Christofer has a minion!

Riley the Noctou

Too many people, too loud, too small of a space.

Desmond is drowning. His lungs have stopped functioning and he can't swallow. The pain in his jaw from grinding his teeth is shooting straight to his head, wherein resides a gnarly migraine. There are so many people. Well over a hundred, maybe two and a half. All seeming to be screaming his name, vying for his attention. Wanting to touch him. Take his picture. Hug him. He can't take it; he needs out now.

But Rexton is doing fine, Cales is hugging people and posing for pictures. Victora is shaking hands, doing her little awkward pat on the back whenever she's pulled into a hug. People don't understand about her personal space, Desmond thinks. They think they know everything, but they don't realize we're humans and we have problems. Maybe we don't want to be touched and definitely not fondled or manhandled or bossed around. God, can't anyone fucking see I'm about to legitimately die?

Desmond can feel that his hands are shaking, but it doesn't register in his mind. There's a man beside him, arms folded, trying to look cool. Desmond puts on his best fake smile and winces after the flash of the camera goes off. He hopes they didn't catch it in the picture. Next, a short young woman smiles timidly and holds out her hand. She says hello, tells him her name as he shakes her hand. He has to ask her to repeat it. He hears it the first time, but it didn't register. Demi.

She looks at him, frowning, and takes his hand again. He starts to protest-- he's supposed to stay, doesn't want to go anywhere with some random girl anyway-- but she assures him she's not going to kidnap him with a cynical set in her lips.

He's not sure why he lets her pull him along. They push through the crowd and arrive at a door that Desmond thinks is an exit. The red sign above it confirms his suspicion.

"Where are we going?" His voice cracks, and it only serves as kindling to the fire of his anxiety. It more like ice, rather than fire. It slowly fills his body and mind, shutting everything down as it becomes worse. Soon, it will kill him. Desmond is sure of this.

"You really need to get out of here." She looks back at him with an empathetic expression.

"Really, though, I'm fine." Desmond shrugs as she tugs on his hand as they emerge into the dark alley. He's sure he's just as obvious as the fans that pose next to him, nonchalant. She mumbles something to herself as she looks around, probably to see if they're alone. When she's satisfied, she closes the door behind them and stands in front of him. She seems to straighten to her full height, but her 5'2 has nothing on his strong 6'3 frame. "This is just getting sketchier," he tries to joke. It falls flat and he knows that even someone who's never gone through this can tell that he's about to have a mental break of some sort.

"Don't freak out," she says suddenly and then she's patting at the front pockets of his pants. Desmond stiffens, about to bolt, but she lays a firm hand on his shoulder and pulls his pack of cigarettes out with the other. She quickly lights one using the lighter shoved in the half empty packet and hands it to him. He stares, confused for a short moment, then takes a long, much needed drag.

"Anxiety?"

"Yeah," he says quietly and finds that he'd held the smoke in so long it isn't visible upon exhalation. His mind is a clusterfuck and he doesn't think to question some strange woman lighting his cigarette for him, what she might have, why she's helping him, how she has the guts to pat him down. For all she knew, he could be so bad that his first reflex was to push her. Her being so small, he could have really hurt her. He still could. But she's standing back now, a wistful smile on her face while she blows her own smoke skyward. He hadn't even noticed her bumming one of his own cigarettes.

"I get it. With how often you must have people around you, like The Often Told, I'm surprised you''ve not gone completely batshit. Even if you're okay with them, performing and meeting people like this must really do a number on you. I sure as hell couldn't do it."

"Demi, right? Thanks," Desmond nods to himself and gives her a weak smile.

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art by feral
profile by hermes
story by IMPULSE
character design by Oroitz

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