singillatim | scene ii | ota

Entry tags:

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. 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.

v. wildcard

[ if you'd like a personalized starter or want to plot a little further as Zane delves into other people's psyches via hallucinogenics, don't hesitate to let me know! hit me up at

whitespire or tortillasunrise on discord.]

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"Depends on if you like me or not," Tom says honestly, falling in line with Raylan easily. He doesn't offer to help, but he does half-pet the cute little dog as they walk, thermos still tucked under his arm.

"Has anyone told you you're very closed off, despite going with the flow?"

"Course I like you. You should see how I greet people I don't like," he said, as though it were as obvious as the color of the sky but he looks over at what follows, frowning softly.

The short answer would have been 'yes' - he'd been told more than once he was 'emotionally unavailable'. He still wasn't sure how. Maybe Zane and his artistic nature could shed light on what other people could not.

"How's that?"

Edited 2025-01-10 01:09 (UTC)

He knows. He's heard what happens when Raylan doesn't like them--and he smiles as he thinks about how he shot Scratch because of it. A man of his word, looks like.

"Mmmmm," there it is, that little hum.

"Maybe I'm the same. Hey--I could teach you, you know. How to be happy. It's a slow process, but we can start as soon as now, get some real practice in."

He slows to a stop, happy enough with the proximity of the tree to his chosen house and quietly astonished to the point of staring at Tom's crazy, impossible suggestion as the tree is dropped. Marvel turns into doubt and he tilts his head. Wild as it might be, he trusted Tom a whole hellva lot more than he would admit easily out loud, and he'd gotten enough of the pieces of the man to take what he thought were measured leaps - there was no malice in Zane in a way he didn't often see.

"Happiness is only meant for the lucky few, in my experience. Not everyone gets it." No matter how hard they tried. "But that doesn't mean I'm not willin' to hear what you mean by that." He was sure Zane had a tangible, consumable point of view and that was worth at least hearing out and considering.

"Come inside, I'll start a fire," he continues, pulling off his gloves and shoving them in his pocket as he heads towards the stairs. "You can tell me what's on your mind."

"I can do better." Tom's smile is wide and pleased as he makes his way in. "I can show you! I was going to show anyway, so this is all really a perfect opporunity!"

He follows the other into the house, politely tapping snow off of his boots and, cold before the fire be damned, is already slipping off his socks so he can be barefoot.

"Get comfortable. You know before I drowned and learned to float, I was gonna start a real groovy group? It was my assistant's idea, but it was a pretty good one."

Edited 2025-01-16 17:13 (UTC)

"Show me, huh?" Leading them inside, Raylan heads over to the fireplace and throws on a few logs, stirring the embers of his last fire back to life enough to catch the pre-hatcheted spikes of kindling. It would only take a few minutes before it was back up to a reasonable blaze.

"How can you both drown and learn to float?" The hat is set on a hook and Raylan shrugs off the long black wool jacket and ambles over towards his chair, eyeing Zane's brave toeies.

"What kinda group were you gonna start?"

Two questions in one. Tom looks somehow pleased about that as he sets the thermos down.

"With practice--and I was gonna start a commune, man! Full hotel! A place for artists to just be themselves, damn the Man! We'd all look for true inspiration right on Cauldron Lake. Grab some glasses for me, huh?"

"Somethin' like that takes money or land, and hippies tend to not have either, no offense."

Zane catches him at the right time and he turns, heading towards a shelf. Two mugs were grabbed and brought over to the coffee table, sat on the surface as he sits down. Goose finds himself a spot on the pile of blankets that served as his little nest, happy enough to just watch the men as they milled around and chatted.

"Were you just gonna camp at the Lake's shore? Build huts or somethin'?"

Raylan's right, and Tom shoots him a wink in response to the offense comment. He's talking as he moves: he finds the comfiest chair and decides to move it closer towards the fire, and then starts with the second most comfortable.

"Hotel. Had the money, too. Half built it! I probably would have stayed in Bird's Leg Cabin, though. I hate leaving a place when I finally find that sense of home, y'know? Okay. Take a seat."

