General RP ℂ𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕚𝕕 ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤 | Froshi & Sol

[Solaris-]

Dmitri & Rowan
For @Froshimaru

ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ
ʙᴜᴛ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏᴛ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ꜰᴏʀ ᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇᴅ sᴏᴜʟ​

 

[Froshimaru]

​

The flea market wasn't Rowan's idea.

Well, technically it was- they'd been the one to suggest it to their therapist when Dr. Vogler asked what small, manageable thing they could try this week. Something public but not too crowded. Something with an exit strategy. Something that didn't involve sitting alone in the sublet apartment watching dust motes drift through afternoon light while their mind went to places they'd rather not follow.

"Just try it," Dr. Vogler had said in that gentle, infuriatingly patient way of hers. "You don't have to stay long. Just go. Be present. Notice three things."

So here they were, walking through rows of tables covered in other people's cast-offs. Vintage postcards. Chipped teacups. Jewelry that had survived someone's grandmother. The kind of peaceful, mundane chaos that should have felt safe.

Should have.

Rowan's hand went to their camera bag out of habit, fingers finding the familiar weight of it. They'd brought it but hadn't taken it out yet. Baby steps. Just being here counted for something, right?

The crowd was manageable. Older folks mostly, a few families, people taking their time examining things that didn't matter in the grand scheme of anything. Rowan picked up a vintage map of Berlin from the seventies, studied the streets that didn't exist anymore, the borders that had shifted. Everything was temporary. Cities, countries, the lines people drew and died defending.

They put the map back down.

Three things. Dr. Vogler had said to notice three things.

One: The smell of old paper and mothballs and coffee from the vendor at the end of the row.

Two: An older man haggling in rapid German over a set of beer steins, his voice rising and falling in a rhythm that felt almost musical.

Three: The way afternoon light filtered through the market's temporary canopy, creating patterns on-

The crash came from two tables over. Glass bottles hitting concrete. Not breaking, just falling, the vendor scrambling to catch them, other shoppers gasping and laughing at the near-miss.

Just bottles. Just an accident. Just a mundane moment in a peaceful market in a safe city thousands of miles from anywhere that mattered.

Rowan's body didn't get the memo.

Their heart kicked into overdrive, chest tightening like someone had wrapped wire around their ribs and pulled. The market sounds became white noise, overwhelming and directionless. Too many people. Too many exit points to track. The canopy overhead suddenly felt like a ceiling that could collapse, and their hands were shaking, and they couldn't breathe right, and…

Move! Marcus's voice in their head, from a lifetime ago. If you feel like you’ve been pinched, just move. Doesn't matter where. Movement keeps you alive.

Rowan walked.

Not toward the exit they'd come in through- too obvious, too crowded. They picked up speed and chose a random direction between tables, through clusters of people, past confused vendors, through someone who saw the panic in their and tried to help, until they hit the street. Kept walking. Left at the corner because it was there. Right at the next street because their legs carried them that way.

Their breath came in sharp, painful gasps that didn't seem to bring in enough air. Just bottles. Just bottles falling. Not mortars. Not airstrikes. Not the sound of a...
It was just bottles. They knew that. Intellectually, they knew that.Their body was stuck in the Middle East, a feedback loop he had hoped his visits with Dr. Vogler would fix.

The street opened up ahead, and there was a building- glass and steel and modern, with crowds spilling out the entrance. A convention center. Rowan stumbled toward it less out of decision and more because their legs were still moving and they needed to be somewhere that wasn't the middle of a sidewalk having a breakdown where everyone could see.

The doors were glass. Automatic. They slid open and Rowan went through them into-

Fuck.

The noise hit first. Music from competing sources, hundreds of conversations overlapping, footsteps and laughter and announcements over speakers they couldn't locate. The convention floor stretched out in front of them, packed with people in elaborate costumes, vendor booths with flashing lights, more stimulation than Rowan's nervous system could process on a good day.

This was not a good day.

