lostcarnival | ITP: LARS DEALS WITH STRESS POORLY (A SHOCKER)

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ITP: LARS DEALS WITH STRESS POORLY (A SHOCKER)

Who: Lars and YOUUUUUU
When: S1:D41 morning, afternoon and late night
Where: 1) home trailer, 2) ferriswheel, 3) misc right
What: Lars gets his first changes! And also, loses his mind a little! He's shaken up by changes, and also the events from the Matrix finale.
Warnings: As always, Lars's potty mouth. But also, booze?????

BTW i will mimic format- so if you wanna do prose or action either's cool

➨ 1. Holy Fuck Not This Shit (closed to Strange)
Lars wakes groggily, feeling exhausted. His sleep schedule's all fucked up—he hasn't been able to sleep well since the shooting at the Big Top, and not having work to drag his ass out of bed just makes the problem worse. Miserable as he is, on top of sleepless nights, it's so easy to just stay in bed all day. But even for Lars, it's been a lot of sleep.

Having concluded his 13 hours of recent sleep around 2pm, Lars finally pushes himself up. He then realizes his mouth feels—weird. He moves his tongue in his mouth, which feels too full, and finds his teeth feel... thinner. Horrified and suddenly very awake, Lars lurches forward, parting his mouth a little bit to touch his teeth—which are all thin, long and sharp, doubled in number.

In response, Lars lets out a pretty long, shrill scream.

➨ 2. Drown Your Sorrows (or Don't)
It has been a pretty dang shitty couple of weeks. Besides having his second harrowing near death encounter with Steven, wherein he was almost shot one or nine times, that which Lars has been anticipating with dread for several weeks has finally occurred. After following up the horrifying discovery of his first transformation with an undoubtedly infuriating exchange with his annoying roommate, Lars has decided to finally get the hell out of the trailer, for better or for worse.

Overwhelmed with despair, anxiety and this momentary anger, Lars decides to follow some very stupid advice, because he's completely at a loss. He doesn't have any friends here—besides Steven, who Lars wouldn't want to unload on (he has trouble opening up to even his best friends; he wasn't about to make a kid listen to that), and he doesn't have any sufficient distractions for his rapid firing Gen X brain. So after a few cursory inquiries, Lars gets to the cook house. And with entitled confidence, he swipes a bottle of liquor, but does wait until he's positive he won't really be caught.

He shoves into his bomber jacket side, zipping it, and squeezes it in place with his elbow as he storms out. Kind of following another thread of advice, Lars heads for the ferris wheel. It's currently unmanned, since it's off week, and Lars abuses his POWER OF KEYS!! to open up the gate around it and clamber into one of the low hanging carriages.

There, he shoves himself down on the seat, scowling. He fishes out the bottle, grumbling as he screws off the cap of it, his head a dumb echo chamber of self pity—and naturally, follows that up with a swig of what appears to be some heavy, brown liquor. His eyes immediately go wide and he sputters, only managing to swallow half his swig before he spits the rest out gracelessly. This dissolves into a bunch of coughing and a hard, full body shudder as Lars winces his eyes shut, hiding his mouth behind his sleeve as he attempts to recover.

Whyyyy do people drink this shit, actually?????

➨ 3. Panic! At the Center Stage
Having failed miserably at unwinding his tension that day, and having woken up rather late, Lars is wide awake and anxious around midnight. He made it back to his trailer earlier in the night, but is feeling restless again. He gets up, grabs his bomber and abruptly departs again.

He decides going for a walk—a sober walk (not that he'd even gotten drunk) at night in the crisp air might soothe his brain a little bit. Well, maybe. So he just anxiously strolls about at a quick, unrelated pace, his arms shoved into the pockets of his jacket with stiff, uncomfortable posture. As he's walking, he feels himself actually begin to get worse—he increases the pace of his steps to a jog as he feels his heart race for no reason.

He squeezes his eyes shut as he begins to run, veering away from the center stage in a hurry. He stops somewhere near the misc right, winded, and rests his palms on top of his knees as he hangs his head. Once he kind of catches his breath, he hiccups a little with a small sob, chin dimpling. He straightens up, putting his hands over his face as he takes a deep breath, trying to get himself to calm down so he doesn't cry in public like a complete fuckin' baby.

[ooc: for reference, he looks like this!]

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Chiaki rarely has much reason to extricate herself from Yuugi, who she cuddles with on a fairly regular basis now, every night. But sleep is coming to her slowly, and the stumping walk outside her trailer disturbs her. She rouses herself and looks out the window -- and manages to recognize the lanky figure turning the corner.

This isn't her business, she thinks. He probably just wants to be left alone.

