Thomas Zane (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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singillatim2025-01-06 01:02 pm
sukeltaja) wrote in singillatim2025-01-06 01:02 pm
scene ii | ota | el topo
Who: Tom Zane and anyone he's talked to for more than 30 seconds
What: Tom puts his holiday boar present to use. It's drugs.
When: Anywhere from december to early january
Where: Various places around the Milton area
Warnings: Heavy use of drugs, possible coercion/manipulation to use said drugs, will update accordingly
Tom asks for more than he needs not out of gluttony, but because he feels there's a necessity for it. The world is bleak and cruel, and people here don't know anything about themselves. If Zane can help with that, why not?
There's simply no point in hoarding this sort of stuff. They're all in this together, and that means Tom is going to pitch in the best way he knows how: a little party. Different from the beautiful ones they've been having, more one-on-one, far more intimate. He does his best work like that.
There's also the fact that he just enjoys having fun on psychedelics, too. That's a very big factor. It's not all cryptic poetry and mysterious motivations on his end.
"I've decided we're going to have fun."
He brews tea out of the psychedelics, an old thermos tucked underneath his bundled up arms with each visit he makes. He's spent the better half of three or so months observing, so it's not hard to memorize the usual haunts of people he considers friends. Some he even visits in their cabins.
"I have something for you."
The problem with this big pile of snow they're on is that everyone's broken. If this fixes it, all the better. In the community hall, outside, or any area roughly around Milton Zane can be found with a thermos, eyeing people. Staring. Deciding. With a hum, he'll get up and move towards them, delight in his eyes and a soft, mischievous smirk playing on his lips.
"Hey, man. How's it going?"
He's calm and anchored, but it's not hard to tell he's going on a bender. Even without looking at his eyes, it's fairly obvious he hasn't had much sleep in the past week or so. He's content, and can be found doing all manner of things: he stands directly on a table in the community hall to frame something he cannot physically film. He wanders out into the wilderness nearly shirtless for the umpteenth time and doesn't seem to notice the cold. He dances. He has entire conversations with inanimate objects. He brings his camera with him absolutely everywhere during the entirety of this, making art despite having no film or power. Occasionally, he'll scribble poems in a fit of inspiration. It's also not uncommon to see him read the same page of a book over and over either, absolutely transfixed. Despite the gloom and the darkness, Tom Zane is having a grand old time.
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whitespire or tortillasunrise on discord.]
What: Tom puts his holiday boar present to use. It's drugs.
When: Anywhere from december to early january
Where: Various places around the Milton area
Warnings: Heavy use of drugs, possible coercion/manipulation to use said drugs, will update accordingly
Tom asks for more than he needs not out of gluttony, but because he feels there's a necessity for it. The world is bleak and cruel, and people here don't know anything about themselves. If Zane can help with that, why not?
There's simply no point in hoarding this sort of stuff. They're all in this together, and that means Tom is going to pitch in the best way he knows how: a little party. Different from the beautiful ones they've been having, more one-on-one, far more intimate. He does his best work like that.
There's also the fact that he just enjoys having fun on psychedelics, too. That's a very big factor. It's not all cryptic poetry and mysterious motivations on his end.
i. Alan, Mr. Scratch, and Dr. Darling
He seeks those from home first. Each one of them gets a visit in their respective homes. Alan he wakes up by simply going to his room in the morning and standing directly over the foot of his bed, patiently waiting until he opens an eyes. Scratch at least gets a knock on his door before he barges in. Darling gets the softest touch out of all of them, Zane waiting until they're both settled in the evening before wordlessly grabbing research notes book out of the scientist's hands. The words are the same to all three:"I've decided we're going to have fun."
ii. close CR
Next, he seeks those he has a connection with. He's been solidly binging by the time this happens, and he hasn't slept much for about two days. It doesn't bother him in the least. If anything, it fuels him--this is what he's used to. This feels familiar. It's nice to stop drowning and start floating, if only for a while. Who is he not to share this gift?He brews tea out of the psychedelics, an old thermos tucked underneath his bundled up arms with each visit he makes. He's spent the better half of three or so months observing, so it's not hard to memorize the usual haunts of people he considers friends. Some he even visits in their cabins.
"I have something for you."
iii. OTA - partaking
He's been rolling for an awful long time now, but he still has a mission as well of a few doses left: he'll sidle up to anyone he deems in need of it--the sullen and the moody are definitely high on his list, but he moves to the sunnier ones, too.The problem with this big pile of snow they're on is that everyone's broken. If this fixes it, all the better. In the community hall, outside, or any area roughly around Milton Zane can be found with a thermos, eyeing people. Staring. Deciding. With a hum, he'll get up and move towards them, delight in his eyes and a soft, mischievous smirk playing on his lips.
"Hey, man. How's it going?"
iv. OTA - observing
Tom Zane is everywhere. He is on a higher level of consciousness, fully in and attuned to his emotions. He is in a state of blissful being, feeling one with the aurora and the land and all that entails. He is art. He is inspiration. He is being. He hasn't felt like pure creation since the Dark Place.He's calm and anchored, but it's not hard to tell he's going on a bender. Even without looking at his eyes, it's fairly obvious he hasn't had much sleep in the past week or so. He's content, and can be found doing all manner of things: he stands directly on a table in the community hall to frame something he cannot physically film. He wanders out into the wilderness nearly shirtless for the umpteenth time and doesn't seem to notice the cold. He dances. He has entire conversations with inanimate objects. He brings his camera with him absolutely everywhere during the entirety of this, making art despite having no film or power. Occasionally, he'll scribble poems in a fit of inspiration. It's also not uncommon to see him read the same page of a book over and over either, absolutely transfixed. Despite the gloom and the darkness, Tom Zane is having a grand old time.
no subject
Louis watches his throat bob with the drink. At least now he can be assured it doesn't contain poison. He picks up the cup.
