[ human au bc i do what i want
also, for slight clarification if things are Confusing: bast's three souls have been pretty stable, so he carries on living life normally. however, when they are unstabilized, he will find his past lives influencing his thoughts, triggering flashbacks, and/or he can experience complete personality shifts as one or the other becomes more salient. his eyes will also change colors when one overtakes him, such as how his eyes are teal here. ]

His souls were unstable. Bastille knew that, could sense the turmoil and chaos brewing in his gut getting worse and worse with each day -- losing Starry had shaken something in him, and that something was rapidly rearing its ugly head in the days following. It wasn't just the grief, or the shock, or the crushing reality that he had allowed himself to care and suffered the price; it was also the overwhelming pressure that came with being forced to lead, his absolute distaste for power or responsibility, the constant reminder that he was going to fail them and burn the Ascendants to the ground, that the end was inevitable; it was pulling away from those trying to help him, it was trying to tell himself not to care any more, to turn it all off; it was the misalignment of his souls making his moods unstable and his powers dangerously close to slipping.

He was breaking apart, and he didn't know what to do about it. In the wake of Pollutedsoul's surge, he felt even more on edge, the anger quick and ready at the slightest of promptings. The sharp jealousy that he'd felt over the stupidest shit had yanked that soul to the surface, and now he didn't know how to get rid of it. There was a nasty, deranged darkness shadowing his thoughts, and he kept catching himself slipping into Pollie's thought process, kept interrupting his own thoughts in the middle of vicious tirades. Earlier that day, his vision had started to take on that strange, superimposed quality that Pollutedsoul had lived his whole life with: he'd look around and see the past flicker in and out of sight, often directly on top of the present. Earlier an Observer had come to ask him something and he'd spent a few moments ignoring her, because he could see a familiar pelt instead of her grey fur and he'd mistake her for a fucking memory. In sort, he was losing his goddamn mind -- again, seeing how Pollie had already lost it once.

He just needed a way to turn it all off, and the immediate thoughts that came to mind were too quick, too determined -- he knew that Zaniel was becoming more salient, vying for control, trying to out influence Pollutedsoul. Bastille was at a loss, uncertain which was worst: risking accidentally killing a Clanmate or breaking the one promise he'd fought for months to keep. He knew damned well that in his state, the only way to escape Pollie was to give into someone else, because his souls were too chaotic and out of touch to simply rest. He'd experienced this special hell before, the constant battle to decide who he was, and he knew that he just didn't have it together enough to get out of this happily.

There was a brief, flickering temptation to go to Hazel. She was a grounding force, much as he hated to admit it, but thinking of her only brought back the radiance of her aura as she exchanged Latin with Margy and that only brought back the nasty twist in his gut, the primal instinct that surged up and insisted that he kill her for betraying him. It was irrational and delusional, but he couldn't fight how right it felt, couldn't resist the way that he just... slipped into that thought pattern so easily with Pollutedsoul hovering just under the surface.

In the end, he broke down far more easily than he would have liked to admit, but a secret part of himself was relieved when he felt his thoughts shifting gears. Murder was rapidly replaced with vodka, and Bastille lost himself in Zaniel so completely that he forgot there were even traces of someone else to hold onto. It didn't help that an hour in he was so drunk that he didn't even remember that Starry was gone, let alone that he had crushing responsibilities to answer to, a memorial to host the next morning; it all simply washed away in the warm blur of senselessness.

Christ, he had fucking missed this. Why the hell had he ever decided to swear off of vodka? Truly a tragic error, because he was feeling fucking great, the familiar flush warming his skin as he leaned unsteadily towards the girl who had intercepted him on his way out of the Observatory. There was a flicker of concern there originally, but it didn't last long when Bast coaxed her into not trying to parent him and encouraged her to just talk to him, instead. Now, he had a blinding grin as she commented on his eyes, noting the teal blue that had overtaken ice. Pretty, she called them, though she sounded vaguely curious; no matter, though. He was too fucked to process that they might give him away, nor could he even really recall what, exactly, they would be revealing.