She goes looking for him anyway.

Her hops aren't exactly quiet, and she doesn't have much of a lead on where Lars went. But it isn't blind hope leading her as she eases herself out of the trailer, still in her nightshirt. Her keen ears follow Lars' walk, eventually a run, and she begins to hop after him, as quietly as she can. It's not until he stops that she manages to catch up.

Speaking of complete fuckin' babies...

"Well now," says a boy's voice, gone very soft. There's a little sigh to accompany it, something sounding bone-weary, a stretching of limbs and probably the heart. "Well now." This time it's a little louder; he must want to be heard. Not that he sounds angry or anything. Not that he sounds much of any way in particular...

A mild glow hits the air as Alois Trancy peeks himself around the edge of the center stage's perimeter. He must have been tucking himself away, up against the stage's shadowed flank. Now he reveals himself just enough to let his squinting eyes glitter at Lars in his own luminescence.

He gives one sniff, for once more practical than haughty. "I was crying here first," he says finally. His voice doesn't crack or anything, but at least he sounds serious. His cheeks are wet, too, so there's that. His gemstones have finally reached his face, in just a couple of places, including one tiny amethyst that almost functions as a beauty mark below his eye. When he blinks over at Lars, his wet eyelashes almost stick together, and his elongated ears give more of a twitch than his passive face.

Lars is too distracted by his debatably petty turmoil to notice Chiaki, and he sniffles, wiping his eyes and cheeks. Occasionally, thick tears drop from his eyes. He isn't crying a heavy, messy cry, and he hasn't since his coworker trapped him on an island, really—it's just a dam that's been waiting to crack, but Lars has been doing a good job keeping it at bay. He doesn't wanna lose the entirety of his shit now.

Grumbling, Lars takes a deep, deep breath, wiping his eyes for what's hopefully the final time. He clenches his fists, trying to veer his mind away from the fact that he's turning into a hideous monster—and that he misses his parents, and Sadie, and the entire dumb city. He focuses on his breathing, but can still feel he's uncomfortably teetering on the edge of a breakdown.

"Calm down," he mumbles at himself shakily. "God, calm down, calm down, calm down..."

"Fuck!!"

Lars jumps considerably, his hands lifted in immediate panic when he hears Alois—only catching him the second time, and he whirls around to catch him. He recognizes him immediately, but sees that—he's also a little different. Come to think of it, Lars isn't sure he's seen Alois very recently. He'd assumed that Alois had gone through all his changes. He looks shocked, momentarily, like he's at a loss for words.

Then, things sinking in again, he hurriedly wipes his face with his arm, making a weird sound between a growl and a shout. "Nnnnngah! Damn it, I ain't cryin'," he lies obviously, knowing full well that he was caught. But whatever. "I'm just allergic to shitty magical circus hellscapes."

At least he's embarrassed enough to be pulled away from his impending fit of sobbing, for now.

This isn't her business, she thinks.

It's not entirely clear to her what to do, really. Her coworker is just standing there sort of talking to himself. He's obviously not okay.

When she isn't okay, sometimes she just needs some time to herself. But sometimes she doesn't. She hasn't really figured that out herself.

She fiddles with the game console in her pocket, and flicks the on switch by mistake, causing the little machine to emit a loud musical chime -- startling her as much as it does Lars.

"Careful," a voice came from behind. "You're liable to combust if you drink Islay scotch like that."

Ah, the taste of peat and barley. And the smell, too, once a bottle's open; once she picked up on it it was like a vulture to carrion. So Koel steps forward, still behind Lars' carriage as she speaks.

"You're not a very good delinquent, you know. Or good at choosing a less staunch drink."

Edited 2017-01-11 01:45 (UTC)

At the display—Lars is right to be embarrassed, in Alois' opinion—both of Alois' eyebrows raise, although his eyes are only about half-lidded... before his eyebrows crease a little, in the center, angled upward. His mouth twitches— "Haha—" It's pretty close to actual laughter. Then he huffs out a short breath as though he's offended by that fact.

"...Okay," he says, at last, settling with his shoulder against the side of the center stage, still out of view. But what is visible of him indicates a mellow posture. "I hear you want a change of landscape, for an affliction like that, but I wager that's rather the point here, isn't it. Well, maybe you just need to build up a tolerance." The line of his mouth is thin, but raises just enough that it might be called a smile. He disappears, though, quite suddenly, pulling his head back around the corner and out of sight.

One moment more, and now comes his hand, still crested with crusts of gems, still glowing in that eerie magical way. He's wearing his gold-and-ruby ring, of course. There's a lemon in his palm, just a little one. "Here," comes his disembodied voice.

