Wes / Max / Devyn | Dublin, Louis

Wes gave a neutral expression at Louis’ comment about martial arts, the closest he’d ever come to a smile. “Heh, that’s good to hear.”

He glanced over at the other man who was with them, the shyer one of the two. Though, he supposed, anyone would be shy in comparison to the man before him. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks, though, when he received the compliment from Louis. He didn’t typically receive any kind of gestures of affection, let alone direct compliments. Then he was self-conscious because he was blushing, and he wanted to hide in the comfort of his sweatshirt and never come out.

“Oh, uh, thanks. And, uh, wouldn’t know...about my parents…” he paused, considering that maybe he shouldn’t have been honest. Maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut and said ‘thank you.’ “I don’t remember them, they’ve been out of the picture since I was young.” He raised an eyebrow in confusion about the word ‘jumper,’ unsure of what exactly he was referring to. He didn’t ride showjumpers. He glanced down at his sweatshirt, his expression revealing the clarity he received. “Oh, uh, thanks.” Where’d you buy it? What kind of a question was that? Suddenly, he realized he had spent too much time on the ranch and too little time with people his own age. He doubted this one was normal, but still… “Where’d I buy it? I don’t really remember, it was given to me a long time ago.”

Before he knew it, Wes was being dragged along to breakfast, and quite literally. The way Louis had grabbed him had unintentionally brought back memories of things he didn’t want to remember. He flinched, jumped a little, but let himself be led despite the discomfort it brought him. At a time when he knew it wouldn’t hurt Louis’ feelings, he took his arm back and walked beside Dublin, glancing over at him every now and again to see how he behaved, what he did, if he’d speak. He wondered if he could speak. He had to, Wes supposed, given that Louis knew his name.

Before long, he was being dragged to a table with strangers. He didn’t want to be there, but he didn’t have anything better to do, and he certainly didn’t have a good enough excuse to warrant leaving. He took the empty space next to the red-haired girl. She seemed intimidating, though she wasn’t very tall. She looked fit, but small-ish. Scary but in a way he couldn’t describe or put words to. Wes wondered why in the world, out of all the people in the dining hall, Louis had chosen these two. He listened intently as they introduced themselves, picking at the eggs they’d put on his plate. He didn’t want eggs. He’d eat them, though.

“I’m Max, this is Devyn. She is my friend. A very good friend to have.”

“Yup, that’s my name,” she stabbed her eggs, making Wes jump. Was she doing it on purpose, intimidating him? “Easy there, buddy, don’t get too clingy.” She winked at Max, who she had directed her statement at. He wondered what kind of ego she had to speak like that, and where she’d obtained it. “Technically I’m a friend of his sister Sofia, but she’s not here yet. So I’m babysitting.”

“Said as if you’re the twenty-four year old.”

“Age doesn’t define maturity.”

“As if you have any.”

“Anyway,” Devyn ignored Max, turning back to Louis and Dublin. “What were your names again? I’d pretend I forgot them but honestly I was just tuning you out the first time.” Max nearly spit out the mouthful he had been chewing at her bluntness. She smiled wryly in his direction. Wes looked at Louis, wondering if he knew these people, and even if he did, if he could give any kind of rational explanation for their strange, erratic behavior.

Brielle, Heidi, HP | Reggie

Brielle and Heidi had been discussing their assignments casually when another rider came up behind them. He had mousy brown hair and stood a few inches taller than the two girls who were 5’8 and 5’7 respectively. Heidi had the folder in her hand that had the boarding arrangements, school horse descriptions and locations, as well as a few other pieces of pertinent information like where to park and dorm assignments. She was reading off information to her blonde counterpart, who was, in turn, replying thoughtfully to everything she said.

When he spoke, making his attention known, Heidi stepped to the right side and Brielle to the left. Both girls turned to face him, amicable expressions on their faces. They both recognized his accent, maybe his face too. It was hard to know anymore, they’d met so many people at competitions in Europe that it was hard to tell them apart. Really, they could only differentiate a rider by their mount.

“Hello,” Brielle greeted. Her accent was thick, but infused with sunshine. “You are German, no? I think I have seen you before in Europe, at competitions. Show jumping, yes? You ride show jumping?” The blonde had reached a point with her english where she no longer cared if it was completely correct. It was comprehensible, and that was good enough for her. As long as she spoke fluent equestrian, she would be fine.

