𝔄 𝔐𝔦𝔡𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱'𝔰 𝔇𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𑁍 [WINTER TDM]

[gorelord]

Welcome to the Test Drive!

The TDM is welcome to current players and anyone who wants to play in the setting and is encouraged to be used by prospective players. If you are interested in joining the game, you will need to obtain invite from the mod or through an existing member.

For information on the game premise, setting etc, please utilize the navigation pages below. Questions specific to the TDM prompts or the setting can go to the comment thread. Anything else relating to game mechanics can go in the FAQ.

Events in this TDM are considered game canon and occurs immediately after the Chapter II eclipse event between chapters II and III. Any threads in TDM are considered canon as long as both parties agree.

Please make sure to identify in your top levels as either current or new player/characters.

GAME PAGES

premise
setting
faq
rules
glossary

i.
rise:
A Dream's Beginning

(cw:nsfwl; ritual sex, mood altering substances )

It begins with a nightmare, the details of which have slipped through your fingers. Only the curling echo of its dread lingers in your chest. Something has snapped you out of a catatonic state: a gust of icy wind whistling through the crack of a window, the soft beating of drums under the melody of strings, the cold kiss of fat snowflakes catching on your eyelashes, the smell of spiced wine and evergreen.

A few things become clear: You are not where you were, and you are not alone.

Feast for Saints

Tonight is a night of celebration for the Lonely Fortress. The horrors have been set aside, replaced with the warm mirth and grace of being alive. Whether this is your first night in the Crucible or your fortieth, all are welcome to partake in this renewing fete under the silver light of a full buttery moon. Snow dances like flower petals in a lazy array, leaving a shallow blanket of white. The fire roars in the hearth of the Great Hall, spreading its warmth throughout its adjacent parlors. Despite murmurings of a recent catastrophic eclipse cleaving the castle twain, its halls and buildings show no sign of decay. The Egregore has been cleansed, balance has been restored. Spirits are high, people are at ease.

If you choose to partake, there are a few select locations where people have gathered to celebrate:

𑁍The Great Hall is open for feasting and dancing. The fortress stores have provided a wintertime feast of roasted meats & vegetables, pies, fresh and aged cheeses, dried fruits, candied nuts, and seeded cakes. The hall smells of spiced honey wine and mulled cider, both packed with a warm and buzzing inebriation that creeps on unexpectedly. A makeshift band of strings and drums plays lively music for people to dance to.

𑁍The Velvet Parlor is a smaller hall branched off of the main festivities for those looking for softer and more intimate comforts under the candlelight. Tonight, its guests pay tribute to celebrate the passion of life and to beckon the sun to rise in a ritualistic tangling of bodies. Here is the place to become a true eater of sin. All furniture has been nudged to line the walls, making way for a sea of cushions and pillows for celebrants to laze upon as they imbibe in strong, distilled spirits, as the air above them swirls with a sweet, toasty incense imbuing a mellow calm and stirs carnal appetites. A masked man plucks away a sultry tune on his lute in a corner as the night gradually gives way to passionate bodies tangled among the pillows.

𑁍The Courtyard brings a breath of fresh, brisk air as snow falls playfully overhead. Large braziers line the yard offer meager warmth from their roaring fires as exiles partake in snow fights and release wishing lanterns bearing your inner most desires into the sky. Steam rolls off the yard's central fountain, which has been fitted to disperse heated water to provide a makeshift heated pool, a perfect place to thaw chilly hands or feet (or just go all in if ye be bold enough.)

A Colder Path

If instead you choose to abstain, it becomes apparent every dream has its limits.

The castle beyond the festivities is cold, dim, and abandoned. Behind every door, a drab and empty room (if the handle isn't locked or broken). The keep's gates are closed, the sunken village beyond a frozen wasteland. The further one strays from the warmth and merriment, the colder and darker it becomes.

Isolation breeds madness, too much time spent away from others may lead to paranoia. Figures shift in the dark, a breath tickles the nape of your neck. You may see familiar faces, hear familiar voices, beckoning you to stray further from your path towards uncertain doom: a crooked nail sticking out of the floorboards, a hurried shove off the top of the stairs, a door that opens over the edge of a rocky cliff.