It's nice knowing that Raylan can express that kind of opinion and not start an out and out fight. He didn't mean the statement cruelly, only as a matter of fact, like the color of the sky. Besides, that wink was kinda charming.

Raylan sits and doesn't comment on the sense of home. He didn't know. Not anymore.

"One day you're gonna havta clue me in on the structure of 'how to start a cult'. Much weird stuff that y'all seem wildly okay with, I got a feeling it'd be a sight."

To be fair, that gruesome 'art' of bodies that Zane had did stuck with Raylan.

"I just go with the flow, man. I follow wherever my inspiration leads me."

He smiles wide, toothy and pleasant, gaze sweeping from Raylan's body to his hands, lingering on his fingers before he sighs happily, starting to pour the tea.

"I want that for you, Raylan. Inspiration. Which is why you're going to drink this."

He doesn't respond to the first, watching Zane openly right back, trying to just figure him out. They were radically different to one another in a way Raylan hadn't quite encountered before, likely from all the weird shit that they're - able to do? Forced to do? - that they've seen. He wanted to work them out.

I want that for you, Raylan. Inspiration. And then, before: You're too stuck on not letting anything from there out that you've hermetically sealed yourself off. But what if what lay back there scared the shit out of him? What if the monster of a man he could be lived in there, held back only by a few wavering principals.

Raylan takes the cup and frowns gently in at the liquid.

"What is it?"

"Tea." Raylan wants a better explanation. Tom decides he should probably give one, and he takes the other's hand and gently presses the small, already warm mug into his hands.

"Mushrooms. They're safe, don't worry, I checked." A beat. "Have checked. I'm a bit of an expert at this sorta stuff." Am still, technically, checking, but he keeps that to himself and raises his glass.

"Kippis, Raylan."

He appreciated the expanded explanation, cup firmly in his grasp and somehow, he's smart enough to not sniff it. That trust he'd mentioned to Zane long ago (felt like long ago, anyway) hadn't diminished, so he did in fact trust that they were safe. If not, he supposes Zane will go down with him.

He still frowns in soft consternation, but the 'cheers' brought him back up. It was rude to not cheers, rude to not drink afterwards too, so he lifts his cup towards Zane and downs it like its a shot. Raylan blinks at the cup, lips turning down a little at the taste that makes his eyes go even more squinty.

"I hope that was the right thing to do." Only then does he look at Zane to see what he did.

Zane's cup is gone in two quick gulps, and as he sets it down he brings his hands together to clap loudly in triumph.

"Atta boy," It's almost singsong as he watches the other, gaze sharp. "You sure you've never done it before? Most people make faces."

"Most people didn't grow up bein' forced to drink moonshine by old miners wantin' to see my shoot it out my nose and my soul leave my body topside," he said without thinking.

"If I go.. like weird, strip off my clothes, start thinkin' I'm talkin' to God or somethin'.. Promise me you won't let me outta this house. Can't have people seein' me act a fool."

Tom laughs at that, soft and not directed at Raylan--it's that it's truly his first time. When he reaches out, it's to grasp the other's jaw softly so he can make sure the other is looking at him.

"You might. I did my first time. But I won't let them see you, I promise."

He leans over, kissing him softly and chastely on the lips. When he lets go, his fingers linger, thumb brushing against jaw.

"Does it scare you? Not being in control?"

Raylan was sure that his nervousness about the endless possibility of what he was like unhinged beamed out of his gaze like a lighthouse alarm somehow, but he doesn't fight Tom's fingers or meeting those charming blues. And sure, his heart skips a little at the soft touch that lifts his jaw, something he fights against internally as Tom promises to keep him safe. God help him, he believed it.

He should have seen the kiss coming, what with Zane leaning in, but he doesn't until it's too late, leaving him quietly startled, eyes wider for the soft gesture. Shit. He shouldn't want that. He shouldn't want more.

Raylan swallows at the question that thankfully distracts him from everything else. Hell yes it scares him, but saying that out loud felt like an admission that might actually kill him.

"My impulses ain't the type that most people want out of control, if you know what I mean. I've.. been told I'm somethin' of an angry man." He didn't want that. He also didn't want Zane to see the worst parts of who he could be. He didn't want anyone seeing that.