“I am Heidi. We are showjumpers, too. I am from Netherlands, Brielle is from France. We have met because of competitions.”

“Don’t forget me,” Hans Peter called from down the aisle. He grinned a lopsided, benevolent grin as he caught up to the small group gathered in front of the board. “I am Hans Peter, from Norway. I am also showjumper.” He offered Reggie his hand to shake, glancing over at the two girls and wondering if they’d figured out the assignments yet. He assumed that if they hadn’t, distracting their new friend would help the girls to get back on track faster. “What brings you to Virginia?”

Rena | Alex

Rena had finally settled into the chair for more than five seconds. Her mind was ablaze now, running wild in an uncontrollable way. She’d laid on the floor, then in her bed, then on the couch, pacing in and out of the bathroom in fear of the ugly, suffocating dizziness and nausea that had a perpetual hold on her. This was perhaps the scariest version of it, though--the version that made her feel unsafe in her own room, in her own bed, in the places she should and typically felt the safest. The version that made her question her sanity and her ability to thrive anywhere. She couldn’t think of a single place she would feel safe, or that the nausea would go away. Even if she was at home in her bed in Romania with her family, she was thoroughly convinced she’d still be lying on the bathroom floor, or lying in her bed, or doing something to try and fight an invisible disease that ran rampant in her world, destroying everything in its path.

But, finally, that ill feeling had subsided, allowing her to process her thoughts coherently in a little blue journal. She had bought it, intending to record her thoughts in it for Maximilian and give it to him at the right time. After they’d ended things, she kept the journal, using it to discard every feeling she couldn’t bring herself to publicly display. It was filled with open entries to him. Grief, anger, guilt, hope, passion--it was all in there. And given their strange, emotionally tense day together today, she had a mix of every feeling to deposit into the lined pages of the journal, to release from her already messy brain.

She had been there for at least an hour, for when she finally put the pen down, hands aching, the clock on the oven said 01:58. Last time she checked it, it said twelve-something. She remembered that much, little more. Closing the journal, she sighed, sitting in the silence of the evening and letting her thoughts consume her. Her roommate’s breathing was heavy and peaceful, she was fast asleep. Thank God she wasn’t a light sleeper, Rena would be dead by now. A few more moments passed, and she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. They sounded intentionally quiet. She smirked, making a mental note to see who occupied the dorm on their left. Whoever it was was sneaking back in well past curfew, which only created more questions. Who had let her in? The security system in the dormitories caused them to lock to the outside after curfew. Anyone could get out, but only certain key cards could get in. Just the staff. Anyone could let someone in, but there was only one pair of footsteps. In an odd, melancholic, 2am kind of way, the pair of footsteps sounded lonely. Maybe she was just projecting her own feelings onto them, though.

Everything had been okay until that pair of footsteps stopped at their door. Her heart stopped, the blood in her veins turned cold. She was terrified and maybe over-obsessed with her personal safety, it was one of the few things she was paranoid about. Obsessive to a fault, well past the realm of safety-conscious. Ever since she was a child, she had vivid daydreams of worst-case scenarios where she was taken from her family, never to be seen again. The terror grew exponentially when combined with the knowledge that even a small gash could cause her to bleed out over the course of a few days.

The door clicked open. She had forgotten to lock it the last time she came in from pacing the hallway around 11pm. It was all her fault. Her death would be all her fault. This was it, she thought, this was the end. She didn’t even try to wake Anastasia up, she was just going to let it happen.

Yet, nothing happened. A dark figure stood frozen in the doorway. Tall, lanky, mysterious. Even as a shadow figure, a moonlit silhouette, he gave off an air of brooding. The fact that he was here forced her breath to remain hitched, her blood still cold. Her heart was pounding out of its chest now, as she and he simply stared at each other through the dark.

“Alex?” She got up slowly, apprehensively. Her voice was a shallow whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. Her roommate had stayed asleep this long, but with their luck, this would be the moment she chose to stir.

Without another word, she walked towards him. The thought never escaped her mind that this was how murders happened, and the statistics on how many people are murdered by people they know played on a loop in her head. She gestured for him to follow her back outside into the well-lit hallway. It made her squint.

