Dorian left the room without any further prompting, only the tightly coiled ball of tension that was currently his body keeping him from flat-out fleeing. He felt like he need to punch something, except his dominant hand was currently weeping blood at a gradually slowing pace. He felt like he needed to go to his room and hide under the covers like a distressed child except this night had been a disaster already without the March warrior vanishing to selfishly lick his mental and physical wounds. What he knew, however, was that he didn't need anyone to talk to him right now. Everything was just so... so normal with the other month warriors. And, okay, yes, he absolutely knew that he didn't exactly look three seconds away from a mental breakdown, but he was Dorian- that was his modus operandi for dealing with stressful situations; standing perfectly still and tucking any particularly violent emotions away until he could deal with them. Everyone else, though, well, it was grating.
He could probably deal with a stranger right now- someone completely unaware of what just happened. Or someone who wouldn't ask questions, who would natter on about this and that so that Dorian didn't feel like he was on a team of... of hormonal and angsty teenagers. They weren't teenager anymore, but, oh, God, did it feel like they were, stuck in that awkward stage but without the excuses of hormones and puberty.
But now here was Autumn asking if he and Skylar were okay (absolutely not) and giving him a hug. It wasn't that Dorian didn't like hugs, it was just that he wasn't always the best with sudden physical contact, especially since the last time he'd touched someone in the last few hours had been holding onto a writhing mess of a man. He stiffened at the contact, but absently patted her shoulder with his uninjured hand. He knew that she meant well, even if the way she was acting so calmly motherly was nearly painful to endure. It was like she wanted to help but didn't really understand why they needed help or what help they needed. That was Autumn, though- entirely too obsessed with being an important member of the team without actually realizing that she already was.
Skylar spoke next, all of the bitterness she'd been near-silently suffering through dripping from her words like acid. But then even she was acting painfully casual or maybe she was just internalizing like he was? He took the thanks in stride, nodding his head in a short, stiff motion, a finger idly tracing the edge of his bandage. The bloody red was already starting to morph into a dried, rust color at the edges away from the cut. Just a few more hours to endure.
Then Xabier was by his side, a thank you tumbling from his lips that Dorian didn't feel like he deserved (it was the decent thing to do, he would have shrugged at any other moment, but he wasn't completely sure that if he hadn't done something, someone else would have).
"Was I in any way responsible for what had happened in there?"
What? Dorian blinked owlishly for a moment before realizing that, yes, Xabier was absolutely serious. He wasn't sure what that question meant- that Xabier thought they were all homophobes or that they were just really unable to accept his relationship with Harper, that Xabier was self-absorbed or self-hating and blamed everything that was bad in his life and others' on himself, or that something said about him had been the straw to break the Harper-camel's back. The answer was so painfully and obviously, in Dorian's mind, no. Yes, Xabier was brought up and maybe that had been a minor part of Tallyho and Kyle's list of grievances, but the problem had been with Harper and all the growing animosity between the Month Warriors for the past few years.
"I-" he began until Falke swooped in with sharp words and more situational awareness than anyone else was showing before wandering off to practice what he preached. What Dorian didn't except was Xabier's reaction. Towards Falke, yes. Towards him? No.
It was true that Dorian had never been fond of Xabier. At best he was neutral towards him and at worst, well, bitterly neutral. Xabier had never liked him, had made that evident back at the Academy and had generally spent their last few years together either ignoring him or generally looking irritated with him. Dorian had responded, of course, by ignoring and avoiding him because he didn't have the time or energy for stupid quarrels with no real basis in reality. And now, oh, now that Dorian had saved his boyfriend or fuckbuddy or whatever they were to each other, now that he hadn't spoken quickly enough for the Spaniard's liking since, Dorian was very sorry, Falke had cut him off, Xabier was acting like Dorian had done something terribly, terribly cruel, like he'd just ridiculed him or bitched at him or... or.... that Dorian, who had literally never done anything to him, had been to one to scold him and overtly dislike him instead of the other way around. It tipped the balance of Dorian's so carefully maintained self-control when Xabier shot him a withering look before marching off in a huff, an honest-to-God huff.
"Fucking plebian," He hissed, eyes narrowed and lips pulled back into a scowl.
And maybe he didn't mean it and maybe Xabier was just being extraordinarily pissy because of his nasty shock a few moments ago, but Dorian felt pretty damn good about it. The only thing he regretted was the last word- not because it was particularly rude and elitist, which it totally was, but because he sounded exactly like... like... A hand shot to his mouth. He sounded exactly like Trent. The word was one of the General's favorites, used to describe everything from bad booze to one or all of the month warriors. And Dorian had just said it. Good God. Maybe he was spending too much time with him?
Well, no. Trent may have been a legitimately terrible and anti-social human being, but, and Dorian hated to admit this, the man had grown on him in their time together. Maybe it was his lack of censorship, the fact that he ignored the other month warriors, or, more likely than not, because he was vaguely fond of Dorian. He never caused Dorian too much drama, he was entirely blunt and painfully honest, he always acted in the same way, his fits of pique didn't seem to lead to suicide attempts...
Before he had time for any more introspection that might have taken him to a very dark place, he was faced with a new situation entirely. He'd seen Tallyho's approach, all flushed cheeks and fat, rolling tears coating her face before she'd buried her face in his shoulder. His arms reached around her automatically, pulling her closer partially to hold her up and partially because this was a hug he didn't mind giving in the slightest.
