive need to always be doing something that drives Clarke from her bed in the wee hours of July 1st. The building sound of rain pattering against the window in her cabin had also stirred some curiosity deep in her chest — that was a new development here, in sharp contrast to the perpetually sunny skies and cloudless nights. She'd figured the sports deck would be pretty empty in the middle of the night, bathed in fluorescent lights but eerily quiet. But the ding and slide of the elevator doors reveal that's... not quite the case.

Newcomers seem to be showing up every week at this rate, when her eyes latch onto the blond haired boy running laps, she can't place him. It's getting exhausting, honestly. Every new person that wakes up on this hellscape is either a new potential ally or an enemy in the making; a new soul to recount every horrible atrocity they've experienced on board to (discussing their own deaths, over and over again) in the hope they'd understand what was at stake. The weight of responsibility drags down her shoulders as she treks over to the track and carefully deposits a water bottle, sweatshirt, and her ship issued cell phone. But somewhere along the way, a self prescribed sort of slack — she doesn't need to tell him anything he doesn't ask for. They could absolutely just run and never talk.

Clarke doesn't ask permission to join Dimitri's workout regimine, and also doesn't make it to four laps before her lungs are on fire and she has to stop and bend double in the middle of the track. Hands on her knees, drenched in a mixture of rain water and sweat. Breathing hurts, and her tongue is coated with the coppery taste of blood. Ow?

Maybe they'd fallen into step once or twice. Maybe the weirdly competitive streak in her had Clarke trying to match Dimitri's pace only to be so intensely humbled. She can't even blame nuclear irradiated lungs anymore, she'd died and been reborn here healed of all hurts. All, except the ones doled out to her pride when he inevitably passes her again.

"It's fine, go on without me." This is the extent of Clarke's depth for humor. Panted, good natured sarcasm. There's even a airy, inconsequential flap of her hand towards a proverbial finish line, like they're (in the middle of a warzone and she's bidding him run to save his own life) in an actual race and there's some invisible finish line ahead. She doesn't even know if he hears her while breezing past, but starts towards the faux grass of the soccer field to sit down. Just for a few minutes, just to catch her breath and nurse the stitch that's spread across her side.

"Hm? Oh, thank you. It's nothing compared to a real weapon, but it's better than going empty-handed." Dimitri perks up -- a little taken aback by Stede's outfit, but given what he arrived in and what everyone else on the ship seems to be working with, he's not going to judge. "There's a sports deck? I'd love a sparring session, if I can find a partner."

He drops back into rest position, all stiff, practiced angles, and bows.

"Dimitri Alexander, at your service. Might I have your name?"

"Oh uh... Stede Bonnet, at yours." He mimics the bow. It's been a while since he's been so formal but might as well match the man's politeness. "It probably is better with a real weapon though they're few and far between here. I'd like a sword myself." Not that he's ever had one. "I can show you the sports deck if you like."

He grins.

"Have you tried the lifts yet?"

Maximilien's standard path of wandering around the ship usually includes the sports deck just to see if somehow it's magically manifested swords so that Darcy can teach him how to fence. Alas, still nothing.

There is, however; someone he's never seen before running around and around. For a moment Max wonders if this guy realizes that he's done dozens of laps and is maybe stuck in autopathing, when Dimitri finally stops and staggers to the side.

"Are you under the impression you'll need to be able to run from something?" Max doesn't even greet him, or introduce himself. Which might have been nice since when Dimitri looks at him he's going to see an entirely metal person wearing an expensive suit with glowing red eyes staring at him.

[hit the post button early; my bad]

A metal man isn't the strangest thing Dimitri's seen since arriving on the ship, but it's in stiff competition. By this point, though, he's achieved a kind of numb acceptance -- if he panicked every time something happened he didn't understand, he'd be a gibbering wreck. He's close enough to being one already, thanks.

Anyway, he's got a pleasant runner's high going, so he wipes his face on the front of the Tommy Bahama shirt that's serving as his exercise clothes and answers cheerfully, "Will need to, and have. Being trapped on this ship is no excuse to let my training lapse." He will not be caught unawares if the Captain demands another battle royale, or anything else. And it lets him feel like he has control over something.

"I'm Dimitri. You are ... ?"

"Ye -- yes." There's someone in the pool, where there definitely wasn't before. It's not as if the water's murky enough to hide it. Dimitri snorts the last of the poolwater out of his nose and scrapes the hair off his forehead. "I'm alright. Where did you come from?"

Dimitri registers Clarke joining him without losing step -- he's glad for the company, since there's been a headless corpse twitching in his peripheral vision all night, and another human figure is a pleasant distraction.

