applesaucedream | The Shavings Off Your Mind are the Only Rent [Open to All]

The Shavings Off Your Mind are the Only Rent [Open to All]

photo JulyDreamPartyImage01_zps8d9e51ff.jpg

Picture a house. Actually, picture two houses. They're (almost) identical structures that share an uneasy coexistence, tangled together on a quantum level. One of the houses is Good: bright, cheerful, full of comfortable furniture and a pervasive feeling of safety. The other house is Evil: dingy, dilapidated, and haunted by the dreamers' greatest fears.

The good news - and bad news - is that travel from one house to the other is as simple as passing through a door. All a dreamer has to do is walk through a doorway, any doorway, and they'll find themselves in whichever house they weren't in before they crossed the threshold. Perhaps they'll step out of a beautiful library and find themselves in a threatening hallway - or perhaps they'll flee a menacing kitchen and find themselves in a perfectly safe dining room. That is the nature of the houses' entanglement: every door is a portal between the two.

There are, of course, complications. Dreamers in one house can't perceive the other; if you're in the Good house and looking through a doorway, the space beyond will look as nice and inviting as the space you're in now (until you step through that doorway, of course). Dreamers also can't really perceive one another if they're in the same room, but in different houses, though they might see a flash of movement out of the corner of their eye, or think they heard something.

Perhaps the greatest complications are the houses themselves. They have rather strong personalities, and they aren't very fond of one another. Each house will want to keep you if it can (keep you safe, in the case of the Good house, or keep you for itself, in the case of the Evil one). Dreamers may attempt to cross a hall and find the door that looked open and inviting a moment ago is now barred shut, leaving them trapped in the hall - or have doors suddenly close in their faces before they can end up anywhere unpleasant. Still, there's only so much either house can do, and even a locked door can be jimmied open or busted down.

Escape from the houses is possible, but the formal gardens beyond are similarly entangled, with neatly trimmed lawns and expertly plotted flower beds becoming overgrown tangles of nettles and algae-choked reflecting pools. An archway is as good as a door, as far as the gardens are concerned, and there are plenty of arbors and arches over the paths. Of course, dreamers may find that a sound arbor in the Good garden has collapsed in the Evil one… and heaven help anyone who dares to explore the hedge maze.

[ooc: y'all know the drill. ALL characters are welcome, regardless of whether they're in the game. Characters can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion.

Also, this dream party marks the aforementioned calendar freeze. For the next three weeks, the IG date will sit on July 3rd. Posts dated July 3rd or earlier are allowed and encouraged. The calendar will resume forward motion at a 4:1 ratio on Saturday, July 26th.]

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Oh. OH.

That's what the fucking gun was for. And that's how Ianto proposes to wake him up, not in some gentle mind-prodding way like the TARDIS might. Johnny feels immensely stupid for not figuring it out earlier, and for allowing this to happen, like what did you think, idiot, the house would just let you do this, and that this random weirdo would just be able to fix it?

"Fuck you!" says Johnny shrilly, more out of surprise than anything. "I'm not into ANY kind of death!" He tosses the cigarette aggressively into the flames and shoulders his weight into the door, which of course refuses to give. Wait, this is stupid. He presses his palm against it and concentrates on making it open, giving himself a passage out.

Nothing happens. There's no time to wonder about it. He pounds his fist against the stubborn door with a strained, frustrated yell.

"Funny way of showing it," Ianto mutters, tucking the gun back into nonexistence. His back is getting a little toasty, and he leans one shoulder next to the door, letting that side get some heat. The fire licks and crackles across the ceiling, raining down embers and charred fragments. "Are you imagining hard enough?" he suggests, drier than the stiflingly hot air. "Shall I try? I'll try," he decides, not waiting for an answer.

He shoulders Johnny aside and grasps the doorknob, twisting and pulling. It teases, pulling out a fraction of centimeter before pulling it flush again in a decidedly sinister tug of war. "You've just got to think lovely thoughts, Johnny," he confides, strain in his voice. He braces one foot against the door frame. "Y'know, picnics. Summer." The door gives again, a little more, and he wedges the toe of his shoe into the crack, then his fingers and hand, shifting to push it open from the other direction until he has it braced open with one leg and both arms.

"Come on then," he grits through his teeth, nodding to the segmented open space between his legs that leads to what will eventually be an inviting and not-on-fire room.