"I changed them just for you," he promised, the words slurring together a bit as he ducked his head down closer to peer at her eyes studiously. After a moment of her looking flushed and startled by the proximity, he gave her a sly smile and drawled, slowly, "You win, though. Veeerry nice color, that." He studied her through his lashes, feeling flames light up his skin from the finger tips resting lightly against the inside of his wrist. These dark curls and slightly darker complexion weren't exactly the same as his usual white-blonde hair and pale skin, but hey -- he could work with what he had, here. He'd survived one body switch with his ability to charm any one he wanted in tact, and so far, this girl didn't seem to be questioning him.

"Maybe you should sit down," she said, still blushing profusely as she pulled a little harder on his wrist. Bastille was too unbalanced to fight her attempts at navigating him, so he went willingly -- twisting his hand around to lace his fingers through hers and pulled her down across from him. She started to laugh when he did, and he kept her hand captive as he slurred, "Now, tell me why I'm having all this fun alone, when you could be enjoying this horribly shitty vodka with me." He offered the handle to her with another of those bright, if a little too happy, grins -- and started laughing as she took a sip and made a face. "Easy, boo; I warned you it was shitty. Works like a charm, though."

Hazel wanted to turn in the other direction and walk. Walk far, far away.

Actually...scratch that. She wanted to whack him with whatever bottle of vodka he had been drinking from.

Which was odd. Normally, this situation would terrify her - as it had when Margy had downed a few too many glasses of wine. And the fear was still there, itching along under her skin and crawling through her hidden scar. The smell of the cheap vodka stung her nose and the back of her throat, making her eyes water. Her heart rate sped up, beating faster the more she realized what exactly was going on. But now it wasn't just fear that thrummed in her veins, but irritation. Anger. Something she had repressed for a long time.

Hazel had seen the group from afar and come to investigate, taking a break from the shady spot in Margy's garden where she made bracelets to interact with her friends and be social. She had noticed Bastille earlier, but thought nothing of it and went back to her string; he was obviously avoiding her, after all. There was no need to anticipate a visit from him any time soon. But then there was a girl - a pretty brunette with an athletic curve to her body - talking to him, and...close. They were very close. And Bastille had a blinding smile on; and the girl would blush and giggle.

And that was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Hazel didn't know what part of the scene she was talking about - Bastille smiling that wide or the girl being that close to him - but it was definitely a sharp turn of the norm. Anything that severely out of place meant something was not right, and Hazel needed to know exactly what it was, because this was Bastille. And if there was anything she had learned about him in the past couple days, it was that he did not let things go lightly. Especially when said things were important to him. Hell, he still carried Starry's pendant around his neck. There was no way a smile that wide and that alluring could dance across the lips of someone so utterly dev -

And then the smell of alcohol.

Sharp, potent, strong and memory-inducing on the back of her tongue.

And Hazel had stopped dead, thumbs stuck in the loopholes of her overall shorts and bracelets half-tied around her wrists. Then electricity seemed to shock her body, the transgression electrifying the scar underneath the bandana on her wrist. Because now she could feel the creaking floorboards of her old home under her bare feet. She could hear the clink of glass in the next room over as Mother mixed drinks for nonexistent guests. She could smell it. She could hear Mother's drunken slurring, and her own, quiet words. And then came the explosive anger: the rage, the yelling, the demands. There were doors slamming and locks clicking and glass breaking and blood on her arms and legs and her face stung and she couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe -

Then she was back. And there was no blood on her arms. There was no broken glass on the floor. There was just the outdoor breeze and the blue sky above her head, and her leader, sitting drunk on the floor with some girl. Her heart was still speeding, pulse racing. Her head was still spinning. Hazel closed her eyes, breathed in deep, counting, fighting the onslaught of another panic attack - and it was a mistake. The smell became stronger, and she had to open her eyes or risk being swept into another panic. A real one.

She prepared herself for the wave of black that would engulf her; the wave that usually came with lack of proper oxygen and blackouts and flashbacks. She waited, watching as Rosie observed from a safe distance, as Margy walked over and talked but ended up caving and grabbed the vodka bottle for herself, as Luna scowled at Bastille and as Suite tried to coax everyone into some form of sobriety. She waited for the knock of the ground against her knees, for the quiet hum that would sweep through her head and the buzzing in her ears.

But it never came.

