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Damon is only half-heartedly paying attention.
Which he is sure is something he would chastise, otherwise, looking over his shoulders and seeing flame eat bone in the corners of his eyes while chained to these cursed walls.
And he’s still tense, most of the time, just waiting until the next motive drops and when someone else betrays his trust again.
It is inevitable.
He wonders what his blackmail was even supposed to be, sometimes, as he forces his own mind to wander into other topics to keep himself composed. He wonders why the other person didn’t reach out to him, like a hypocrite sipping wine yet fearing the blood.
Probably his parents. Probably something that could hurt them. The countless hours, the paper, the ink, the flashcards and the debates he never revered.
They choked saying their thanks. It made him feel warm, even if it didn’t fill the hole in his chest he had to carve out to mold himself into a perfect fit provider.
Sitting on the bottom of stagnant malaise. Falling down onto the flames of hell that he always knew would swallow him whole.
Kai chuckles, and the movement of his shoulders recoiling stirs Damon awake. He blinks groggily, recoiling into himself a bit, flexing his legs.
No water.
It’s a bed.
Kai Monteago’s dorm bed. Down the hall from his own. He sleeps here every two days according to the Rotation Of Roommates Clause established just after the trial, if he remembers correctly in between the fuzz of his memory and fragments of carbonized pens. He sleeps with Jean every third, and on the fourth rotation of this week he’ll share room with Jett, as per the Random Selection.
The debater is not too thrilled about that one. Even if he’s aware that Jett is comfy.
“—Yeah, it was! I had told him it was going to look bad, because who the hell blends foundation that way? He didn’t even tweak the video after! Just pure ragebait, I swear,” Kai continues whatever tirade he has been going off about for the past… Hours. Probably. Actually, he probably is talking about some other nonsensical ‘online drama’, but the debater genuinely cannot tell the difference between all these irrelevant screen names and petty arguments. Such absurd reactions for playground level complexity.
The influencer doesn’t address the way he stirs awake, but a hand goes to his hair and trails on his scalp, and Damon just wordlessly accepts the nonverbal apology as a serviceable offering of peace for his severe and vile transgression. Even if it makes him want to bite Kai for treating him like a drowsy pet.
Even if he’s actually very drowsy. Damn him.
Maybe Damon could convince him he’s somehow venomous. That he'll bite him and make him shit himself to death or something. See the guy panic for like a minute until he realizes that statement makes no sense. Or five. Kai is particularly dense…
Diana makes some sort of gasp.
Damon can smell her makeup stuff from here. He’s blanking out on the names, whatever the hell they’re individually called each, and a part of himself is frustrated.
He remembers having some debate that paid well referring to the social ailments of the makeup industry, back when he had shakily accepted his first sponsored deal.
He remembers feeling just as manufactured as the objects he was discussing.
Her makeup smells mostly of diluted chemicals meant to be perceived as innocuous, but there's some sort of lip balm or something that strongly smells of roses. Maybe. It’s making him dizzy. Nevermind the fact that that type of crap probably costs as much as a month’s basic groceries because 'erm this is actually a ass-lying formula imported from Korea and it will rejuvenate your face so so so much we promise'. So stupid.
He remembers back then when his mom finally brought herself some fancy, expensive new set of makeup, back when he won a particularly big cheque. How she cried at the fact she wasn’t dreaming, the fact that she wouldn’t have to avast on cheap makeup from second hand stores that was breaking apart. He remembers that she had lost her job for not looking ‘presentable’.
As if unblemished skin had any worth.
Diana speaks something fazed, and Damon floats away from the conversation once again as his droopy eyes find themselves opening, barely. Tethering himself just enough to perceive.
It’s probably paranoid. He has to witness.
He doesn’t want to hear shoeless footsteps. He has to see. It's not her fault he can still hear the screams.
Kai is there, just beside him on the bed— Laying on the wretchedly soft pillows, one hand on his stomach while the other, extended but flexed at the elbow, trails on Damon’s hair. The debater is laying half asleep in between his inner arm and torso. The texture of his shirt doesn’t make Damon want to rip his head off, which he still finds himself absolutely bewildered by.
Diana is on the other side of the influencer, using the ring light for extra aid in her direction so she gets to decorate and bedazzle the man in what Damon only barely remembers was some sort of… social media trend makeup look. Whatever that means. She has on her hands in her palette and brushes, looking effortlessly calm and her pulse clinical. Precise. Perfect.
That's probably how the debater himself looks when he’s reviewing his own arguments before his showtime.
… ‘Showtime’. Hah. That’s not a descriptor The Ultimate Debater is supposed to use while discussing his craft. Stupid idiot.
It’d be unbecoming. His talent has worth. He holds so much sweat and blood for this to be a guise. Why he had spent this much effort, then? If he considers this high prestige as a performance to enact?
Whatever. Something to ponder later.
Damon blearily stares at Kai’s face. He’s... pretty sure that is his face. Probably. All he can discern is shapeless blobs of color as if someone threw water at a painting just to destroy three hours of work because the sun dared to have sunglasses and lay perfectly on the corner of the frame. He idly remembers crying so hard breathing hurt. Why he was so attached? Dumb. He knew His Place, with a book up to his nose, training to become Him, Himself, Damon Maitsu, Ultimate Debater. Nothing Else. Never Else.
“... Since when y’re white?” Damon ends up asking. Which is, pretty sure, the only thing he’s said since the three of them decided to retire into a dorm for the night, sleepy and slurred and out of it in a way he probably would find entirely embarrassing if he had half the conscious brain cell to care.
Kai practically chokes.
He’s pretty sure Diana is laughing. Statistically likely she is indeed laughing, hard to tell. Thinking about her makes his head all gooey and fuzzy like television; Only displaying static, when mom and dad couldn’t afford to get it repaired after the antenna succumbed to rust. He remembers grandma being so happy that they had saved for it for so long. He remembers being glad she had passed by the time it stopped working, even if it meant that dad was crying himself to sleep most nights trying to figure how to pay for her burial. It ended up being a cremation.
It doesn’t make him angry anymore, seeing the working electronic catching dust in the corner of the living room. He simply sees the reflection of a young brunette on the glass, dimpled cheeks, playing with the static-y feel it would make whenever the TV was turned on, even while it was useless. Deprived of its purpose. Deprived of fulfilling its duty by faulty external circumstances.
He’s back home, laying on his bed, his parents improvising grand tales to mimic the gentle murmur of infantile cartoons that lull him to sleep, to then discuss payments in private while he was acutely, blissfully Unaware.
They keep talking.
“I’m not?????????????????”
“Y’look white.”
“Damon! That’s very, uh,” Diana looks at Kai, blinking at him for a second, before simply settling to her light-hearted scold. Because she had to double check, and that makes Kai gasp in absolute betrayal at her momentary hesitance. “Mean!”
“But his last name’s misspelled,” The debater says as he very comfortably nests on Kai’s offended chest. “It’s very white. They cannot spell.”
“My last name isn’t misspelled.” Kai feigns offense.
“I don’t think last names have to be spelled perfectly?” Diana says to herself idly, but softly slaps the influencer in place so he doesn't smush the makeup as he makes some exaggerated motion since she agreed with him. “It’s just for identification, right?”
Damon grumbles. That does not make sense. Who would want a last name misspelled? That's stupid.
“Monteago isn’t even a word. It’s Montego. Creo.”
“Is this what it is? I get Spanish-judger Maitsu whenever you’re sleepy?”
“Mm.”
“Look at that. He insults my name and goes back to sleep. The audacity.”