"Am I supposed to believe you are the embodiment of creativity?" he asks dubiously. "And don't get fresh with me. I'm..." Spoken for? With how complicated his relationship with Lestat is? But he has always had his heart, even when he haunted him.
He gently swirls the liquid, sniffs it, then takes a sip.
no subject
Tom loves complicated. Not for him--he's got enough of that on his own--but love, well, it's a fractured thing, isn't it? And all consuming in all the right and wrong ways. He wants to know what it's done to Louis.
He makes two internal decisions immediately, and seals it with one simple, angular up-and-down nod. One, that asides from the occasional darling or handsome comment that Louis is very much off limits. Two, that he desperately must meet this 'other.'
"I'm an artist, Louis. It's in my veins regardless of what you think." He makes himself comfortable, waiting a few minutes for it to kick in fully and mingle with the still-lingering high from his alarmingly long bender.
no subject
"Fun for you, then." Repressed drama aside, Louis is morbidly curious how Tom would get along with Lestat. They both like to laugh and sample life's pleasures.
It takes a while for it to kick in. Louis is utterly clean, nothing in his system to help it along. Alcohol is more precious here than back home. But his drinking problem will show its fangs soon enough. Maybe this was a mistake. This tea is a fun boy's drug. Louis, by his own admission, is not fun.
The drug spreads him thin, aware of everything and nothing. He's not sure he likes it, but it's a nice distraction from life's troubles. The effect of his small dose is mild, but even if it weren't, he'd still want Tom's blood. He murmurs,
"Is this supposed to help me find myself? I couldn't find myself if I tried." He looks up at the ceiling and answers something Lestat said to him long ago: "I do find peace in it... because my spirit is not there. I am not there. But you might say it is all full of spirit, that drinking it is the only way to truly know life."
He stares at Tom and parts his lips. His fangs, somehow not apparent before, seem to have lengthened dangerously.
"Come here..."
no subject
Tom is his best like this, deep into the recesses of his mind, of nothing but the present moment. He thinks he'd like his camera right now, or some paper--and he groggily moves up, the wind wooshing around his ears as he does so a little too quickly, he laughs. Free and easy, he tilts his head at Louis and his words.
"You're here and there," he says with utmost certainty, answering both his own question and what he thinks Louis is saying, temporarily distracted by wonder and creativity and that beautiful feeling of being on the verge of inspiration. He's propped himself on his elbows as he watches Louis bare his fangs, blue eyes far more alert than they should be given his state. Louis has revealed a lot already, things Tom's not entirely sure is on purpose. His love of drink weighs on him in some form. A crisis--although he doesn't need mushrooms to tell him that.
His smile widens slightly. Louis wants him to come closer, and his teeth look positively large in the firelight and under the influence. He doesn't think he can stand right now, so he crawls instead, laughing.
"What big teeth you have," he teases, and bites at his own lip. A hand reaches out towards them tentatively, though he has the sense to stop before he gets too close.
"Can I...?"
no subject
He watches Tom scuttle over like a drunken bug, ruining the swimming metaphor. Maybe Louis should try not thinking in them.
A willing meal is a strange thing to Louis. He's mostly used to taking people unawares in alleys back home, and without joy. It's Lestat who lures, cajoles, even befriends his victims. He plays with his food.
When Tom asks so childlike if he can touch his fangs, Louis almost laughs like Lestat does when he gets hysterical. He wants to see what happens when a human flirts with death. His lips pull back to reveal his fangs more.
"Yes..."
no subject
"Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau," he whispers, drawing his finger back out of what is polite courtesy. He's very well aware of the fact that he's in danger--he's seen it, seen those fangs, seen a certain look on this man's face that he only ever really sees in Mr. Scratch, but he's not entirely frightened.
It's the drugs, maybe. Or the fact that he's overwhelmed by the sheer feeling of it all, the secrets being told without words, the implications. He sighs, happy. Fascinated.
"Oh, my friend. I'd like to tell you where I am right now." That same hand is carefully going for the other fang to touch, wanting to compare.
no subject
Memory is a monster, and so is Nosferatu. Louis saw that film in theaters, that travesty of a vampire, ugly shambling husk... but he really only remembers Lestat acting out the part in jest at home later, for his and Claudia's delight. Happier times.
"Try me. Where are you right now?"
Touching his other fang, and it gives Louis a thrill to know that he could so easily dispatch this human and won't.
no subject
He catches himself--even in his state he's very much not about not getting killed because he pushed his luck--and he presses his lips into a thin line.
"It's almost like I'm floating in the lake again," he confesses, "I'm in the Dark Place, man. Nothing but endless night--and Louis, it's so peaceful. I thought it was a bad thing being alone, but it really isn't. You just have to carve a little part of you away, give it to someone else, y'know? That part lives on."
A laugh.
"Or maybe I'm lying. I can't keep track of myself here, not since arriving."
no subject
"Other than my life, which is indeed endless night. What part of you did you carve out?"
Louis isn't really following, but he asks anyway as if all this makes sense. The tea helps things make sense and no sense at the same time. All is well. Speaking of carving... Louis shifts closer to Tom, eyes on his neck. The tea is giving good results, but Louis has yet to truly finish sampling its wonders.