As determined as you may be, the only way out of this dream is through.

ii.
revel:
Trials of Merciful Holly

(cw:potential for dubcon/noncon, mood-altering.)

As the midwinter evening persists, a visitor long awaited comes knocking at the Great Hall's doors. A tall man emerges with a body molded out of braided wood, bearing thorn-tarnished armor and a tattered crimson cloak. With every step forward, thorned vines that stitch across the walls and floors, blooming with plum purple leaves and small budding flowers.

"The Briar Lord," one exile gasps. "Gregor's returned," another praises tearfully. With a bow, he treats the celebrants of the Lonely Fortress with the innocence of a festive game.

"O' eaters of sin, indulge me in this friendly Midwinter game. Ye have survived a harrowing and for that ye shall be rewarded for purging of thy wickedness. I ask thee this final offering to purge this winter and beget a new spring. Give me thy blood and affection with honor and I shall see this cold vanquished. What I am given, I will return what was given me. Then, in trust and friendship, we shall part."

Bats and Lashes

The Lord's game is a simple marital task held out in the frost covered garden: a duel of branches. Each competitor will be given handful of briar as their weapon. The aim of the game is to whip each other until the thorns of the briar's branches draw blood. The first to draw blood from the opponent is the victor and the blood price paid.

Yet, not all these branches are created equal. A fortunate competitor may be given a Bewitching Branch. Those whipped by this branch will become utterly obsessed and infatuated to whom they've been struck by for a short period of time after, beholden to their branch master until the sting of thorns wane.

Tithe of the Mistle

If you choose not to partake in the Lord's game, the Lord warns that his winter's briar will collect a tithing of affection. The vines that bloomed with his arrival grow rampant behind seeing eyes. Buds turn into flowers, petals shed as they mature into plump white mistle berries that release the sweetest scent to draw you in.

Either you have accidentally stumbled upon the mistle, or it has decidedly grown itself above you without your noticing, but you become bewitched by its scent. As the tricksy bramble coils around your ankles, giving the gentlest of biting from its thorns, it becomes clear that you will be consumed if you do not pay the mistle its tithing. For some, it only takes a kiss, for others, the mistle will demand more. Give it something meaningful. Give it something real, and you will be released.

iii.
respite:
Midwinter Mourning

All good dreams must come to an end. The following morning paints a different picture of the Lonely Fortress witnessed in the night's collective dreaming. The Crucible sits under a thick blanket of snow, the waters surrounding the keep have frozen solid. None of the warmth of the night remains; it feels as though the world has died. The whole of the Crucible feels cold, quiet, abandoned.

Every hearth has burned out, every brazier snuffed under the snow, every candle smothered. It's quiet, empty, dark. Daylight may have come, but a thick layer of storm clouds casts a foreboding shadow. If the desire remains to leave, it quickly becomes apparent there is nowhere else to go.

Warm Winter's Kiss

With luck, you have woken in a bed under a pile of old furs to keep some semblance of warmth with you. With even better luck, you've woken next to company to keep each other warm throughout a cruel cold morning. Without proper protection, the cold is biting against exposed skin. Joints and limbs become stiff and numb, making it difficult to move around without constant tending if one lacks gloves.

While hearths can be re-lit and heated baths can be drawn, the true comfort from freezing can only be found in the close company of other living creatures. Exiles on this cruel morning keep each other warm through sharing heated breaths and pressing bodies. Expressions of passion and compassion help the warmth to linger just a bit longer for those who cultivate it together, granting brief autonomy of movement before finding another's heat is needed again.

Breakfast is served, but it's nothing remotely glamorous to the feasting offered by the Midwinter dream: simple porridge that leaves a stale taste that coats the tongue, nuts and fruits that are half rancid, boiled wine that's been watered down to detract from how far along it's turned into vinegar. Its only promise is to fill an empty stomach until more food can be found.

Outside, the snow begins to fall again. An omen that this winter is here to stay. Welcome to the real Martyr's Crucible.

