[center][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/326198770809438208/1053050325868740708/vincelogo.png[/img] [img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/326198770809438208/1053053897100505148/vincecon.gif[/img] [hr] [h2][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IZg4rz3cIDc]Welcome to Japan[/url][/h2] [h3][i][sub]”If we don't watch the sun, it will rise.”[/sub][/i][/h3] [hr] [/center] Vincent teetered on the edge of the footpath with trepidation. He stared into the bottomless abyss of the chauffeur’s backseat, white-knuckled grip tightening into a stranglehold on the handle of his suitcase. The crisp, frosty air of the early September morning chilled him to the bone, nipped at his nose. He could feel the driver staring through the windows at him, searing a hole through what remained of his soul. He was beginning to get the distinct feeling he’d forgotten to pack his charger. A sudden hand pressing against his lower back jolted him out of his spiral, and nearly out of his skin. [color=F72D84]“Jesus Christ,”[/color] he hissed, stumbling on his feet as he turned to see the source. [color=F72D84]“Stevie, we talked about this.”[/color] “Vincent,” his sister addressed him with all the warmth of the exsanguinated which she resembled. Her skin was deathly pale, even by vampiric standards—anaemic, in a cruel twist of fate. “You’re doing the thing.” [color=F72D84]“What thing?”[/color] “The thing.” That didn’t clarify anything. [color=F72D84]“What [i]thing?”[/i][/color] [i]”The[/i] thing.” [color=F72D84]“Where do you get off?”[/color] “You do it all the time,” Stevie mused, ignoring her brother’s protests. As usual. She had her lines, and she’d stick to them. “And every time, I’ve pointed it out. And I call it the thing. And I make sure you hear me calling it the thing.” [color=F72D84]“Okay, then, repeat it.”[/color] “You’re trying to make yourself sick. Or cry. You’re thinking about the worst things you can so you can make yourself do something worth going home over.” Vincent paused. She was exactly right—it had been a strategy practised and perfected over the years, finely honed. He had weaponised his anxious thinking, his tendency to overload. It was one more tool in his arsenal to avoid responsibility. [color=F72D84]“You’re a freak.”[/color] Steive cocked her head. “I’m right, though. You did it on your very first day, when you were a first year. You threw up, and I had to drag you back inside out of the rain like a little drowned ferret.” Vincent pursed his lips, chewing his words into something less spiky. Yeah, he supposed she was right. [color=F72D84]“Okay. So?”[/color] “So shit or get off the pot. I wanna see waterworks, or I want you to get your skinny butt in that car. Or I’m going to be late.” [i]Shit or get off the pot.[/i] They really were related. Vincent sighed in defeat, casting a glance over his shoulder and into the backseat. He saw it stretch endlessly away from him, the gap between the curb and the car widening into a ravenous gulf that threatened to swallow him whole should he miss the mark. [color=F72D84]“Alright, fine.”[/color] He tossed his suitcase halfheartedly, and it slid along the seats to his side of the car. “You could have put that in the boot,” Stevie chimed in, watching her brother clamber in out of the cold morning. [color=F72D84]“If you don’t stop talking, I’m jumping in front of your stupid little train the [i]moment[/i] we get to the station. And I’ll make sure I get splattered on your dress.”[/color] “Fair deuce.” Stepping over the sidewalk, she pulled her headphones up from her neck and around her ears. She ducked into the car and slammed the door behind her, casting one glance back at the family manor. The engine spluttered to life, wheels cracking the ice beneath them as they turned, and moved out. [hr] Orientation proved more difficult to slip out of than Vincent had anticipated. He kept waiting for the perfect moment, but it never arose—a second didn’t pass where at least one teacher wasn’t eyeing him like a hawk. So he sat there, as his stomach did somersaults and he jittered his legs frenetically beneath the table. At least he could empathise with the weather, he thought as a roll of thunder boomed outside. No, that was pathetic. Empathising with the weather? What was he, a sickly young Victorian woman with a penchant for pretty boys and poetry? Christ, he needed a smoke. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. Just when orientation was threatening to become an inescapable quagmire of self-congratulatory, played-out platitudes, they were cut loose. Vincent bounded up for his chair and made for the halls immediately, slender frame sliding through the dregs of a crowd that was beginning to form. Hands in the pockets of his slacks, he pushed forward, speed-walking past the dorm list. Nightshade Commons this time? Really shaking things up. He hadn’t been assigned to the Commons since last year. Vincent knew where he was going by instinct. He could close his eyes and still find his way there—but that would either look completely ridiculous or a little creepy, so he wasn’t eager to try either way. Instead, he turned on his heel and skipped towards the stairs, stepping up swiftly. He was eager to get where he was going. Very eager. Like, [color=F72D84][i]“oh my god, I can’t believe I roll my own cigarettes just because I think it looks cool, now I’m going to have to wait even longer before I can smoke one and I’ll be tantalised the whole time”[/i][/color] eager. Finally, after what felt like five seconds—because for all his faults, he had a surprisingly unflappable internal clock—he reached the crest of the stairs, hopping on his heel out onto the balcony. Vincent slowed to a saunter, swaggering up to the edge of the balcony and casting a glance out across the academy grounds. Covered, mercifully, so he could stay up here and mope without getting wet. What had Stevie said? Drowned ferret? Yeah. He wouldn’t end up like a drowned ferret. With one arm, Vince leaned his elbow against the balcony rail, and with the other, he pulled his suit jacket away from his side. He dove a hand into his inner pocket, fishing around for his things. Papers, filters, tobacco—and his lighter. Gang’s all here. He retrieved them one by one, setting them on the edge of the balcony. Putting it all together was muscle memory by now, so he could afford to look out further across the academy. Here, his stomach was settled, and he could finally ground himself. The soft noise of the rain coming down was some comfort, a pleasant white noise drowning out the distant din of student chatter. He spread the paper out, taking a pinch of tobacco and sprinkling it out. He dropped a filter in at the end, rolling it up tightly. With a lick across the paper, he folded it shut and scrunched up what remained of the skin, and it was done. His cigarette. The good stuff. The shadows danced across his face as he struck a flame up from his lighter. He popped the end of the rollie into his mouth, bringing the fire up to ignite the business end. Deeply, Vincent inhaled, taking his first smoke-filled breath of the day. He exhaled coolly, sighing with pent-up relief. He was here now. No getting around it. Might as well start acclimating.