Once the door was shut, she leaned against the wall, trying not to let his being there make her feel dizzy or nauseous again. She had just started feeling better, and now she would certainly feel trapped. There was no way out of this conversation, despite the episodes and episodes of worst-case scenarios running through her brain that would, in fact, force her way out of it. She hoped none of those would happen, that would be so much worse than any feelings of entrapment, nausea, or dizziness her body could easily manufacture.

She looked up into his stormy eyes, too sleepy and traumatized to feel fidgety or flighty enough to balk at eye contact. She crossed her arms, forgetting that her entire abdomen was stitched up and covered in a protective sleeve, winced, then let them rest in the pockets of her sweatpants. Her hair was a mess and all she wore were those sweatpants and a loose-fitting crop top. It was the only thing she could put on that hadn’t disrupted the black thing that protected her entire upper-body from re-injury, but it certainly drew attention to it. Once again, Alexander Littlewood received an insanely not-optimal impression. Why couldn’t she get it right with him? She was always the one. The smart one, the hot one, the competent one, the funny one, everything the wanted to be, she was. She had men lined up around the block to take her out, and the only one that mildly piqued her interest hadn’t gotten the benefit of any of that. He’d gotten other traits she hated to assume as a part of her identity. The emotional one, the hemophilic one, the anxious one. Those were all the things Alex had seen from her, and now the messy-haired, sweatpants-wearing one could be added to that list.

“What are you doing here?” There was no other explanation she could think of. He had, quite literally, walked into her room. He wasn’t there to see Anastasia, who was still fast asleep, and he sure as hell hadn’t ‘accidentally’ opened her door and walked in. It was at the end of a long stretch of hallway, nowhere near a flight of stairs or an elevator or another way out. Was it selfish to think he was there to see her? Not selfish, maybe irrational. She couldn’t imagine that he thought highly of her, given the emotional wreck of a rollercoaster he had witnessed in the first forty-eight hours of knowing her. Yet, one look in his eyes revealed all the words he wasn’t saying. She could see the fear, the concern, the desperation, the vulnerability. There was always so much vulnerability in the early morning hours. This was different, though. It was blatantly obvious in a subtle way, if at all possible. He wasn’t trying to conceal his expression like he had in times past, he wore it all in his gaze.

“Oh,” she whispered softly, after a few moments of silence, just eye contact. He’d answered her question without saying anything. “What happened today. It scared you, didn’t it?” Her expression turned neutral for just a moment, weighing out her options. Finally, she spoke. “Give me your hand.”

Her gaze was sympathetic, never leaving his. It wasn’t the obtrusive kind of eye contact she despised, it was lingering, profound. She guided his hand to her heart, letting him feel it beat. It was still beating fast and heavy, perhaps noticeably so. “See? I’m here, I’m okay. I promise. If I wasn’t, you wouldn’t feel that.” She managed a smile, though the exhaustion was starting to creep in, replacing the trauma and the adrenaline of the day prior. And for just a moment, despite everything that was going wrong, everything felt okay. For the first time in several days, Rena felt present in the moment. A moment she was sharing with the most unlikely of people in the most unlikely of places at the most unlikely of times. And that was what made it so lovely.

Reyes | Drew

Reyes had his feet planted firmly in the stirrups, heels stretched and leg elastic. All of him felt elastic, his muscles were loose and yet engaged. He felt so flexible, so fit, so prepared to take on the next levels of his craft. All of the extra work he had been putting in was paying off exceptionally, and he could wholeheartedly admit that he was proud of where he was in his riding career. He showed an exceptional amount of promise, and now he had the resources to match the hard work he had been putting in for years. Over the next few months he’d continue to compete and get his name out there, which he hoped was going to create the connections he needed to get up the remaining levels of dressage. He was showing at the PSG level now whenever White Oaks could spare a horse of that caliber, but those opportunities were few and far between. Because he had dedicated his entire life to dressage, Reyes was also flat broke and definitely couldn’t afford to purchase or maintain the kind of horse he needed. If he could impress a rich horse-owner who was short a dressage rider, his ticket to the top would be punched for him. He could hardly wait for that day, it couldn’t come soon enough.