Comments

ilya rozanov — heated rivalry (new character, current player)

[hattricked]

I. THE GREAT HALL

( it definitely feels like a dream, like a nightmare. one moment ilya's wrapped up in familiar arms in a warm bed and the next--- horrors. whatever this place is. he's not actually sure what it is or what the fuck he ate, drank, or watched for his brain to come up with this.

he doesn't like it one bit.

where's shane?, he thinks. there's an unease in his stomach, a nausea that threatens to rise until he's at the party. party he knows. parties he can do. shit, dancing is great. sure, usually he's doing a different kind of dancing but ballroom's not exactly unfamiliar from the sort of events his father dragged him to in fancy mansions and under the watchful eyes of government officials who saw the future of russian hockey in ilya rozanov.

dressed in finery that's not his own, he feels like a puppet guided on strings through a crowd. it's not until he has a taste of wine, then another, that he feels himself. he glances around the crowd, clearly searching for someone.

but eventually he pauses, seems to stop his search and focus on whoever is near. this is a dream, it'll be fine. he thinks it over and over, drinking more wine until the warmth of it almost makes him forget. and then there's a grin on his face, an offered hand to a stranger who looks like they're trying to stay out of the crowd and a question in accented words, ) Shall we dance? I'll only take 'No' for answer if you know where we can get something stronger than wine.

II. THE COURTYARD

( 'i don't want to hide,' are the words written on the lantern that floats away from ilya's hands if someone manages to catch them. he stares as it as he releases it up into the air, brows furrowed and lips pursed. he watches it until it floats away, glancing around with narrowed eyes as if daring anyone to ask about it.

but when it's high enough not to be seen, then the stiffness in his shoulders fades and he lets out a breath. then the focus of his attention is the fountain of warm water, the steam rising from it. he's fucking freezing, it's tempting enough.

it's not a sauna, no, but he's not about to punch a gift horse in the mouth or whatever the english expression is. instead he peels off his shoes to slip his feet into the shallow water, groaning as it warms him up just enough. he sits on the edge. )

Come here often? It's warm. Better than freezing feet or something worse off. ( he asks when he notices company; flirting, friendly even with somewhat gruesome implications, though it's not really the former. not anymore. he just can't help his tone sometimes. and if you're nice maybe he'll share the bottle of wine he's brought outside with him, taken from the festivities inside. )

III. TITHE OF THE MISTLE
( NOTE: limited to smooches only from baffled dream boy! )

( competitive as he is, it'll take more than a creepy looking creature with flowers sprouting all around him to get ilya to fight. he looks like something out of a fairytale, a forest creature with his heart hidden away in a faraway cave or lake. but the challange? well, that makes him sure it's pulled from his subconcious. the whole thing reminds him of the sort of games he used to play with his friends in the schoolyard, flicking each other with birch branches and laughing at whoever couldn't take the pain of it. he watches for a while, tempted and easy baited, but in the end he turns his attention away.

the dream is--- well, it's lasting a while. he can't figure out how to wake himself up, how to get back to his own bed and home and not-- whatever this is? maybe he watched too much of vikings but this isn't exactly giving him old england and the halls of valhala or whatever. it's more like something from a movie ilya definitely wouldn't watch. too few fast cars, not enough rap music as a good soundtrack.

he is trying to get out of the room, to explore and maybe find that someone he's desperately been hoping to catch in the crowd when something coils around one of his legs and he goes tumbling to the ground.) What the fuck?

( a glance around, a glance up. he sees the flower growing from the roof about him and what the fuck is that? and then he realises he realises that another vine is wrapping up his leg, up his calf. he tries to pull at it, but as he does his movements grow sluggish. it's whatever he's breathing in, he thinks but that's not his biggest concern. and if there's anyone near by to help, well, he's not losing the opportunity--) Hey! You! Fucking help me with this! I can't move with this fucking plant trying to eat me!