Strange had been sitting at the table, writing in a small little notebook. Childermass was keeping notes, he might as well take notes also. After all, the other man was definitely going to leave before he would. He's so wrapped up in his writing and making his notes that he doesn't notice Lars has woken up in the slightest...until Lars lets out an ear-splitting scream and Strange almost falls out of his chair.

Well obviously something's wrong. Getting up, he rushes over towards Lars's room...and then pauses for once because he's gotten yelled at enough for suddenly appearing via mirror, he's not going to be yelled at this time. So, tentatively, Strange yells in Lars's general direction,

"Is everything alright?"

Lars jumps and then stills in both fear and mortification, his hand still clamped over his mouth, its twin around the neck of the bottle. Unable to help it, he coughs against his hand, tears in his eyes from the burn. Not knowing anything about alcohol, it's no wonder Lars went and picked something so... inappropriate.

He coughs again, wiping his mouth as he turns to face Koel and scowl. His instinct is to shrink in shame apologetically, because he—stole, in the height of wild, angry teen boy emotions.

He sniffs once.

"Who's a delinquent," he mutters rhetorically, intending to sound cranky, but it sounds more sulky. "Booze is free, ain't it. Compensation for turning into disgusting freaks?"

He shudders again, a little. Eugh. Even on the aftertaste, it's awful; Lars absolutely can't handle bitter flavors.

Lars jumps, then wheels around wildly. In the dark, it takes him a moment, but he spots Chiaki pretty easily. His eyes widen, his personal nightmares coming true&well, some of them: someone catching him crying, it's someone he works with, and it's a girl.

"You!" He says with unintentionally scathing bite, then hurriedly wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "What're you doin' out here?! Augh!"

Now his anxiety is tripling, and he's super embarrassed. He's fighting his instinct to book it.

She goes bright red, and for a moment she just freezes. So obviously this wasn't the right move. She shouldn't even have come here. This was a terrible idea.

But then she sees Lars' panicked face and realizes that that's her responsibility now. She needs to fix this.

She slowly pulls the game console out of her pocket, illuminating the space between them and her own regretful face.

"I got it back. It's your turn now, isn't it?"

Lars pauses, taken aback. First, because a dickhead like Alois did actually politely sidestep the fact that Lars was crying—that was ripe material to humiliate Lars, but then, Lars does kind of expect the absolute worst out of everyone around him as some demented form of hyper vigilence. Second, because he's...

giving him a tiny lemon?

He takes it, rotating it in his fingertips, staring at it for a second. Lars sniffs, then cracks a short laugh, almost a scoff. He looks at Alois incredulously, the inflection of his voice high, rubbing a wet corner of his eye with the knuckles of his hand.

"The hell'm I supposed to do with this, you little fuckin' weirdo?"

It just isn't Lars's day, is it? Because the way he lifted that bottle — poorly, by the way — was enough to draw Childermass's attention. He's mostly been lurking, not much interested in chatting after the entire 'agent possession' ordeal, but at the very least he should go after the poor lad and tell him he's a terrible thief.

So he does, only he doesn't bother lifting the 'don't see me' spell right up until after Lars has holed up in the ferris wheel carriage and proven, not only is he a bad thief, but he's also a really bad drinker.

"Have you even ever drunk anything like that before?"

Surprise, surprise, Lars isn't alone in the carriage, though Childermass has at least been kind enough to end up sitting across from him rather than right next to. It's already creepy enough, no need to make it that much worse. Anyway, speaking out is what breaks the invisibility. So, yeah. Just suddenly there. That's magicians for you. He's even acting as though there's nothing weird about it at all, instead holding a hand out for the bottle.

"Here, let me see that."

Edited 2017-01-11 02:07 (UTC)

"Not if you're underaged." This poor kid looks ready to drip snot from his nose hairs being singed. "'Freak' or no. You shouldn't worry about drowning your sorrows as a kid. You'l have plenty of time as an adult to find the right drink, I'm sure."

Edited 2017-01-11 02:15 (UTC)

"You eat it." Voice: still disembodied. His empty hand hangs in the air a moment, before it withdraws as well, so all that's left of him is the weirdness of his words: "I'm sitting here eating lemons tonight." And crying. But he'd already mentioned that part. "Tolerance, I just said it, just said, you've got to build up a tolerance. Start with lemons. That's the big idea right now."

It's a great fad, I heard about it from a foreign prince who told me it was all the rage in his land, it cures every heartbreak known to any man, it's all worthwhile. Lots of fun and ridiculous lies he could say, but he's tired, so instead there's just the soft thud of his head resting against the stage's side.