What greeted her instead was an old enemy - an old, red, vicious enemy that Hazel had locked away a long time ago. It zeroed in on the girl's fingers resting against the inside of Bastille's wrist, dragging the small touch all the way back to her panic attack over a week ago, when Bastille had grabbed her and held her close and Hazel felt like she was hugging the sun because his fingertips were scorching burn marks into her skin. But it felt good; objectively terrifying and paralyzing, but good. She had never felt so warm in all her life. She could hear his heartbeat and feel the rise and fall of his chest and even though his proximity had been suffocating, Hazel wanted it again. Goddammit, she wanted it again. The concept made her heart slam into her ribcage because she had no idea how to approach what she wanted, but in that moment, she knew that this random girl was getting it and she wasn't.

Jealousy bubbled hot in her throat, and Hazel was unconscious to it. She felt the shift in her chest - the change of weight, the sudden switch of balance that seemed to throw her orientation. But it didn't matter. There was this thing that curled in low against the back of her spine and spread through her veins like hot water. She couldn't believe Bastille was sitting here, wasted, when he was responsible for the entire clan. When he was responsible for looking after them and taking care of them and fucking protecting them, of all things.

Like Mother was supposed to.

But then Mother started coming home later and later, drink in hand and pumps wobbling unsteadily. And Hazel would stay far away - wouldn't make a sound - because she was terrified. Terrified for her life, for her future, for her person. And Mother started just like Bastille.

Torn between the two, Hazel looked downright murderous in the sudden uncharacteristic flare of her aura; the golden halo around her glowing hotly with her anger and bitter upset. Her eyes seemed to pulse with an unearthly gleam, molten and disappointed and scared and lost and angry. Thank the gods that Suite steered the girl with her dark brown curls away, or else Hazel might have found the sharpest object nearby and thrown it at her head.

And in that moment, where anger flowed off her in waves and her impulse control was nonexistent, Hazel immediately sat down in front of Bastille, fixing him with an unwavering stare. Not even the change in his eye color was enough to deter her, even though she had no idea what he meant. "Apud ipsum est tibi esset commodum condonares?" She demanded, the foreign language slipping out without prior notice. "Beati estis nunc? Quia ecce vere beatus." Her voice dripped with every emotion rolling through her system, and it all came out in Latin until she could steel her tongue and scowl at him.

"This isn't what Starry died for," She snapped. Deus, he looked so dopey and passive right now. For once in her life, she wanted to see him get angry, because even that would be better than...this. "You're wearing his pendant but you don't seem to feel its weight. If you did, then maybe you could take a minute and reevaluate everything you just did. But if you don't want to, that's fine," She dug her nails into the skin on her knees. "See how well you do at his memorial tomorrow. See how much people like seeing a hungover leader."

And okay, that was really harsh and cruel, but Hazel was so fucking scared he was going to end up like Mother. She would do anything for just the opposite - anything to keep him from going down that path.

("are you pleased with yourself?"//"Are you happy, now? Because you look really happy.")

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

Bastille smiled, lopsided and triumphant, as the girl indulged him and took another pull from the handle -- this time with more preparation for the acid sting. At the sound of Rose's voice, however, the girl looked embarrassed, her face flushing as if she'd been caught in the wrong for indulging her drunken Seraph. Bast, however, didn't seem in the slightest bit bothered by the interruption. He peered up at Rosegarden with a lopsided grin, looking coy, and evidently had entirely forgotten about the incident with Suite. She had vastly underestimated just how drunk he was, and he slurred blearily, "Umm, maybe you're not overdoing it enough, Rosie..." A pause, as the nickname rolled off his tongue, and he started laughing. "That's my mother's name. New name, I guess. Roo-sie. Did you want some? I'd share with you, not-mom."

Luckily, it seemed that while the girl was flustered with the sudden audience, she hadn't pulled her hand back. Bastille held onto her fingers with delight; Zaniel may have a less than innocent craving for contact, but Bast was genuinely just a tactile person, and he hadn't had any real contact with any one in days. Her hand was warm and his skin was warmer with the pleased flush of alcohol, and he was still grinning when he cocked his head backwards and studied Margy upside down as she approached them. "But what a way to go," he said cheerfully, tilting his head back forward to smile angelically at the girl, "Probably wouldn't feel a thing. Also, she's cute, so I'd rather die here." He winked at her as she flushed even harder, but Bast was already considering Margy again.