IV. WARM WINTER'S KISS

( for someone born in a place that is dark and cold most of the year, dreary and no stranger to snow, ilya rozanov hates the cold. he groans as he's pulled from sleep, brows scrunched together as he tries to bury his face into the blanket wrapped around him. )

No. Absolutely not. ( he groans it, directed to no one in particular, as if it'll stop wakefulness from calling to him. he opens one eye, realizes he hasn't actually woken up in a familiar bed. nope, still dreaming. lucid dreaming? something like that.

except he feels the chill biting to his bones, causing his teeth to ache. he's not alone, he realizes, but that's fine because he can sneak out of this bed and maybe take some blankets with him as he finds more layers to shield him from the cold. but the main question he asks himself, aloud, as he rubs a hand down his face is the one that's been gnawing at him this whole time: ) Why the fuck can't I wake up?

V. WILDCARD

( ooc: feel free to reach out at moryana if you'd like to plot something! ilya is coming from the end of episode 6 in heated rivalry, though i may use some details from the book series to add some flavour to tags. nsfw things are limited as of now to dream kisses, but let's make things awkward or too comfortable platonically for now. he'll also think this is all a dream until he has an epiphany or proof otherwise ♥︎ )

THE GREAT HALL

[mountreal]

[ Ilya is at home at parties where Shane sticks out like a sore thumb. He can't play casual at the best of times, which this certainly isn't, and for a while he won't even admit to himself who he's looking for as he scans the people milling around like movie extras. As he wanders around pretty sure that he looks as dumb and confused as he feels. People keep glancing at him, aware in a way that doesn't help him build the dream narrative he keeps trying to conjure up for himself.

Because if this isn't a dream then he's losing his fucking mind and Shane just does not have time to deal with that right now. He's got a boyfriend. He can't be going crazy just when it feels like his life has finally started.

And just as he has that thought, he sees him. Tall enough for him to spot, handsome in that way that punches the breath out of Shane every single time he sees him. Makes him feel like he doesn't deserve to even look, especially when Ilya is cleaned up and dressed well and dancing --

and he's fucking dancing with someone else.

There's a loud crash and a tinkle of glass after Shane takes a too-quick step forward and walks directly into a someone carrying a tray. He's a bulky guy, far less graceful than he is on the ice, and the collision is catastrophic. Everything hits the ground like a percussion section and what feels like every eye in the entire room turns on Shane before he can even think to duck down and help clean up the mess he's just made.

Every eye. Including Ilya's. ]

Uh. [ Oh look, it's what might as well be his second-worst fucking nightmare. Becoming the center of a humiliating event. He can't even move as the tray-carrier buzzes away, disgusted. ] Rozanov?

[ He snaps back to the last name in public like a reflex, swallows like he's choking on something. If it wasn't for what just happened he'd be running at him, even in such a crowded place, but it's like Shane is glued to the spot among all the shattered glass. And despite everything, he still manages to give Ilya's dance partner a withering glare. ]

[hattricked]

( Ilya can't quite place the music, which is pretty weird since he's great with music. his dance partner falls in step with him easily, places a hand on his bicep and he has his own on her waist. if asked later, he'll never quite remember her face. he's still glancing around, not really paying attention wholly even if he's trying to keep a charming smile plastered on his face as he tries to figure out where all of this leads.

usually, in his dreams, he's never still or in one place too long. at least in the ones he remembers. there's some sort of mission or sends of urgency that leads him from place to place or spurs him to do more than, well, this. after Shane had run out of his house months before in Boston, Ilya had had a series of dreams where he'd unsuccessfully attempt to stop various vehicles, planes, and trains from crashing because the trained professionals had disappeared. he never quite managed to stop the inevitable.

a loud crash draws his attention and Ilya stops, stills like the rest of the room does. there's Shane. oh. okay, Shane in his dream makes sense. his boyfriend pulling the whole room's attention to himself also makes sense, but usually, in Ilya's dreams it's just by walking into a room. this time there's panic in Shane's eyes but for a wholly different reason, this time he’s caught underneath the weight of stares.

Ilya moves without thinking, the dance partner forgotten, even if he grimaces inwardly when dream!Shane uses his last name. the glare he gives reminds Ilya of a room years ago with Scott Hunter next door, but also of a night at the cabin when he'd suggested marriage. and oh. that's nice to see in public, even if it's not real.

real or not, he moves toward his boyfriend. Shane stands amongst glass, a splash of something on his clothes. ) Hollander. Don't steal the spotlight.