Eyes were being drawn to their little scene, darted then overtly staring. Dorian, with his solid grip on propriety and, right now, Tallyho, knew what to do. He ushered her out of the room, a half-hearted promise of fixing Tallyho's make-up and re-bandaging his hand murmured towards Mildred as they hurried past. He didn't stop outside the doors, however- no, he pulled her into the building's depths, past this hallway here, down that corridor there until they were in a small, enclosed room, just as grand as the rest and, most likely thank not, used purely as decoration as opposed to a real function. He never let go, even as he led her to a well-placed chaise-lounge and sat down beside her.
He didn't ask her what was wrong- their relationship had never been like that. Problems were given on a voluntary basis with only concerned gestures and eyes allowed as prompts. The uninjured hand was rubbing gentle circles on her back.
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It is to be noted that, despite everything that had just happened, no one else really knew what was going on. Princess Morgan continued to play with Karma and Mori (who both decided to humor her in return), dignitaries remained indignant and far less dignified with a little alcohol in them, and the Guardians, well... The Guardians were left out of the loop and it was driving Ryou up the wall.
He stood near the back wall, sipping his wine instead of gulping because, yes, he did quite like the idea of alcohol right now, but it was also rose wine and he was about as sick of anything rose-themed as a particularly grumpy child was sick of Mickey Mouse after staying at Disney World for a week. He'd seen the mixed emotions bogging down the month warriors during the ceremony, had caught sight of Mildred looking murderous, and had even caught a glimpse of Haru's furious face some time ago before all of the month warriors had vanished to parts unknown.
Another sip. The taste was like the essence of a dozen rose-themed perfumes, but the alcohol provided a sharp aftertaste.
Not that he ever really knew what was going on anymore. He, and, really, the rest of the Guardians had once been part of a team, one leader-like person but eleven generals to provide advice and assistance at all times. Now, after they'd left the Academy, it was the Haru show with the rest of the Guardians retreating until they were personal cheerleaders for their warriors and occasionally dabbled in slapping metaphorical bandages onto the emotional, mental, and physical wounds of the other warriors. That would have been obnoxious all on its own if Haru was actually handling it well. But he wasn't. He looked like death warmed over, like the weight of the world that he'd placed on his shoulders was about to break him into a thousand pieces. And yet...
Another sip. God, this was awful. The situation and the wine.
And yet he refused to ask for help and kept the burden on himself. That wasn't fine per say, but it felt like he was resenting them for it. It was like he hadn't realized that he'd created a self-fulfilling prophecy of martyrdom, shrugging off any attempts to get involved. It was something that Ryou had grown to hate about Haru, but at the same time lo...
"Cat got your tongue?" A sudden voice amidst the crowd caused him to nearly jump, eyes darting towards the interloper with the unmistakable rasp.
"I...What?"
"Cat got your tongue. That's an expression you people use, yeah?" It was Dae, today dressed in a plain but well made forest green outfit. Anonymity might mean no recognition, but the knight seemed to revel in choosing their outfit of the day without any minding the shift.
"Yes, yes," Ryou bobbed his head, sipped his wine, grimaced, and noticed something quite odd. "Where's Liam?"
"Back in the rooms," Dae replied, plucking the glass of what was basically pink-colored flower juice from his hand and taking a sniff. She sneezed and Ryou failed to fight the smile that wormed its way onto his face when she hastily dumped the contents into a nearby potted plant. "Did you a favor there."
"That you did. But that still doesn't explain why he's not here."
"Said he didn't want to go if I wouldn't dance with him. Can't really help that they gave me a men's outfit, can I? Didn't want to cause a stir," Dae shrugged. "He's okay now. We talked it out and everything. Wants me to steal him something sweet."
It had always amazed Ryou that two of the most bizarre students that he'd ever taken on in his time as a teacher ended up being the healthiest couples that he'd ever seen. Who would have thought that a dark-magic obsessed sociopath and a gender-fluid fighter from one of the more mysterious tribes would do what so many so-called "normal" people could not?
"Saw Haru going out to the balcony in a hurry. Did you ever figure out what happened?"
"No." Ryou said and for a moment hesitated. No, no it had to be done. If the Month Warriors were going to cause an international incident tonight, he had to know why. "But I will soon. Excuse me." With that he left the knight who had already helped themselves to what may or may not have been non-alchoholic cider (with a hint of rose) and marched towards the balcony.
It was easy to find, extremely so even with all of the people meandering around discussing irrelevant and most likely obnoxious things. Now, he thought with liquid courage running hot in his veins, was the time to speak up, to ask, to... to... the line of thought was lost because Haru wasn't alone. No, Haru was with someone very, painfully familiar. He'd know that face anywhere, that voice, those eyes. The man who'd let his Academy burn to the ground, who'd murdered his students in cold blood, who'd ruined the only home some had ever known to get to the Month Warriors. And here he was, chatting up Haru and if Ryou had heard correctly, offering to save him. To save him, Haru.
It took him a split second to decide what to do.
He slid back inside, out of sight and perhaps out of mind, pressed up against the wall like there was a physical force keeping him in place. He wanted to wring the man's neck, to break every bone one by one until he begged for death. To watch him burn, burn until there were nothing but a pathetic pile of ashes left. But he would not because Haru... Because Haru was talking to him and as much as Ryou hated himself for it, even if Haru stabbed him in the chest or let the slurs fly, Ryou would follow him to Hell if he so wished it. He was a fool, but a fool for things that did not involve attempting to murder someone who could be used. But he wouldn't go too far, no, no. He would stay like a loyal lap dog turned guard dog, vigilant and waiting for their master's command.
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