Post by Castiel Catalyst on Sept 7, 2018 23:20:26 GMT -5
When he looked back, Castiel could see what a terribly fake Goth he'd been, and it made him wince. He still liked many of the same things—his taste in fashion hadn't changed, nor had his love of Poe—but it resonated with him now as something far more than the exotic. He found the culture seductive, but with isolation and depression, it was less a fetish and more a kind of beauty he could relate to without feeling bitter.
He'd added Oscar Wilde to his list of authors, begun to learn French so he could read Leroux's original Phantom, and introduced himself to the Brontë sisters. His musical preferences had narrowed a great deal, mostly because pop was no longer catchy. Now it was formulaic, repetitive, and banal.
And somehow he'd been made Head Boy.
On paper, of course, he couldn't have been surprised. He was intelligent to begin with, and he applied himself to his schoolwork. He'd faltered near the end of 5th Year, but in 6th had earned straight O's. He was always in Ravenclaw Tower by curfew, never got caught in places he shouldn't be, and never caused trouble in class.
It was empty, though.
Schoolwork was easy. Without any social life to speak of, spending four hours a day on essays and projects still left him four or five hours to write, to draw, to read, to think, or to try not to think. Casandri was five now, so his parents could have found time for him they hadn't found when she was born, but he'd lost interest in home. He'd never realized how privileged he'd been as the youngest until his mother had made no fuss for him to come home for Christmas break, and most of the firecall on his birthday had been either a list of Casandri's accomplishments or the child herself making toddler-talk at him. He couldn't blame her for being spoiled and adored, but he missed the adoration himself.
He was strongly considering attending VU next year. He didn't want to work, didn't want to do much of anything really, and certainly didn't want to return to the U.S. The cold and the dreary suited him.
He looked out a narrow window over the grounds. School had only just started and everything was green, but soon things would begin to die out in a riot of colors. Castiel pushed away a thought that had teased at the edges of his mind. Not die, sleep.
He turned toward a professor's desk in the unused classroom and set his book bag atop it, then began a ritual he'd practiced over the summer. He removed from his bag a short glass, a slotted metal spoon, a small, lidded ceramic bowl, a bottle of water and a bottle of vivid green liquid, something he'd purchased online with his father's credit card. He poured a bit of green into the glass, balanced the spoon atop it, and relieved the ceramic bowl of two lumps of sugar, which found their way onto the spoon. Then he picked up the water and sat down.
He'd gotten as far as opening the water before, and this he did now, only to take a drink of it. He eyed the glass, thinking. Absinthe wasn't illegal in much of Europe, and neither was drinking in private at his age. He couldn't buy anything himself, not until December. Absinthe wasn't quite the glamorous monster it was made out to be. It had high alcohol content, but was no more likely to cause hallucinations than vodka, whiskey or tequila, none of which he'd tried. Absinthe had only been a victim of its own popularity and cheap copies made during Prohibition.
Still, if he was going to start drinking, why not here?
Castiel leaned back in the professor's chair, still looking, still thinking. Did he think that drinking would solve any of his problems? No. But he'd forget for a while, wouldn't he? He'd already finished his schoolwork for the weekend, had already had supper in the Great Hall, and there was still half an hour until sunset.
He replaced the lid on his partially-emptied water bottle and set it down. He could always open it again, could always change his mind and pour it over the sugar, mix it to a milky white, and give it a try in five or ten minutes.
He pulled a tattered paperback from his book bag and opened it, then began to read aloud slowly, pausing now and then to correct his own pronunciation or to puzzle over a word he was unsure of. "Les occupants," he read, "ils éta... étaient arrivés au commencement du second acte -- y causaient un veritable... véritable scandale par leurs... rires... et leurs réflexions saugrenues."
He'd read it in English a few times or he'd have needed his translation book.
He'd added Oscar Wilde to his list of authors, begun to learn French so he could read Leroux's original Phantom, and introduced himself to the Brontë sisters. His musical preferences had narrowed a great deal, mostly because pop was no longer catchy. Now it was formulaic, repetitive, and banal.
And somehow he'd been made Head Boy.
On paper, of course, he couldn't have been surprised. He was intelligent to begin with, and he applied himself to his schoolwork. He'd faltered near the end of 5th Year, but in 6th had earned straight O's. He was always in Ravenclaw Tower by curfew, never got caught in places he shouldn't be, and never caused trouble in class.
It was empty, though.
Schoolwork was easy. Without any social life to speak of, spending four hours a day on essays and projects still left him four or five hours to write, to draw, to read, to think, or to try not to think. Casandri was five now, so his parents could have found time for him they hadn't found when she was born, but he'd lost interest in home. He'd never realized how privileged he'd been as the youngest until his mother had made no fuss for him to come home for Christmas break, and most of the firecall on his birthday had been either a list of Casandri's accomplishments or the child herself making toddler-talk at him. He couldn't blame her for being spoiled and adored, but he missed the adoration himself.
He was strongly considering attending VU next year. He didn't want to work, didn't want to do much of anything really, and certainly didn't want to return to the U.S. The cold and the dreary suited him.
He looked out a narrow window over the grounds. School had only just started and everything was green, but soon things would begin to die out in a riot of colors. Castiel pushed away a thought that had teased at the edges of his mind. Not die, sleep.
He turned toward a professor's desk in the unused classroom and set his book bag atop it, then began a ritual he'd practiced over the summer. He removed from his bag a short glass, a slotted metal spoon, a small, lidded ceramic bowl, a bottle of water and a bottle of vivid green liquid, something he'd purchased online with his father's credit card. He poured a bit of green into the glass, balanced the spoon atop it, and relieved the ceramic bowl of two lumps of sugar, which found their way onto the spoon. Then he picked up the water and sat down.
He'd gotten as far as opening the water before, and this he did now, only to take a drink of it. He eyed the glass, thinking. Absinthe wasn't illegal in much of Europe, and neither was drinking in private at his age. He couldn't buy anything himself, not until December. Absinthe wasn't quite the glamorous monster it was made out to be. It had high alcohol content, but was no more likely to cause hallucinations than vodka, whiskey or tequila, none of which he'd tried. Absinthe had only been a victim of its own popularity and cheap copies made during Prohibition.
Still, if he was going to start drinking, why not here?
Castiel leaned back in the professor's chair, still looking, still thinking. Did he think that drinking would solve any of his problems? No. But he'd forget for a while, wouldn't he? He'd already finished his schoolwork for the weekend, had already had supper in the Great Hall, and there was still half an hour until sunset.
He replaced the lid on his partially-emptied water bottle and set it down. He could always open it again, could always change his mind and pour it over the sugar, mix it to a milky white, and give it a try in five or ten minutes.
He pulled a tattered paperback from his book bag and opened it, then began to read aloud slowly, pausing now and then to correct his own pronunciation or to puzzle over a word he was unsure of. "Les occupants," he read, "ils éta... étaient arrivés au commencement du second acte -- y causaient un veritable... véritable scandale par leurs... rires... et leurs réflexions saugrenues."
He'd read it in English a few times or he'd have needed his translation book.