( Hollander feels wrong. yet even in a dream, it feels like a risk in public to call Shane anything but. Ilya can make this look like he's a concerned friend, like a colleague checking in on another who happens to be a rival. a hand on Shane's shoulder, a gentle squeeze for just a moment won't be too much. ) Let's find a place to get you cleaned up? You got some... whatever this was on your jacket.

( let's step away, he means, let's find somewhere it's just us. )

[mountreal]

[ Of course Ilya comes to his rescue. Through his panicky numbness Shane realizes he's waiting for him to do so, just like always in moments like these, and when Ilya closes the distance the feeling seems to seep back into Shane's limbs like warm water. Like being thawed out fast enough that the clap on his shoulder feels like a titanic impact. Ilya makes it over to him so quickly that Shane almost feels a little guilty for staring down his dance partner (date??) in whatever nightmare this has turned into, but not quite. His jealousy is more than a little amplified by his confusion and fear, because why was Ilya dancing while Shane was panicking?

He's in a dream and still Shane doesn't take Ilya by the elbow or the hand, just turns with him to walk stiffly out of the room, knowing all the eyes that must still be following them. He's in a dream so once they're out of there, Shane takes the strangely styled and now stained jacket off and tosses it behind them as they walk. Because who cares? None of this is real, right?

It better not be. Because he's stuck in a dream and still the first thing he thinks to ask once they're far enough away down a deserted hallway is: ]

So who was she? [ Angry little look shot over at Ilya as Shane stalks along the worn carpets with absolutely no idea where they're going. ] How are you even an asshole in my dreams?

[hattricked]

( like a moth to a flame, Ilya follows with his hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders squared as he glances around to make sure they’re not followed. they’re not. in fact, no one seems to care that two of the worlds biggest hockey stars are here. even in normal dreams, people care a little. maybe Ilya is that conceited.

in the hallway, Ilya watches as Shane strips off the jacket and tosses it aside. this has to be a dream, then. he hasn’t seen his boyfriend do that unless Ilya’s mouth is on some part of him or his mouth is on Ilya.

they’re far away from the party when he reaches out, tugs at the back of Shane’s shirt after he’s tossed what can only be a jealous accusation. he lets go long enough because he’s staring, confused because he’s already forgotten the girl. who was she? ) I don’t fucking know? Nobody. Some girl that wanted to waltz?

( he honestly doesn’t remember why they started dancing even, when he’d been half paying attention. )

Hollander—- Shane. ( he says his name as he catches Shane by the arm, tugs and moves so he’s in the other man’s space and can corral him until he’s got Shane pressed against the wall in a darkened nook with one palm pressed by his head and the other on the shoulder to cage him in.

hot as it is to see that spark of jealousy in Shane’s eyes, he wants to soothe it. but— ) Wait. Your dream? Is my dream.

[mountreal]

[ He doesn't stop until Ilya makes him. Until he uses his first name and sets Shane's spine tingling with the way he's grabbed and maneuvered against the wall. Like he doesn't have a choice, because he doesn't. ]

Stop it.

[ He doesn't mean it. Despite the stubborn way he'd been stalking down the hall seconds earlier, brushing off Ilya's touches, Shane goes without a fight, grabs him back by the front of the jacket and drags him in close. Nervously looking back over Ilya's shoulder and down the hall the whole time, of course, but he can't resist. His pulse is still hammering too hard from the embarrassing moment in the great hall and he needs the grounding, needs to be pinned and held and focused on...

...until Ilya says something that makes him narrow his eyes and cock his head, pulled up short. ]

You're telling me you dance with girls in your dreams? [ He scoffs, like he should have known, but there's something unsettled in his expression now. ] See? Asshole.

