This had been a stupid move.

A stupid, impulsive move.

Terrified of the concept of Bast turning into a similar version of Mother (despite the fact that he was the equivalent of a purring cat at the moment), Hazel had completely forgone the fact that Bastille was extremely tactile, and had so far violated her personal space twice. Both of which were...admittedly justified, but. He had a bad habit of breaking the one rule that made her most uncomfortable, and she had a worse habit of setting herself up in situations that gave him that opportunity.

When he grabbed her hands, Hazel went rigid.

She was already confusing anger and fear with some type of guilt, and now there was this bleeding heat burning its way through her nervous system, sending goosebumps rippling across her arms. His fingers were slotted through hers, unknowingly strong and easily dwarfing her hands. She sat, shell-shocked, eyes able to count every freckle on his knuckles from the close range.

Then he was talking, and the first words past his alcohol stained lips were lumen meum. Hazel’s heart stopped. My light, he called her. She didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know what to do with the twist in a deep part of her soul, or how it made her feel some type of way; didn’t know how to apply it to this situation, with her racing heart and fear and frustration. Her fury was flickering, melting, solidifying and then glowing red-hot again because how dare he call her that in this situation? How fucking dare he toss the endearment at her when he was this drunk, when it wouldn't be said in any other context?

As Bastille tilted just the slightest bit forward - a mere shift of weight - Hazel’s blood ran cold. Old, familiar memories slammed against her cranium, and the it was suffocating, all-encompassing and terrifying just like every other time. She had walked right into this, that much was obvious, but fuck - this was too much.

Hazel lurched back, ripping her hands away, heart stuttering and breath hitching, panic a little too evident in her eyes. Glass shards shattered. Hazel shuffled back a few inches, eyes wide. Nails scraped down her arms, peeling away the bandana. Fear shot through her heart.

“Don’t touch me.” She breathed, cradling her hands against her chest. They burned where his fingers had pressed against her skin.

Shay had stepped between them at this point, and Hazel had failed to register that she was just echoing the Cosmic General. She was stuck, staring at Bastille and everything that was off about him, knowing that he was different as she watched his eyes - fever bright - and listened to him whine. Listened to play this character that wasn't him. She couldn't even pay attention to anyone else.

“You’re not even you, are you?” She whispered, voice regaining some of it’s brittleness. Her previous words had been harsh, and quite frankly, she didn't care. It didn't feel like she was talking to the real Bastille, anyway. "Give him back. He was less pathetic than you are." She said, tone condoning and bitter.

ooc sldfjasdl this is a horribly written post she just experienced like, all of puberty in under thirty seconds wow

★ — hazel — "speech" — seven months — the ascendants — tags — ★

Bastille waved Margy off dismissively as she refused him, evidently not too heartbroken over the ordeal. He was more insulted by her attack on his perfectly shitty vodka, in fact, but the grinning amusement didn't die. "'at seven dollar vodka will do you well," he mumbled, his stare transfixed on Hazel's curls as they caught his attention. He lifted a hand, absent-mindedly, seeming to forget that he was lifting hers with him as he made to brush his knuckles against one of the coiled strands. He grinned, delighted, and slurred, "'s pretty."

He had a few moments to enjoy the warmth of her hands, the golden glow of her aura and all of the heat that she put out, oblivious to her low-thrumming anger and the tension in her body, before he realized that his mother was responding to him, her voice sharper than it had been moments before. The brush of French caught his attention, and he stared at the girl now, momentarily forgetting Hazel (well, somewhat).

His eyes were a vivid, cold blue as he stared at her, struggling to process the mismatch he was seeing. Because she reminded him so acutely of his mother just then, with her baby blue eyes and smooth French, the image of Frenchie juxtaposed just so... But his mother had never been so cruel. Even when she was displeased, she always chided him in a fashion that was too light to be hurtful, always about ridiculous things like posture and not practicing his manners well enough. And he had never heard the delicate girl curse -- she was far too prim and proper for that, insisting that a lady didn't swear and maybe he shouldn't, too. She would never take such a harsh, accusatory tone with him, and never call him an asshole.