When Clarke drops out, it's a good enough reason as any to stop; the light spatter of rain is soothing, but training in temperatures like this can turn to hypothermia all too quickly. Dimitri finishes the lap, then jogs over to where Clarke's flopped on the field (trying not to be too unsettled by the springy, gummy texture of the fake turf).

"Ah, you don't want to do that," he says, seeing her clutching her side. "You want to walk through it -- stopping so suddenly will make the cramp worse." He offers his hand. "Dimitri. Do you know where I could find a drink of water?"

"I'd appreciate that greatly. Do you fight?" Stede doesn't look the type, but it's worth asking.

Dimitri cocks his head. " ... lifts?"

Mizuki gives him another moment, tilting his head to ensure he's telling the truth here or not. He certainly seems okay, at least? So, you know, it's probably fine.

"Oh, I've been here~," he finally chirps, once she's ensured that Dimitri isn't just going into shock. "I didn't startle you, did I?"

"Maximilien." He gives a polite nod by way of greeting, because he's definitely not going to get close enough to a sweaty human to shake his hand.

"So far we haven't had anything chase us here, so I suppose that might be the next thing the Captain subjects us to. I hope not though. I despise running." A dramatic sigh, one completely unnecessary since he doesn't need to breathe. "You are new here I take it?"

"Pleasure to meet you, Maximilien. Or it would be, under any other circumstances." Dimitri wrinkles his nose. "I'm a recent arrival, yes. I've only been here a few days. Not more than a week." Stress and insomnia have wreaked havoc on his sense of time, but he's pretty certain of that. "What about you?"

Dimitri's almost disappointed to hear there hasn't been a chase. That means it might still happen ... but on the other hand, Dimitri's familiar with physical challenges. Mental, emotional ... that's where it gets tricky. "I suppose that's good to know. SecUnit mentioned there's been a battle royale -- is that sort of thing frequent?"

"Seventy-two days." He actually knows down to the minute, but usually people aren't looking for that sort of minutia.

"And no, that was the only time." He sounds wistful, it had been so nice to just be given a gun and let loose with no real repercussions other than your own meaningless death. "The other occurrence was camping, which the majority of us thought would be another round of the battle, but turned out to simply be camping."

Which disappointed some and pleased many.

"I've been known to buckle a swash or two." He's learning in other words.

"Yes. They're also called elevators. They're amazing and so much better than taking the stairs. Plus great music."

Dimitri blinks. He's done alright at following conversations aboard the ship so far, but he can understand maybe three consecutive words of what Stede just said.

" ... they sound interesting," he says cautiously. "Would you care to show me? If it's not too much trouble."

"Nah, I'm heading that way myself." He leads the way to the elevators. "The first thing you have to do, if you want one, is to press a button. Up if you want to go up, down if you want go down. It's pretty self explanatory."

He presses the appropriate button.

"So are you some sort of soldier?"

"You could say that. I've been holding a sword since I learned to walk. I was taught to swing it before I learned to write my name. War is ... common, where I'm from."

He says it with a grim certainty that doesn't belong on a teenager. It's not a hypothetical to him.

Then he jumps as the elevator dings, squinting up at the indicator light with his nose scrunched. "So that displays which floor the lift is on? ... and the numbered buttons tell it where to go," he adds once he's followed Stede inside.

"Oh wow. That's... well the war isn't great. Never is, but learning how to use a sword from that young. That's amazing stuff." Not that he would have picked up a sword at that age, but never mind.

"Yes exactly. You're catching on. And that music! I don't know what it is, but I like it." And he presses the button for the sports deck floor.

His advice is solid. Horribly unappealing, it honestly sounds like a venture into masochism, and Clarke grimaces because getting up is the last thing she wants to do even as the stitch intensifies and threatens to make her wince with each inhale — but solid. Then he's offering his name, and a hand more for leverage than any introductory handshake, and there's really no reason not to take it.

"Clarke Griffin." No pleasantries spared, no nice to meet you, but a name for a name is the unspoken law of human interaction. A rain-slicked and crumb rubber-coated palm slots against his, and she's dragging herself to her feet. Her legs also scream in protest, that lactic acid burn in full effect, but they still move at her command and hold her weight.

And as for water — Clarke nods her chin a little ways further down the track, where she'd deposited a sweatshirt and water bottle earlier. "Help yourself. Otherwise there's the spa over there, so long as you don't mind lemon wedges."