"So rude, as ever, you make such bad impressions." His voice has tilted down into something sour... which may be a good thing, since it's at least more of an emotional output than his recent vocal wither. "I gave you a small one, it's not so bad, just accept the kindness and do as you ought to. It's good for you."

"No!!" Lars shouts back, then claps his hands over his mouth, because that word—felt...weird. It's good that Strange didn't barge into his room, though, because Lars is naked. He jumps out of his blankets a little clumsily, and grabs a pair of underwear off the floor. He hops into them unsteadily, then examines himself in the mirror (he now makes it a habit to be dressed in front of mirrors, okay).

He...screams again, seeing his eyes, and leans forward, pulling his lower eyelids down. He opens his mouth, jolting with shock as he sees his teeth and reeling back. He comes back forward, however, to roll out his tongue, curious because he'd seen some strange blue gums. His tongue basically topples out, twice as long, a little thinner, and ultraviolet.

"Holy thit!!"

"I am an adult!" Lars shoots back indignantly, which isn't quite true. He's almost done being 17, but he's... not. "Besides, this is a freaking melting pot of—ten billion universes, or something!" Lars gestures grandly with frustration to the mid day sky. "You tellin' me the freakin ringleader or whatever gives a shit about how old I am if I wanna drink this garbage?? Who're you, the police?"

Lars points at Koel using... the hand holding the scotch... Not a good look, Lars.

Lars looks at Chiaki with wide, watery eyes, clearly hesitant. Somewhere, he feels a little surprised. He hasn't been especially mean to Chiaki or anything, but...

"Wh—y'lost it?" He sniffs, furrowing his eyebrows suspiciously.

Well, it was better than scotch... Which is disgusting, by the way.

"Y'don't—gotta do that, or anything..."

Edited 2017-01-11 02:21 (UTC)

"I'm the Head Cook." Koel's eyebrow raise at this. "Food and drink falls under my supervision, so yes, dear. I'm afraid I am the police on that subject."

She folds her arms, her voice firm.

"So, I would like the bottle back, please. If you want something to drink, I can suggest non-alcoholic alternatives that may be more to your tastes than bog booze."

She swallows the truth. "Yeah." Lost it. Let's go with that.

"So I've been playing a lot tonight. So... that makes it your turn, right?"

Gala Omega's cheery tune floats up from the controller, waiting for a player input.

The screaming continues. Along with...Lars lisping? Well. That's new. Strange weighs his options for a few moments. Does he barge in? Is everything alright? Normally, Strange would straight up barge in but well, once you've accidentally seen your flatmate naked by barging in via mirror multiple times, you don't really want to see that again.

As such, for once in his life, Strange is using caution.

"Look, I'm going to come in in a few seconds, alright?"

Lars blushes when he's called out on his bad behavior, and the truth of his bad track record on first impressions. It wasn't really any wonder he didn't have many friends—he knew that. He tries not to ask what's up with Alois's voice—it's clearly a part of his new changes, and if he was out here crying himself, Lars gets the impression that he could do without attention being called to any of this new stuff.

"Who just...eats a lemon, though?" Lars asks sincerely, looking at the lemon dubiously before looking back up at Alois. "I mean, look, it's ...nice that you're givin' me one, or whatever, but I can't just eat it by itself." He sniffs, idly wiping a cheek that still feels cool from the wetness. He's distracted enough that his episode is passing. "I gotta use it when I'm like cookin' or somethin'..."

This is kind of loaded soft spot of Lars's. He recoils almost bashfully, his fingers curled at his collarbones, elbows bent. He wants to get mad that she's pitying him, but she's also actually been pretty consistently kind to him. So maybe... he shouldn't shit all over that; he's learned his lesson about taking tenacious kindness for granted, to some extent.

He sniffs, then glances away as his face goes hot, scowling as he rubs the corner of his eye.

"...Yeah, alright."

When she hands him the console, she's a little startled to see his face.

But he wouldn't be the first person to get mad about her mentioning that, if she did. So she holds her tongue.

"I'm really glad I got it back. Sometimes I play it when I can't sleep."

Oh jesus. The head cook. Lars's eyes widen, and he feels admonished by his own embarrassment immediately—in addition to Koel's rightfully firm tone. There's admiration from Lars in the title, so he rightfully, finally, feels like an asshole.

But Lars isn't in the habit of good manners or apologies. He frowns, shoulders slumping with defeat, and he gets up. He easily steps out of the carriage with his long stride, approaching Koel his shame is apparent in his lack of eye contact.

"Whatever." He extends a twiggy arm forward, presenting her the bottle without flourish or grace. "This shit's nasty, anyway."

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ITP: LARS DEALS WITH STRESS POORLY (A SHOCKER)

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