And that was what shattered the confusion for him, the dazed mix up. There was a flicker of awareness, his processing burning through the haze of warmth and headiness, as he said with a slightly accusatory note, "You're not Fren-- you're not my mother." Suite, he realized, her words catching up with him, but he didn't get long to stare at her like she'd stabbed his fucking puppy. Just as quickly as she had turned on him, seemingly, she was taking Hazel away from him, her reprimand jumbled together with Hazel's sharp cry that he let go of her. Bastille jerked his hands back, remembering himself too late, and his stare flickered between the two of them quickly.

He was torn for a moment, at a loss of who to focus on -- Hazel with her tremor and her anger, dismissing his touch herself, or the bitter look Suite gave him and the way she acted like she had to protect Hazel from him, her words sharp and lethal. The flutter of adrenaline was making his pulse thrum in his throat, the acute awareness slicing through his happiness so viciously that it gave him whiplash, struggling to keep up with the fact that this was Suite, digging her nails into his chest and twisting. Suite, who had forced herself into his life and demanded that he accept her, sweeping him up so forcefully that he had no choice but to open himself up to her and Margy. Suite, who was supposed to be there for him. Suite, whose eyes and words were so cold he felt his skin prickle.

His head was spinning, and he had the sudden desire to bolt, a panicky feeling erupting in his gut. He felt sick and shaky, the vodka amplifying his distress as he leaned further away from her, away from the daggers in her voice, away from Hazel's golden stare over her shoulder, and something was turning viciously in his stomach, this nasty surge of something -- Pollie, maybe, but he was too dazed and lost to process anything but the hurt and the desperation in his throat as a flight response he didn't even realize he had kicked in and--

His eyes had held steady there, in those slow, sluggish moments, but suddenly they went that teal blue-green once more, the transition just as abrupt as the relaxation of his shoulders. Bastille had buried himself so completely that he couldn't even remember that he was anyone but Zaniel, the boy cocking his head to the side as he regarded the two with a sudden, sideways smile. His body language changed so entirely so quickly that it was hard to tell that there had been a glitch in the matrix there, and now everything was... off.

Before, Bastille's mannerisms had been laced through his actions, hints of his personality and actions shining through Zaniel's influence. Now there were absolutely no traces of the Seraph, and Zaniel held no familial ties or whatever-ties towards these people. Hell, he didn't even really know their names, far removed from the memories that Bast had of this place. He eyed the two in front of him, noted the hostility, and moved on. Not for long, though -- just as he settled, adjusting to this new location, when two people at once took notice of his eyes.

Zaniel's stare locked on Rin, still fever-bright but with greater clarity. He handled his alcohol much better than... himself, he supposed. Huh. She lacked the same hostile glare as those other two, and he grinned, coy and easy. (He even smiled in a way that was somehow different than Bast, drunk or not.) "I'm whoever you want me to be, darling," he said, before supplying, "You can call me Zaniel, though. Or babe. I like babe best, I think." A brief flicker of his glance towards Luna, but he waved a hand at her, making a "mehh" noise. "Well, no, because I'm the original and kiddo is a knockoff, but that's not important, here. You're distracting me from a real art piece here, lady." He winked at Rin.

And then the other girl was in his face, analyzing him and talking to fangs over there. Zaniel gave her a weird look, and said slowly, a hint of a drawl, "Uhh, hey, sweetie, you mind? Personal space. She's invited in it, you're not." A nod of his head towards Rin, because he'd already chosen his mark this time, and dagger-eyes wasn't it. He gave her a blank look as she started to start at him in some sort of devil speak, lacking Bast's knack for languages entirely. "Uh... right. Anywhore," he said, leaning back from her a bit, his typical replacement for "anyway" rolling off easily.

Christ, how many people were they trying to ruin his buzz and yell things at him? Zaniel scowled as the curly haired one set in on him, and said pointedly, "Well, now, that was rude. Aren't you a little too tiny and adorable to have such a nasty way with words?" Oddly, this group of girls seemed less inclined to sleep with him and more inclined to scold him and question all of his life decisions. That was... new. Very new. Zaniel hated it. "None of you have provided your names, so how 'ome you all seem hellbent on having mine? I mean, damn, ladies, you all seem just a bit too hostile to be interested in it. Usually girls are a lot happier when they ask for my name." A pause, and then a lewd grin, "And when saying it, actually."