His teal blue stare was clearly off, and not just because the coloring was wrong -- his eyes were feverishly bright and unfocused, flickering over the vampire briefly. He felt a brief surge of temptation, an easy line on his tongue, but while Zaniel may be willing to flirt with anything that moved, Bast was still somewhat bound by his typical inclinations towards people and evidently the familial bond he had with Margy crossed the barriers of his souls. Hell, he was drunk enough to forget that he was angry with her, but evidently there wasn't a drunk enough state that would make him let Zaniel -- let himself hit on his mother. That was... good, at least.

"Vodka loooves me," he said, smiling impishly as he added, "It's always been good to me." That was simultaneously a blatant lie and the complete truth -- Bastille had never had vodka in his life, swearing off of it and pretending to prefer wine, but Zaniel was drunk every day of the damn year and loved his damn vodka and at that moment? He didn't have any form of differentiation between the too, too gone to remind himself that he wasn't Zaniel and these weren't his memories.

He turned his attention back to the girl as Margy spoke, and eyed her thorough as he drawled playfully, "Whaa'? I have literally, never once, seen such beauty in my life." Another of those blinding smiles as the girl looked ready to die from embarrassment, evidently having realized she'd put herself in the spotlight by entertaining him. He cocked his head to the side and pouted at Margy, slurring, "Why would you even sayyyy that? She's lovely."

He seemed to forget about his protest as Margy decided to join them, however, and he was almost immediately distracted by her proximity as she stole the bottle from the girl. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he lit up with the sudden realization that oh, that was right, she had her fangs. "You know, I don't really remember the last time a vampy bit me while drunk," he said slowly, biting down on his lower lip in consideration before he grinned, "But I promise you it was divine. Feeling thirsty?"

He didn't realize that Luna and Suite were joining them until Suite was shooing the girl away, who looked flustered and embarrassed as she awkwardly extracted her hand and obediently shuffled away. Bastille pouted up at Suite now, but was too drunk to really process who he was seeing. All he could see were baby blue eyes and hear the lilting brush of French in his thoughts -- hell, she even had the dignified look of disapproval when he did something that wasn't very gentlemanly. He could feel his thoughts wavering between his memories and Zaniel's, and the French was crisp and easy on his tongue as he slurred, "Maaaman! Qu'avez-vous fait ça?"

He stuck his tongue out at Luna when he realized that she was giving him the look as well, but forgot why he was pouting the second that someone plopped down to fill the void that his friend had left behind -- Hazel, actually. How hadn't he noticed her sparkling aura approaching? He lit up in delight, and immediately reached forward, his fingers slipping through hers as he forgot entirely that he wasn't supposed to touch her. She was babbling at him in Latin, but he was too distracted by the hot glow of her aura as he slurred, "Lumen meum! Why're you sooooooo... warm? Your aura's s' hot, it's, like, molten. More molten. Not as soft gold glowly, but dark gold glowy."

He nodded earnestly as he spoke, the ramifications of her aura reading lost on him when he couldn't even process or focus on what she was saying, only on the warm-fuzzy-glow of her golden light and the heat from her fingers for as long as he could hold them captive. He could feel the sudden surge of Zaniel's influence as the startling reminder of Frenchie dimmed somewhat in the face of another pretty girl, and his radiant smile went sly. He didn't get the chance to say anything to her, however, before she was already switching to English and laying into him.

For a moment, Bastille just stared back at her, brow furrowed slightly as he struggled to understand what the hell she was even saying to him. His free hand went to the star hanging from his neck, but he only looked more confused as his sluggish thoughts struggled to keep up, as he waded through the press of Zaniel's memories. He didn't... have any clue what she was saying, frankly, and he mumbled in a slur, "Ummm... I don't.... Wha?" He looked lost, and a hint of that pouty look was coming out once more, drunkenly and quite childishly distressed by her refusal to smile back at him. He rarely encountered someone who wouldn't entertain him, and her aura was so pretty. His teal stare flickered very briefly to ice blue, but it was so fleeting that it was easy to miss as he pulled at her hand a bit and huffed, [b]"Do you need some? You're not being 'ery niice."

[ "Maaaman! Qu'avez-vous fait ça?" -- "Mooom! Why'd you do that?"
"Lumen meum" -- "my light" ]