It's always bad when Dimitri wakes up groggy. Normally he goes from asleep to alert -- or at least reactive -- in a couple of panicky heartbeats. When consciousness feels like clawing through tar, it means something's gone horribly wrong: he's injured, or sick, or, you know, has stacked forty hours of high-stress paranoid wakefulness on top of his standard insomniac fatigue and paid the price.

... he wants to go back to sleep, which is only further proof that something's wrong.

Worse, though, is the prospect of anyone ~~Dedue~~ fretting if he's late to class, so Dimitri dredges enough energy out of the muck of exhaustion (how long was he out? A few hours' rest should at least get him functioning again) to roll over and scrub his eyes --

-- and then he remembers everything about the damn boat.

And there's someone else in the room. Someone small. A child, just as he'd feared when he'd glimpsed the coloring books. They must have noticed him stirring, so there's no chance of feigning sleep until he can make his escape. With a mix of guilt and dread, Dimitri levers himself upright, biting back a yawn.

"Um. Hello," he says. There's an extra blanket tangled around his legs; he glances down, and the guilt twists a little deeper. Gingerly, he extracts himself, and does his best to fold the blanket back into shape. "Is this yours? A-apologies, I should have introduced myself sooner. I'm Dimitri. It seems I'm your roommate." He grimaces. "Sorry about that. What's your name?"

Sitting up on the other bed, Fio has been quietly preoccupied flipping through a picture book. When her new roommate finally stirs, she sets her book down, turning around to allow her little legs to dangle off the edge. Though he apologizes, she isn't bothered at all that he has her blanket. She had willingly given it to him anyway. She can sense some kind of discomfort in his voice and there's a brief flicker of concern across her face.

Easily, she puts on a bright smile, in hopes that it will put him at ease. She genuinely likes talking and meeting new people. And her roommate doesn't seem like a scary person.

"My name's Fio. And it's okay. It looked like you needed lots of sleep!" A thoughtful hum, then Fio's back to all smiles, "I'm gonna call you... Dimi. Nice to meet you, Dimi."

Oh- another lost soul has wandered into the Infinite Tommy Bahama, it seems. Gummy doesn't normally come in here, but... well. Aside from the excursions (bad), little 'rescue missions' are the best way to reconnect with what she truly does. Still, Dimitri might find himself startled in a moment by a little girl with bear ears and... a rather heavy looking vault door.

"Did you get lost? I can help you out if you want!"

Dimi. Okay. Okay. He's only ever had a nickname once, and that was years ago now -- might as well have been a different person, separated by a chasm of catastrophe. He's already a bit giddy with the familiarity everyone on-board shows him (the sleep deprivation definitely isn't helping with that). There's euphoria in hearing his Goddess-damned name so often and so easily; a nickname? Just like that? On introduction? Is that allowed?

He might cry a little.

But that won't do either of them any good, so he rallies his composure (at least he's well-practiced at that) and says, "It's nice to meet you too, Fio. Do you have any idea how long I was out ... ? I hope I didn't disturb you." He doesn't remember any nightmares, but that doesn't mean he didn't have them, and it's the ones he doesn't remember that tend to be more ... conspicuous. "I'm sorry if I did. Don't worry, I'll find somewhere else to sleep." Though where that might be, he isn't sure. Maybe he could time-share with Darcy ... no, she has a new roommate, doesn't she? He'll work it out.

A nickname is allowed because Fio allows it. She has so much power that she doesn't realize. Don't cry.

It's been even lonelier, ever since her previous roommate disappeared. Though Flynn only kept his belongings around and visited to check on her, she did like knowing that he was around. Her friendly smile doesn't waver, holding no indication that she had been bothered by Dimitri's sleeping presence. If anything, she's relieved that she has company in the cabin again.

She shakes her head, giggling, "You didn't disturb me at all! I'd like it if you could stay. It makes me happy that I'm not staying here alone anymore."

Goddess, what can Dimitri even say to that? Honesty is the best policy, he supposes. Not that he's any good at anything else.

He clears his throat. "I'd like to stay. You seem very nice, Fio." He's bad at smiling, but he tries, pushing up the corners of his mouth and eyes before his face falls again. "But ... I have nightmares. Bad nightmares, where I scream and thrash around. And I am very ... very strong. At best, I'm afraid you wouldn't get much sleep while I'm in here. At worst ... if you try to wake me, you might get hurt." There's no point softening it -- "Or even killed."

He's not being dramatic or edgy. He's never killed someone, but he has hurt people when his half-awake instincts made them into enemies. This is a very real, very serious possibility.

... but he wilts at the thought of Fio's disappointment, so he adds, "I could spend time here when I'm awake, though. What do you like to do?"

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literally and figuratively at sea

hello new roomie

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