Filling his warm-up with idle daydreams of the sort, Reyes had hardly remembered that he had company. He was so used to being alone all day that the prospect of living in the moment rather than in his idealistic reveries was bewildering. He woke up alone next to his sleeping roommate-of-the-week, whose name he never bothered to remember. He ate breakfast alone, well before anyone else, to the point where the staff simply left a plate out for him on the counter rather than opening breakfast early. He hit the gym alone, then went for a hike alone, all before the sun rose. Occupied by his idle daydreaming, he watched the sun rise, wrote poetry, painted, played music, all alone, before tending to his horses of the day...alone. He worked until well after the sun had set, went back to the gym, then went back to his room to find whoever his roommate was already fast asleep, Reyes soon to follow. None of that schedule involved anyone other than him, the horses, and the occasional coach or clinician. Other than that, he just stayed out of everyone’s way, and hoped everyone would stay out of his. Trying to focus on this new rider while he rode was some sick reverse-psychology to everything his life was lived for. It was an odd feeling, so he ignored it, choosing silence. After all, she had asked for someone to ride with, not someone to talk with. If she wanted small talk, she should have made her inquiry much clearer in the group chat.

“The weather?” He glanced up at the sky in an indifferent manner, his tone neutral. “The same as any other, I suppose. You cannot have the sun without the clouds that threaten to eclipse her beauty and purpose. A metaphor for life, as everything seems to be.”

Moving Layla on from her relaxed walk, Reyes assumed contact with the mare. Once he had gotten her moving straight, on contact, and with purpose, he began to implement circles and changes of stride length. Extensions, collections, and so on, all at the walk. Despite her lack of training, his experienced nature shined through in the way the mare shined. There was something humble about his riding, something that begged people to notice it in its extreme subtlety. Within ten minutes, a green ex-racehorse was moving like a purebred dressage prospect, and her rider was hardly done with her yet. He was gentle, taking his time with each ask and each answer. Every piece of his ride was articulate and deliberate, carefully planned out with each step. The partnership displayed a shining example of the notion that horses are only horses until the right rider implores them to transform into something greater.

Louis | Breakfast table people.

It had not entirely skipped Louis' attention that with every successive conversation, there was a definite progressive decline in Dublin's responses. For that, Louis had made a mental note to speak slower, but even with that, he was struggling to slow himself all the way down. At Wes' hesitant statement with regards to his parents, Louis' eyes practically seemed to melt behind the big, round frames of his glasses. Frankly, he had no clue what was technically the right thing to say. Would it be insensitive to assume that Wes was adopted - was it rude? What if he hadn't been adopted? That made it more insensitive to say that his new parents must've been great people. "New" parents was more rude then, no? Deciding to keep it neutral, he had settled on a more generic response, "It must've been hard for you at some stage. I'm probably not exactly the first person to come to mind for advice, but I'd give a listening ear if you ever need it."

It hadn't mattered too much though. The topic wasn't brought up at any further length, and with the two people beside them, that wasn't a topic to dwell on. Linking the names to faces, Louis was already comfortable with the vibes the pair radiated, comfortably going through the different edibles on his tray whilst listening to the two bicker away. Devyn's extroverted energy appealed greatly to Louis' own talkative nature, despite her more intimidating and daunting air, especially as compared to Max's more relaxed one.

One specific sentence in particular caught onto Louis' ear. Turning to face Max, Louis scrutinised his face intently as if to confirm something, before stating what went through his mind. "You're twenty four?! You look way younger, as in my age or so." That would make it that Devyn was the individual similar in age to himself, judging by the conversation. So far, every one else seemed to have been a good four of five years older, so there was some comfort in knowing there were people his age. Arlette obviously didn't count; she felt like a late twenties person than a not-even-twenty.

Devyn's alleged tuning out at the beginning of the conversation was slightly confusing to understand. It wasn't something that indicated respect, but she seemed to be easy-going, so it didn't inflict any offence from Louis' angle. But before he could say anything, the loud bang that sounded from his near-immediate left made him jump slightly - he hadn't quite expected it. But neither had anyone else, because the table had lapsed into complete silence. The strings of tension were palpable, scary even, because of how longlasting that silence was.