[ He tries to shove Ilya off of him half-heartedly and is glad when it doesn't work. Shane's fingers curl tighter into his jacket and he tugs on it, almost like he's trying out the physics of this place. Like he has any questions after sending the entire tray of drinks toppling to the floor five minutes ago. ]

Obviously this is my nightmare. You with girls, fucking up a party... Can't wait for my parents to walk in on us fucking next, somehow.

[hattricked]

( the hold on Shane’s shoulder loosens for a moment, until fingers tighten in his own jacket and Ilya crowds forward. not exactly
to trap but so Shane feels the familiar weight of him pressed close like there’s no point they don’t connect. like a lifeline even if right now Shane doesn’t look so pleased with him.

Ilya takes a deep breath, then another. tries not to let the sudden anger building in his chest boil over into something vicious because this is a reasonable tension. there’s women for Ilya, there’s Svetlana. there’s a sore spot that is easy to press and even in his dreams he’s managed to press it. ) In my dream I was dancing with a girl and wishing she was you, yes. And then you show up so I got my wish.

( not exactly the way he’d hoped since he’d rather be dancing with Shane, but this feels like a dream mirroring reality. somewhat. mostly not. he’s still confused about the whole thing but when Shane is upset in front of him, Ilya’s whole focus narrows. there’s a flutter in his chest, a strong desire to soothe and make it better. to take care of shane. maybe this is really what love is in the end. even in a strange dream that a dream version of his boyfriend thinks is his own nightmare.

He brings the hand from Shane’s shoulder to cup the side of his neck, then tilts his chin up if it slips to the lapels he’s trying to burn a hole into with his stare. he tries to catch Shane’s eyes, softens his own. ) I’m not with girls, I’m with you.

[mountreal]

[ Ilya boxes him in like a weighted blanket and even though Shane would hate it were it anyone else in the world, it's exactly what he needs right now. Ilya knows him, even dream-Ilya knows him, it would seem, and Shane sighs into the little sliver of space left between them. Breathes him in like a drug, then looks up at him with shy, hopeful eyes that betray how much he was wanting - needing - to hear him say something like that. ]

Yeah? [ He lets go of the jacket to smooth his palms down Ilya's chest instead, to let himself reach around and settle his hands on the small of his back under his dinner jacket. Another nervous glance over Ilya's shoulder, but they're still alone. ] Maybe you summoned me. But we didn't get to dance.

[ The thought of dancing with Ilya in public gives Shane goosebumps that he can't shake off. He wouldn't go back into the hall he just disgraced himself in for all the money in his 2017 contract but dancing with his boyfriend in public is a possibility -- a distant, painfully distant possibility -- that he can't shake. Suddenly it makes him a little sad, makes him hold onto him all the tighter. ]

Where the hell are we, Ilya? Why can't I wake up?

[hattricked]

Mhmmmm. ( it’s easy agreement, natural. Ilya follows Shane’s gaze around the corner, cranes his neck a little to make a show of checking if the coast is clear before turning back to quickly press their lips together. it’s chaste, gentle and doesn’t last as long as he wants it to but he doesn’t want to be pushed away when Shane’s finally melted against him.

the touch under his jacket feels like a lifeline, a connection grounding him in a moment he isn’t sure is reality. ) Maybe. But the night isn’t over and we can find somewhere private to dance.

( even in their dreams, it’s safer to hide. it’s bittersweet and Ilya wishes this dream wasn’t so—- that it didn’t feel so real, that his mind could just accept the absurdity and embrace this moment together.

Shane’s hold on him tightens and Ilya reaches up to cup the back of his head, running fingers through the shorter strands at his nape. touch is how they connect, how they know the other is there and real. and this feels too real. ) I don’t know. But it has to be a dream. I remember we went to bed. Just the two of us at the cottage.

( just the two of them, blissed out after another night of fucking like they were making up for lost time. after a day that was nothing short of emotional, draining too. he wants to open his eyes and find himself in that bed again, with Shane in his arms. he has no idea how to fix this, to stop this ridiculous dream where a version of his boyfriend built by his subconscious is just as panicked and confused as he is but hiding it worse. ) Maybe we need to try sleeping here to wake up.