"I don't know what not bein' in control is gonna look like."

Zane's already feeling it, the light thrumming as he re-doses himself--he's been on this bender for a few days straight--and he knows it's going to hit Raylan, too. Best to start slow. Best not to teeter into anything that's bad. Best to trick and twist for his own good.

Zane has to control it. Hopefully it's not too late, and Raylan's mind isn't already slipping down that track.

"Mmm-hmmm," Zane makes a noise of agreement, shifts so he's on the floor with his back against the couch, and gently urges Raylan to lay down, running a hand through his hair once his head is on his lap.

It's not the first time he's done this with other people. It won't be the last, either--and Zane is hoping it won't for Raylan, too. Especially Raylan.

"Try to think of floating. The tip of your head, down to your whole body. Float with me, Raylan. We're going diving."

Raylan questions if he's supposed to feel anything but as he scoots down and lays his head in Tom's lap, the world starts to shift around the edges and he's suddenly very glad that he's not upright. His dark eyes blow out, looking more black than not in the poor lighting.

"I used to swim. In collage. Always loved feelin' that weightlessness." His drawl was starting to get deeper, less consciously refined as he relaxes into the floor. It was hardwood under the rug but it felt like he was being held by the floor as much as he was Tom.

"Liked that I didn't have'ta worry about the water bein' poison." One hand comes up, finger hunting lazily across Tom's hip until he finds a bit of fabric to curl a finger into. For once, his brain didn't ridicule him for daring to allow himself to hold on back.

He can always tell the exact moment it hits, and Tom looks down and watches it with a wistful, fond look in his face as he continues to stroke Raylan's hair. There's a weightlessness as consciousness severs from body, tapping into the soul, stripping away guilt and shame and embarrassment and, if done right, negativity.

Or he's also high as fuck. Both of these things can be true. Tom smiles gently, allowing that finger to curl.

"It's clean and pure," he assures, keeping his voice soft and kind. "I was swimming here when I arrived. Do you want to dive down with me?"

The fingers in his hair were wildly comforting sensation right now and the deep breath that Raylan lets out empties his whole lungs. It felt like it was the first real breath he'd taken in almost the year that he'd been here. Or possibly his whole life.

"Yeah. You lead, I'll follow." He was relaxed but not fearful. He remained resolved, sure of his decisions right now. Some part of him wondered what he'd do if someone broke in right now, if someone made him pull his gun, but that voice was smothered under the lapping sound of water his brain readily supplied. The ocean. That place of endless freedom.

"What's at the bottom?"

Tom leans down from where he is, cradling Raylan's face in his hands, making sure his voice is a little closer. It's easy to lower his tone, make his voice a little smoother, a little softer. He's had practice with this, after all.

He just wishes there was some incense or something, something to make the routine seem fuller--but in the darkness and the snow, there's only so much he can do.

"This is the ritual to lead you on," he confirms as he kisses the other's forehead. The cabin is warping pleasantly for him, too, shifting and twisting in his own little world. It's heaven.

"There's a box, darling. Where you've put all your things."

Tom's words made Raylan's skin crawl with goosebumps, a sensation that ran fully across his form - from his head to his toes - and the kiss followed it with a ripple, like someone had tossed a stone into a river. Maybe he was the stone and Tom the tosser. He felt the box that Tom was talking about, in that abstract 'too deep into his own chest' kind of way, the rush of blood and drugs and hell, the breath he drew in, felt sharper. New.

"I don't want to open it," he admits. The freeness that the admission came with was something that Raylan would never have done, had he been straight and sober.

"Things put in boxes are usually meant to stay there. Safer for everyone."

Resistance. Tom expected as much coming in here--Alan and Raylan, far too similar, far too stubborn. There's things there, cracks starting to form in that tough exterior, but his guard's still up somewhat.

"Mmmm," he says something noncommital, a half-noise as he continues to think. Raylan needs more structure, then, just a bit. So Tom does what he does best and guides him further by helping him construct his hallucination.

"It's a shoebox. Nice and plain, calling to you. Don't be afraid--I'll close it if it gets too much."

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