The following strings of harsh words aimed towards Devyn brought back his earlier thought. Whilst Louis hadn't minded what she'd said, Dublin had not felt the same. In some respect, the outburst wasn't entirely shocking, since Louis had already encountered the surprisingly fiery little minion that seemed to pop out in any tense moments. Opening his mouth as if to apologise to the others, he was cut off by more harsh words, this time directed towards Wes, which was definitely out of the blue.

"I am so, sorry. On his behalf, don't take it to heart." His smile was smaller this time, attempting to soften the blow. It wasn't not entirely his own fault, since he had pulled the two along into what probably was a very uncomfortable situation for them. Turning away, he left Wes to answer Devyn's question whilst he dealt with the bigger matter at hand. His own steel gray eyes searched Dublin's blue ones for a brief second casting them away. The trail of blood sent him into a frown, though he decided not to make any mention of it. A slight, almost soundless sigh escaped him, "I apologise for pulling you along. If you feel uncomfortable, we can leave. There'll be plenty other opportunities to meet people."

On that note, Wes was probably feeling exactly the same way, though not vocalising it in the same way. Earlier, the older male had seemed to flinch when Louis had held his wrist, though it was so imperceptible that Louis thought he'd imagined it. Now, it seems like he hadn't. Some point around now, Max had apparently left in a hurry; an emergency had come up which he couldn't avoid and that left them with Devyn. Figuring that it wasn't something to ask about, Louis made no mention of it and the buzz of his phone in his pocket said that the reason was already said.

Wes, Max, Devyn, Diego | Dublin, Louis

“I will if you will,” Wes deadpanned with speed and precision, not so much as picking up his gaze from Max’s milk carton. His expression was still neutral, difficult to read. Dublin’s accent was annoying but at least he seemed to have a sense of humor. Plus, he wasn’t being intrusively extroverted like other people at the table. He tried not to be cynical, but that was only at first. He used to be the voice of reason back at home, the one with the patience and understanding. But here, he didn’t have to be that. He had the capability to feel whatever he wanted to. And though the freedom was scary, he could make as many friends or enemies as he wanted.

Before long, Max had interrupted the tension at the table and the defending Devyn was doing to answer a phonecall. Wes’ attention was piqued the instant he answered the phone in a language other than English, his attentive green gaze following Max as he walked a few feet away. He turned back to the group, his demeanor completely transformed. He was present in the conversation, now, actively listening. “He speaks Romanian?”

“Yeah, the Petrovas are from there.” Devyn’s bright blue eyes narrowed. “The better question is, you speak Romanian?”

Wes got flustered, his skin getting uneven and blushy for the second time in as many hours. He just nodded in response. Thankfully, the girl’s attention was on something--or someone, rather--by the time he found his words and he just swallowed them.

“Diego Van Horan,” she seemed genuinely amused, dejected in an affectionate way. It was odd to see someone who had just been so blunt be so genuinely happy to see someone.

“Hey Devyn,” he didn’t seem nearly as amused. He wasn’t unamused, either, just indifferent. He seemed aloof. Wes wondered why she was so happy to see him. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl to fall for the first guy with a pretty face she saw, but he didn’t know her well enough to feel certain about that. Certainly, Diego was a pretty face. And a pretty body. Wes took an instant disliking to him, he seemed like the gym-obsessed jerk type. Still, he moved over when Diego pulled up a chair beside him.

“How’d you end up in Virginia?”

“Long story,” he smiled, but it was almost sad. Wes couldn’t make heads or tails of the guy. “My sister, mostly.”

“The one who went to Aurelisz?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, well that’s cool.” Devyn glanced around the table. “Meet a few new members of my fanclub. Funny accent, overly-friendly, savant syndrome, and Max is over there.”

“You think I’m autistic? I’m not.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She turned back to Diego. “What kind of stuff is there to do here? If I start an all-or-nothing prank war will I get kicked out?”

Rena | Alex

There was something about their mutual dislike for physical touch that made her yearn for it. But only with him. She hated when Viktor touched her. He was always hugging her, or tapping her, or doing something to make her flinch and want to slap him. She despised the feeling of someone touching her, it made her nerves stand on end and a general feeling of major discomfort wash over her whole body and mind. Even when she was with Max, she accepted his hugs and his touches and every other facet of physical touch he initiated, sometimes she even pretended to like it, but she never did. And now, standing in front of someone who understood that feeling perfectly, Rena couldn’t stop feeling the urge to touch him. To hold him, to tell him that everything was going to be okay. To show him that it was.

