Prompto Argentum (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hashtag_chocobro) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomhighdorms2019-06-24 05:37 am
hashtag_chocobro) wrote in fandomhighdorms2019-06-24 05:37 am
Entry tags:
Third Floor Boys' Bathroom; Monday [06/24].
No amount of hot water and soap and showering was going to be able to wash off the last week.
But that wasn't going to stop Prompto Argentum from trying. And it wasn't even about the fact that, no matter how hard he scrubbed, his skin remained that awful, awful shade of grey (and yes, yes, he had noticed it was all greys and blacks and whites now, only without the benefit of him also being an adorable little puppy like last time)...because it was gone, actually gone, all those spikes and horns and tail, the black and red ichor contantly flowing from his eyes, his pores, his cuts and wounds, the insanity that drove him, the desire to just hurt things and ruin them and destroy them, feeding off the fear, the terror, the pain. He was back to himself again, back to Prompto, back to who he was, not what he was supposed to have been.
He'd lost track by now how many times he'd thrown up on his staggering return to the dorms; he was surprised how he managed to still find swells of sobbing inside, just when he thought he was done, it was over, there was nothing left in him anymore. No amount of hot water or soap or showering or time was going to wash this way, but he stood there underneath the shower in the boys' bathroom on his floor until the water ran cold, and he stayed there until he started shivering, and the shivering just reminded him of transforming, the violence of all his nightmares made real, and there he was, throwing up again, finally turning off the water as he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grabbed a towel to wrap around himself as he found a wall, slid down in, and just...sat, staring at his hands, thinking of what they'd been capable of, staring at his barcode, thinking of how that was what they were always meant to do...
Man....fuck this place.
And Prompto was just going to stay there until he figured out just what he wanted to do about this, and he wasn't sure, so he figured he was going to be there a while. Good thing there were no classes this week, right? And he figured, if he was going to be anywhere, this would be a good spot if he wanted to avoid anyone who might be looking for him. There were, what, five guys in this whole school? And while a good chunk of them were on this floor, the bathrooms were pretty quiet. And he felt he was probably safe from Nina in here, too; she was a proper lady, after all, wouldn't dare go into a boys' bathroom!
Vette, on the other hand...
...so that was why, if anyone should try, they'd find all the vents into this place properly boobytrapped.
Though Prompto personally hoped (and didn't hope, like, at all, it was complicated) that they wouldn't really have even bothered, anyway. That they wouldn't have cared. That would make this thing so much easier...
...fuck this place.
[[oh, hey, bathroom post! s'open! ]]
But that wasn't going to stop Prompto Argentum from trying. And it wasn't even about the fact that, no matter how hard he scrubbed, his skin remained that awful, awful shade of grey (and yes, yes, he had noticed it was all greys and blacks and whites now, only without the benefit of him also being an adorable little puppy like last time)...because it was gone, actually gone, all those spikes and horns and tail, the black and red ichor contantly flowing from his eyes, his pores, his cuts and wounds, the insanity that drove him, the desire to just hurt things and ruin them and destroy them, feeding off the fear, the terror, the pain. He was back to himself again, back to Prompto, back to who he was, not what he was supposed to have been.
He'd lost track by now how many times he'd thrown up on his staggering return to the dorms; he was surprised how he managed to still find swells of sobbing inside, just when he thought he was done, it was over, there was nothing left in him anymore. No amount of hot water or soap or showering or time was going to wash this way, but he stood there underneath the shower in the boys' bathroom on his floor until the water ran cold, and he stayed there until he started shivering, and the shivering just reminded him of transforming, the violence of all his nightmares made real, and there he was, throwing up again, finally turning off the water as he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grabbed a towel to wrap around himself as he found a wall, slid down in, and just...sat, staring at his hands, thinking of what they'd been capable of, staring at his barcode, thinking of how that was what they were always meant to do...
Man....fuck this place.
And Prompto was just going to stay there until he figured out just what he wanted to do about this, and he wasn't sure, so he figured he was going to be there a while. Good thing there were no classes this week, right? And he figured, if he was going to be anywhere, this would be a good spot if he wanted to avoid anyone who might be looking for him. There were, what, five guys in this whole school? And while a good chunk of them were on this floor, the bathrooms were pretty quiet. And he felt he was probably safe from Nina in here, too; she was a proper lady, after all, wouldn't dare go into a boys' bathroom!
Vette, on the other hand...
...so that was why, if anyone should try, they'd find all the vents into this place properly boobytrapped.
Though Prompto personally hoped (and didn't hope, like, at all, it was complicated) that they wouldn't really have even bothered, anyway. That they wouldn't have cared. That would make this thing so much easier...
...fuck this place.
[[oh, hey, bathroom post! s'open! ]]
no subject
He was a sensitive soul, really.
So he was getting texts at random intervals. Did he have his phone on him? No idea. Nina figured, though, if he didn't answer her in a day or so she'd hunt him down.
A simple You okay????????????????????? to start things off.
Then, like, some hearts.
Then The weird that happened had nothing to do with your weird. Which, like, probably doesn't help but is still true.
The lack of incessant punctuation there was the biggest sign that Nina was a bit worried about him. (More than a bit.)
Nina's next few texts were spaced out a bit more and had nothing to do with the weekend, though, as she sent him a picture of Foomy hugging a thimble, one of Miss Dozy sleeping on Nina's moogle doll, and a few selfies of her fabulous hair. (She looked a bit tired, fine, but her hair game was on point. Besides, who wouldn't want to see her face?)
Last week changed nothing about who you are. Prompto. Yellow Diamond. Total dweeb.
Nina hesitated on calling him a dweeb, she did, but it was also true and if he didn't know that she totally adored him at this point then, well, not saying it wasn't really going to help.
I was a monster last week too, she said, and that's not normally me. That's not normally you, either, no matter how or where or why you were born, Prompto.
Then, and this one took some finagling because taking a picture of her hands was not very easy to do while holding her phone, and eventually Nina managed to wrangle Foomy into helping her with it ('hit the button' should not have been so hard to get across to her jelly demon but, well…) he was also getting a picture of her hands, forming a diamond.
She didn't say she loved him, though she did, because Nina honestly wasn't sure how he'd take it to mean or how she'd mean for it to be taken, but… did it really matter how she loved him, when she just did? As easily as breathing?
Nina didn't know, so she left it there, with the diamond, and let him have his space. It itched at her to not do more, but… well, he knew she was there, if he needed her, right?
no subject
He...knew he should probably at least send a response. Him not saying anything was more likely to send up more red flags than anything he would respond with in an attempt to make it seem like everything was okay. He should just shoot off a response with a bunch of jokes and smiling emoji, laugh it off, shrug it off, everything was fine, everything was okay! It wouldn't be that hard; that was basically what he always did. He was an expert at brushing it off, pushing it down, ignoring it and burying it under happy-go-lucky verve and spunk.
But he just...couldn't. He couldn't stomach trying to dig himself out of the empty pit he'd found himself in on false cheer and smiles. Not right now. He was too numb right now to pull it off, too numb to push himself to feel anything like that. So he just kept sitting there, at some point going and turning the water back on just to let it run, just to have the sound of something other than his chiming phone, and instead focused on thinking up excuses. He didn't get the message because he'd lost his phone. He didn't find it until later, he'd spent all day looking. He didn't get the messages until later because he was sleeping, he was exhausted, he'd only just woken up. Sorry, I got lost in a video game. Sorry, I had my own head too far up my own ass. Sorry, I just...can't do this anymore...
...sorry, sorry, sorry...
Ah, shit. And now he was crying all over again. What a stupid, useless, weak, spineless, pathetic, piece of crap....