[mountreal]

[ The kiss is too quick, too stolen, but Shane is so grateful for it that tears spring into the corners of his eyes immediately. He squeezes them shut to fight off the urge to cry, stubbornly refusing to, and Ilya pulls back at exactly the right time to leave Shane wanting more instead of worried he's had too much. His lips follow Ilya's retreating ones with a little pout, disappointed, but he lets his head fall back against the wall behind him with a sigh.

He opens his eyes slowly, assessing Ilya's idea with amused disbelief. ]

What? Like, in a broom closet? That's crazy.

[ Any crazier than stealing kisses in the dark corner of some dream castle? Fuck, maybe not. He feels crazier every moment that he lets it go on but Shane tilts his head into the caress even as his heart starts to beat a little faster, nervous and excited. Flustered, like Ilya always gets him. He can't resist him and that's always been Shane's problem. The problem he never wants to go away.

But what Ilya says next unsettles Shane like nothing else so far has. ]

Me too. [ He says it slowly, unformed dread creeping up on him suddenly much faster. In seconds his chest is a little tighter, his breath coming a bit shorter. ] That's the last thing I remember. I fell asleep beside you, after maybe the best couple days of my life, and then... woke up here. Tonight.

[hattricked]

( Shane’s answer gets a soft snort in return, an amused tilt of the head. ) No, Hollander, a broom closet is too… how do you say? In Russian, it’s too on the forehead?

( he lifts a hand, mimics flicking Shane’s forehead but doesn’t quite do it. this is a dream, them actually sneaking into a literal broom closet is a step too far. ilya already can’t shake the paranoia of being caught and this is a figment of his mind. ) We find a room.

( that hand then drops to Shane’s neck, thumb tracing his jawline. this can’t be mistake for anything other than what it is, this intimacy between them. no one is coming down the hall but there’s a thrill in doing this in semi-public. Ilya should step away but when he sees the panic so clearly written on Shane’s face, he cannot.

physical touch works best but so does distraction, getting Shane to think about something else. ) Hey. Breathe with your boyfriend, ok? We are here together, it’s okay. We’ll dance and then figure this out.

[mountreal]

[ Too on the forehead. He'd been starting to feel that 'might be dying' feeling creeping into his chest again, the same one he'd had in his living room what still felt like only that morning. But the slightly different Russian saying gets a soft, adoring smile out of Shane. He's momentarily distracted by how fucking smitten he is with this man. It's too easy to be derailed by Ilya's teasing. ]

The nose. In English, it's too on the nose. Forehead makes more sense, though.

[ Like a smack in the forehead, which Shane is kind of feeling like he should do to himself right now for phrasing it that way.

But the whole 'remembering to breathe' thing helps calm him down too. In very slowly, then out along with Ilya. Shane's fingers continue to toy at the edge of Ilya's belt, hidden under his jacket. Even though nothing else about them is hidden right now it feels like another little secret when he slides his fingertips under the waistband of Ilya's slacks so he can dig up his tucked-in shirt and feel skin. ]

I'm still not used to that. Boyfriend.

[ It's so much better than 'lover', so much better than whatever they'd been doing for years before it had all come out at once and things had changed. Even in the unreality of this dream Shane can feel the change, is clutching at it even as Ilya helps him breathe through and divert the beginnings of a panic attack. ]

Who taught you how to waltz, anyway? I don't know how.

[hattricked]

I will ask you this later to make sure it is true. ( because on the nose sounds very stupid, actually. because english is a very stupid language. Ilya looks at Shane with a similar fondness, edges of his lips curled upward an eyes soft. he can feel the nervous energy still but its muted, perhaps a reflection of his own in a dream he doesn’t understand. )

It has only been three days. ( three days because the near decade is complicated, even if it’s felt like they’ve committed to something longer than just the few days they’ve had at the cabin. ) You will get used to it.

( and maybe, one day, after they retire it’ll be something else. not boyfriend but something more, something bigger that Ilya feels vibrating through his chest but can’t quite name. not yet. maybe one day but not now, even if they’re both in suits and—- he coughs, trying to come back to himself to relish in the touch to his skin. Shane’s fingers are warm and Ilya leans back into them. )

It’s part of being son of decorated government official. ( he scrunches his nose, not wanting to really think of his father in a moment like this. but then, softer. ) But my mother taught me. I can teach you.