Their vision tunneled. Sharp. Narrow. Like looking through a scope. They could feel their pulse everywhere- temples, throat, behind their eyes, in their fingertips. Too many people. Too many. Too loud. Bodies pressing in from all sides even though no one was touching them. The kind of chaos that used to mean incoming, that used to mean get down get small find cover now-

Corner corner corner. They needed a corner. Needed walls at their back and a clear sightline to every entrance and exit and their lungs weren't working right and someone was going to notice, someone was going to see them falling apart in the middle of this stupid convention and-
There.

A rest area. Edge of the convention floor. Fewer people. Rowan didn't walk- they fled. Stumbled between clusters of cosplayers and vendor tables, shoulder clipping someone's elaborate wing setup, mumbled apology that might not have been out loud. Their legs felt wrong. Disconnected. Like their body was moving through water or syrup or the kind of dream where you run but don't get anywhere.

Wall. Wall. They hit it harder than intended, back pressing against solid concrete, and it was the first thing that felt real in the last five minutes. Solid. Unmovable. Nothing could come at them from behind.

Breathe. Breathe. Dr. Vogler's voice trying to cut through the static in their head. In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.

In for- their breath hitched, sharp and painful. Tried again.

In for four. Hands shaking so badly they had to press them flat against the wall.

Hold for- they couldn't hold anything. Their chest felt like it was caving in.

Out for six. Ragged. Uneven. But out.

Again.

Their hands were still shaking.

Again.

Just bottles falling. Just a convention. Just Berlin on a Tuesday afternoon where nothing was wrong and no one was dying and they were safe.

In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.

Their vision started to expand. The tunnel widening slowly, peripheral awareness creeping back in. They were safe. They were fine. They were not dying even though every nerve ending in their body was screaming otherwise.

That's when they noticed him.

The guy was maybe ten feet away, leaning against the wall with his phone out. He wore this elaborate historical costume- something European, ornate, the kind of craftsmanship that spoke of hours of careful work. Rich fabrics. Detailed embroidery. The kind of thing Rowan would have photographed back when they photographed things. Back when their hands didn't shake.

Had he noticed them? Probably. They'd practically thrown themselves at the wall like a feral cat escaping a dog, all graceless panic and sharp breaths that were definitely audible if you were paying attention. Great. Perfect. Excellent first impression for a complete stranger who was just trying to enjoy his convention break.

Rowan's face felt hot. Embarrassment mixing with adrenaline in a cocktail that made them want to sink through the floor. This guy was here in his beautiful costume, probably having a normal day, and here was Rowan having a breakdown ten feet away from him like some kind of disaster tourist who couldn't handle bottles falling at a flea market.

Pathetic. They were pathetic.

But looking at him—at the costume, at the way he held himself like he was taking a break from performing, at the careful details in the embroidery that caught the overhead lights—gave Rowan something to focus on that wasn't their own humiliation. The construction. The fabric choice. The contrast between historical accuracy and modern convention center. Their brain latched onto it the way a drowning person grabs floating debris, desperate for anything that wasn't the panic still thrumming under their skin.

In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.

Their hands found their camera without conscious thought. Old muscle memory. Document what you see. Find beauty in the frame. Prove the world contains more than horror.

They should walk away. Should find an actual exit. Should go back to the sublet and add this to the list of things they'd tried and failed at.

Instead, Rowan's legs carried them forward.

"Hey." Their voice came out rough, like they hadn't used it in days. Maybe they hadn't. "Sorry to-" They gestured vaguely at him, at the costume, at their camera. Words felt clumsy in their mouth. "This is going to sound weird, but could I photograph you?"

The guy looked up, and Rowan watched him shift into performance mode- posture straightening, smile becoming more deliberate. A trained smile. They'd seen those in enough hotels and checkpoints to recognize the particular quality of professional charm.

"The costume," Rowan added quickly, before he could respond. "It's really beautiful. The construction. I'm a photographer. Or I was. I just- " Fuck, they were bad at this. Their heart was still racing. Their hands were still shaking. "I haven't taken photos in a while and I'd like to try again and the light here is actually really good and- "

They were rambling. They were definitely rambling. This was a disaster.

"Sorry," Rowan said, already backing away. "Nevermind. Forget I asked. I should-"

Go. Leave. Add this to the list of ways they'd made things awkward and uncomfortable for strangers who were just trying to have a normal day.