Johnny staggers aside, somewhat indignant at being shoved, but in no place to complain about it on top of everything else. He watches Ianto work, chewing his lip nervously, wondering how quickly he's going to change his mind about being shot if they can't get out - jesus, he hopes they can get out - and deciding, while Ianto is giving him advice borrowed from Peter Pan, that this man is completely insane.

But, hey look at that, he got the door open. Sort of. Wedging himself in the space, presumably while it tries to snap shut on him, is not something Johnny would ever want to attempt, and he probably isn't strong enough to do it anyway. So hell, points for that, he supposes. He doesn't waste any time dropping down and crawling between the man's knees, hurling himself through and into a new room, which - oh. This one's quite nice. Nothing like the last one.

He sits on the floor and stares around himself, momentarily lost in the sheer surprise. He can't smell smoke or sense any indication of fire beyond what's showing through the half-open door. This room is like a different universe. A master bedroom, from the look of it, a massive four poster bed with a canopy and several options of doors - at a guess, it would be closet, bathroom, actual exit, and... where'd they just come from? Study, perhaps? That makes an amount of sense.

Ianto sort of tucks and rolls, pulling his limbs in and away from the edge of the door so that when it slams shut, he doesn't lose any limbs. He slides a few inches as it does, propelled by the door, and catches his hands on the door frame to stay upright. Way to find something to prop open the door and help Ianto get out too, Johnny.

He brushes at his sleeves - he's smoking, just a little - and sees that corner of his jacket is wedged into the door. Great. He shucks it reluctantly, watching it dangle distinctly un-neatly. It's just a dream. He wasn't attached to that dream jacket. It's fine. He can imagine another one. A better one. Yeah.

"This is," he comments intelligently, at a loss to describe the bedroom they've ended up in. It's so... "Normal."

"Right?" Johnny turns back, still sitting on the floor, looking up at him. It occurs to him much too late that maybe he should have helped out with the door thing, but what good would he have been, really? Too small and incapable by half. Plus he's still not sure he trusts this guy.

"I'll take normal, though." He pulls himself up, brushing ash off his clothes. "Better than that."

Well, now what? Nothing to occupy his attention here and he's not sure he wants to address how Ianto almost got him killed and then offered to actively kill him to fix it. It all makes a twisted sort of sense, if he thinks about it hard enough, but that doesn't make him feel any better about it.

He sits himself down on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to breathe. The cigarettes he'd manifested - his only successful dream manifestation so far, how pathetic - are still in his back pocket. He pulls another out and taps it distractedly against his hand. He lights it, then hands Ianto back the lighter. "Do you mind?" he asks, intentionally too late.

"I dunno, I thought it was exciting," Ianto says, only feeling a little bit guilty about the black sludge of burnt paper and dirt and maybe some blood that he scuffs off his shoes onto the floor. It can get boring up here. Like really... really boring. A little action/adventure can never go amiss.

He takes the lighter and performs a bit of sleight of hand, or pretends to, willing it back into nonexistence. Or back into the fabric of the Dreaming? He's not sure. If he tried to will too many things into existence, would the Dreaming encounter a fatal error and crash? An experiment for another day. "Do you care?" he counters, rhetorically.

Johnny smirks at him and makes a little show of thinking about it. Now that they're out of danger and his baggage isn't surrounding them, he's feeling calmer and much more like his usual self. Remarkable the effect the relative safety of this room is having on him. A little too remarkable, if he gave himself a minute to think about it.

"Sure," he says. He takes a final drag and licks his fingers, pinching it to put it out. He slips it back into the carton, and that back into his pocket, then gives Ianto a smartassy little shrug. "That better?"

"Well, I was going to bum one off you, but." Ianto shrugs and slouches against the door, bracing himself with one foot against it. He hasn't had a good smoke in a while. He hasn't had a good anything in a while, really. Or a bad anything. Just stuff. Stuff would be great.

Is the fire burnt out yet? It's probably still going. There's something familiar and stifling about this room. He could take his pick of the other doors, he supposes. "It's a dream, not the same anyway."

Not what he was expecting, after that slow-death remark. "You still could," says Johnny, shrugging, at a bit of a loss. These dreams have been real as hell, for him - real pain, real fear, real comfort on a few occasions. Sometimes he forgets others don't see it that way.