( he holds out a hand, waiting for Shane to offer so he can lead him away from the wall and find them somewhere to disappear to so they can enjoying the moment together. so they can have something private and have the moment they both so long for without the threat of being seen. )

[mountreal]

Hey, fuck you! [ There's a flash of delighted mischief in Shane's eyes, his competitive nature flaring up when he's not really believed. He bumps Ilya with his chest a little, but since he's still holding onto him so tightly it's more of a sharp jostle. ] I'll check if you know it later. Because this is my weird-ass dream.

[ But the mention of his mother has Shane feeling all watery again instantly, putty against the wall and against him, so he's more than willing to go when Ilya holds out a hand to him. Still unsure, still healthily nervous, he takes it immediately. Ready to be led.

He doesn't say it out loud, but he has the same idea as Ilya. Shane is going to want to check if that fact about Ilya's mother is true when he wakes up. ]

Well. It looked like she did a really good job. From what I saw, I mean. [ He trails after Ilya, fingers twined but with Shane's ready to disentangle at any moment, should they come around the wrong corner. He hates that even holding hands with Ilya in public like this - in a dream - makes his heart feel like it's ready to pull an emergency exit in his throat. ] The treasury department doesn't really throw balls. Or dances. Or whatever.

[ The more he sees of the halls, the more he wonders if wandering farther into the dream is the best idea. Ilya seems almost sure of their direction, but Ilya is always sure in Shane's dreams. Always playful, flirty. Reassuring. All things he's been so far. But sometimes the dreams with Ilya in them feel dangerous too, though the danger never comes to anything. Shane always wakes up before the sense of unease becomes too bad.

Making it extra weird that he still hasn't woken up yet. ]

Where are we going? [ Because asking basic questions to fill the silence is what he does. ]

i. the great hall

[xsquad]

I don't even know where the exit is, why would I know where they keep the good booze?

[ of all people to bump into on this set, it had to be her ex-boyfriend's arch nemesis. at least, what she's hoping and praying is just a film set (or a bad dream as a result of working long hours on little sleep combined with one too many shots of kahlúa). she stares at his hand and looks around, as if waiting for an AD to suddenly appear in the crowd and give her direction.

after a moment, she takes it, sliding her hand into his and gripping his palm. warm. maybe it wasn't a dream? but dreams could be very deceiving. ]

ii. courtyard

[longlegs]

[ She's boldly in the water, covered where it matters, eyes shut and thinking of the showers she'd take for a little too long back home. Cellar will probably regret going all-in when it's time to step back out, but she's living in the now and making the after future-Cellar's problem. At the telling sounds of someone approaching, someone dipping in the water that licks around his skin and sends soft waves in Cellar's direction, she opens one eye and then the next. A new face, if she's even qualified to deem anyone 'new' at this point. She feels like she just got here, but she also feels like she's been stuck in this place for years. She has yet to figure out if that's the Crucible's fault or her own. ]

No kidding, [ She answers, audibly self-indulgent. Heated pools are just the bomb, okay. ] You should see what we were working with before.

[ Flirt away, stranger. He's hot and she's lonely. ]

What're you drinking?

[ She knows. Question is: am I drinking it too? ]

the courtyard

[babysitters]

( no worries about the low key flirty tone, Ilya. Steve has absolutely no gaydar. just ask Eddie Munson.

is this slightly before Steve decided to lay down in the fountain, or after, and he's being slightly more reasonable about it this time? doesn't really matter either way. because Steve has still not recovered from the gnawing cold he's been unable to shake since... well... he's not sure when it started, actually, but ever since Quentin got here is a conservative estimate. he's so tired of being cold that he will keep coming back to the fountain until the sensation of warm contentment stops being novel. )

To the fountain? Or the creepy ass castle. ( he's just clarifying. he does come to the creepy ass castle often, since he's been stuck here for weeks now. one could even argue he has not really left it, unless dying counts as leaving. )