It was the most foreign concept to her, the overwhelming desire to connect with someone on that way. Typically, she only enjoyed receiving affection in the form of words. And, barely. She hated gifts more than anything in the world, the idea of someone doing something for her was repulsive, she didn’t mind spending time with people but could never work it into her schedule, and being touched was almost as bad as being bought something she didn’t need and having to fake appreciation. Which left words, which were only good in small, fleeting doses. Letters were nice, too, but she knew people had a way of pouring their hearts out in letters and then regretting the vulnerability of that. It made things awkward. She didn’t like the aftermath of letters, though she had a box in her dorm that contained every one she had ever received. She didn’t like what it did to relationships.

As for Alex, there was something about him that made every nerve in her body stand on end, but not in a terrible way as undesired touch did. Being in a room with him was like sensory overload, it made her feel as if she was feeling everything in another dimension. Every word, every look, every small detail was ingrained into her memory, into her subconscious, into her soul. No human being had ever made her feel that way in the twenty-three years she’d been on this planet, not even Max. It was foreign, but she’d quickly grown used to the notion that no matter how long she spent with him, it would never be enough. His presence consumed her fully, whether he was around or not. It was frightening to someone who had always loved people halfway. She physically couldn’t stop herself.

Staring into his eyes for those few moments, she felt her heart beat faster. His hand was so big in comparison to hers, his eyes so pained. She wanted to take his pain away, more than anything. She’d never wanted to do that for someone before. She returned his hand gently, listening intentionally to his confession. She managed that sleepy smile again, nodding knowingly. She didn’t want to speak, she wanted him to. She knew that thoughts filled that mysterious brain of hers, and she hoped that if she stayed silent he would indulge her. She wanted so much more of him in every sense. She knew it would take time, but she wasn’t sure if she could wait. He was so fragile, so gentle, so precious, so special, she was terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing and losing him forever--losing the way he made her feel forever.

His next confession came as an outburst of passion. He was so quiet and devastated, yet filled with emotion. She could tell that what he displayed was a controlled fraction of what he felt, the tip of the iceburg of his interior. The way his voice shook was the first sign of solid ground to stand on between them, it wasn’t until this moment that she realized the depth of his feelings for her, whatever they may be. She wasn’t sure exactly what he felt towards her, but she knew now that he felt it with everything in his power. She observed the way he clenched his jaw, his eyes darting around, landing on anything but her. The tension between them was making her feel disconnected from reality.

Then, just when she thought she’d felt everything she could feel for one evening, the utterance of a single word did her in. ‘Please.’ He was begging her, he was emotionally tired. She saw it in his eyes. She couldn’t help but wonder if everything he had felt was for her, or if it was displaced emotion from elsewhere. She didn’t know him enough to answer that question, he didn’t speak much in general, let alone of his past. It was probably selfish to think all of this emotion was for her, but she wanted to believe it was.

“You care about me,” she whispered in the same defeated, vulnerable, whisper of a realization. She wanted to get away from the all-consuming nature of his eye contact, but her gaze was limited to the confines of his stare. Again, she felt the urge to hold him, to comfort him, but she was too afraid of the possibility of rejection to even let herself try. She was scared, terrified, even. She wanted to be whatever he wanted her to be, but she wasn’t sure what that was. She couldn’t mess this up for herself. Something deep in the chasms of her soul knew it was special and needed to be protected with her life. So, she settled on words. Words she only half-meant, because they were only a fraction of what she felt but could not put into words.

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere. Not by choice, anyway.” She gave that same sleepy smile. “I’m not leaving you, I’m right here.”

She slid from the wall to the ground, arms still crossed as she sat on the floor. She gestured for him to join her, toying with the medical bands on her wrist. She deliberated on whether to stay in the emotion of the moment or try to make light of it before speaking. “I wonder whose blood is running through my veins right now,” she giggled softly, childishly. Once she started, she couldn’t stop. She covered her face with her hands, trying to stop the soft laughter that escaped her lips. Then, almost eerily, with that same sleepy, soft demeanor, she said, “I almost died today, you know that? I don’t even know how to process that.”