"How long ago did you come through?" he asks, because it's a requisite question, isn't it? He'd seemed a little confused on that general topic earlier, maybe now's a better moment to ask questions. Or it might not be. Ianto seems a little uneasy here.

Ianto hesitates only for the briefest of moments - only for the span of time that it takes him to inhale to answer, at most - before answering, leaning a bit straighter against the door as he does. "January. January twelfth." He doesn't have to say the year, does it? It probably hasn't been a year since then. He half-smiles at the memory, which wasn't that smile-worthy at the time, but hey, it's a story. "I came out in The Lake. I think. Close enough to it. Might've drowned a little and blacked out. I don't remember actually coming through." Which is probably for the best.

"Holy shit." That's a long fuckin time - and what a shitty way to come through. "Sorry. That sucks." He recovers the cigarettes and offers one after all. What the hell, right?

"I'm pretty new," he says. "Couple months."

"Yeah?" Ianto recovers the lighter with the same sleight of hand and lights his offered cigarette, taking a drag on it before offering the lighter to Johnny in return. It isn't the same. It's nothing. But he can keep up appearances. "When was that?" he asks casually. There aren't any calendars in the Dreaming. Well, there are, but, y'know, dream calendars. Not really accurate.

"May." Johnny re-lights his own and hands the lighter back. "Feels like a lot longer than that, though. Been through a lot already."

He glances up at Ianto, assessing. He likes him better now that they're just talking, not doing anything stupid and stressful. "So... have you been through the house at all, before you found me? What's the deal here?"

The lighter goes back into his pocket with no fake magic (though it never reaches the bottom) because Ianto's way too distracted putting together that May was months ago. When is it, even? Jesus. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and taps the ash into nothingness. "It's quantum entangled with itself from the future," he explains blithely. "Probably. Or an identical house in disrepair."

He waves a hand, dismissing both or either possibilities. Either's possible and it doesn't matter which it is. He uses the pause to suck on the cig again. "It displaces you from one to the other when you cross a threshold. There's some sort of psychic field as well, one for each house, or just one that's gotten ornery over time." He lowers the cigarette again, frowning. "May was really a couple of months ago?"

Johnny holds his cigarette loosely, staring at him. That sounds like everything he can't stand, all his worst fears rolled neatly together. Sentient ornery fuckin houses, why does the Rift keep making him do this shit.

He distracts himself with Ianto's question. "Yeah," he says, and takes another drag. "It's July. You... didn't know that?"

Ianto spins the cig around his finger and catches it again, brow furrowed. He's been here for at least three months, then. It simultaneously feels like shorter and longer than that. Johnny made it sound like ages, though, so anything under a year doesn't seem so bad in comparison.

"I've been in here since the end of March, or thereabout," he admits. He's not exactly sure when in the end of March, because it's all a bit of a blur. "I built a Rift Manipulator and tried to go home. Don't remember anything after that. It pulled me in, and... then I was here." He holds the cigarette to his lips and breathes in heavily, then out slowly, watching the smoke. "And my body is walking around without me, I've been told. So that's creepy."

"What?" Johnny sits up straighter, stricken. "In here? Or in the dreaming?" It almost doesn't matter. Either option is grim as fuck. To say nothing of the autonomous body, christ. No wonder this guy's so weird.

"Is anyone... Do people know?" he asks. "Can you get back out?"

"Not here here. God, no." Like this is somehow worse than literally anything else his mind has conjured up in the past three months. "Erm, I've a friend looking after, you know." He gestures up and down, indicating his body, and the tip of his cigarette flares red with the movement. "Kicking around in the garden or something. And I think someone visits me... it. I can hear a voice sometimes. Talking about cats mostly." He grimaces where he means to smile. "Bit soothing, actually. I've tried to wake myself up, but." Clearly that has not worked.

Johnny's not sure how to take any of this. His situation, his attitude toward it - the idea that he's being looked after but not helped - but what can he offer?

"I don't think I could stand it," he murmurs. "Being trapped here. I go through enough shit just dreaming as often as I do. Waking up is all I have."

Not particularly helpful. He sighs heavily. "Do you know the TARDIS?" he hazards. "She can wake me up sometimes, maybe she could help you."

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The Shavings Off Your Mind are the Only Rent [Open to All]

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