pontmercyfriend | Running around like a clown on purpose.

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Running around like a clown on purpose.

Awakening beneath a jumbled pile of sheets, Marius doesn't register that anything is off, at first. He yawns as he blinks awake, staring at the mostly unadorned wall across from his bed. His first thought follows the loud, rumbling noise of his stomach. Suddenly, he doesn't remember if he actually, in fact, had dinner last night at all. He'd spent almost all of yesterday reading; he must have forgotten to eat, his head too much wrapped up in both the clouds and his past week in general.

"Mrow?"

Courfeyrcat mews before pouncing on him, landing clean on the middle of his stomach. Marius winces, surprised by how much heavier his cat seems, before he blinks again and gets a good look at himself.

Most of the sheets he finds himself entangled in are his own pajamas; he is all but drowning in his own shirt, and his tiny legs are tangled in just one side of his pants. He blanches before flailing, much to his cat's dismay, and falls off the side of his bed. He makes his way to the mirror above his dresser, which, he realizes, he can't see unless he stands on the tops of his toes.

"Dieu," he exclaims, clamping his hands over his mouth at the high pitch of his voice. His hair is a brighter shade of red, longer, and even more out of control than usual; his eyes are widened, trying to take in the sight of himself. He looks exactly as he did back in Paris when he was 8. And still, Marius; stomach grumbles. How on God's green earth did he suddenly become younger again?

That's when his pajama pants slide off him completely, and Marius knows his first order of business; as much as he wants to freak out right now, he requires clothes that actually fit; and then he can have a proper cry, or whatever it is young children do these days.

"Right," he tells himself, glancing around. He owns absolutely nothing that will possibly fit him, so he'll have to go out and purchase a new outfit for himself. In the mean time...

He runs over to his bed again, crawling back up and grabbing one of the pillows. He shakes it out of the dark brown case, and takes said case with him to the kitchen; he grabs one of his belts, too, before he goes. By the time he finishes, Marius feels relatively accomplished; he's managed to fashion himself an outfit, not entirely unlike a toga - he's cut holes in the case for sleeves, and wrapped the belt around the middle to keep it up. He lacks shoes, so he'll just have to go barefoot for the time being. Inexplicably, he giggles at thought.

With all that said and done, and a mournful Courfeyrcat glaring at him, Marius grabs some cash from his wallet and makes his way to his door. Forgetting, of course, his apartment keys.

"Damn it!" He shouts, banging his tiny fist against the door after it falls shut. He groans; he'll just have to convince someone he is actually himself, he supposes. Or learn how to pick locks, whichever proves the easier option.

Still, there's nothing that can be done now; Marius needs new clothes so he looks less ridiculous. His stomach interrupts the thought with another growl. Okay, after breakfast.

He makes his way to one of his favorite cafes close to Dimera apartments. The pavement hurts his bare feet, especially with the morning chill, but he finds he doesn't mind; oddly, Marius grins at the sensation. There's something oddly freeing about being this small and having only the ground beneath him. He's tempted to run, the way he's seen gamins weaving in and out on the streets of Paris.

"Hold it, kid."

He approaches the cafe, only to be stopped by a nearby police officer he failed to notice. His shoulders tense and scowls at being called a 'kid.' He is a twenty-three old man, thank you very much. Currently trapped inside the body of an eight year old, but still. The indignity of it all.

"Yes, sir?" He says, trying to stay polite. He doesn't want to cause any trouble if he can help it. "I'm just trying to get something to eat."

"Where are your parents?" The officer asks him, peering down at him over a pair of sunglasses. He looks like a monster, Marius petulantly thinks. But then he realizes: he has to lie. He has to think of some convincing lie, just to get the officer off his back.

He is a terrible liar, even as child.

"Dead," he says, plainly, as if he were answering a simple question such as 'what's your favorite color.'

The officer stares at him, clearly taken aback by the answer. "Alright kid, I'm going to need you to come with me."

Marius glares; he really, really dislikes being called 'kid.'

But then, the policeman is reaching for him. He recoils and ducks, grateful in that moment for his small size as he turns to run as fast as he can.

"Kid, come back here!" The officer huffs, though, unfortunately for Marius, he is not the sort of police uninspired by running. Indeed, as Marius glances back, he finds the other man keeping up with him, nearly overtaking him.

Shit, he thinks, wincing as his feet stumble over debris on the sidewalk. He only barely manages to swerve and avoid a shard of broken glass; bouncing off a nearby brick building as he runs, grinning at the thrill of it. He feels like he could fly, if he just set his mind to it.

This is, of course, the moment when the officer grabs Marius by the arm.

"Alright now, kid, come on. It's alright, we'll take care of you - Jesus Christ!"

Marius doesn't think; he elbows the man where he knows it will hurt the most on instinct. And then he's off running again, making himself move as fast as he can possibly go. His stomach starts to cramp, though, as it reminds him that he still hasn't had breakfast, and suddenly, as he turns into an alley, searching for a place to hide, the dumpster, perhaps, he is actually flying, for a few, brief moments.

"Ow!" He grimaces, glancing down to find his knee cut up and bloody. Damn it all.

"Don't cry, don't cry," he mumbles to himself, chewing on his lip as though that might stop his tears. Grandfather disapproved of him crying.

He manages to right himself, clinging to the wall for support as he keeps his tears in check. He eyes the dumpster, even as the thought repulses him. Better than letting that awful man take him away.

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He blushes, glancing down at his still-bleeding knee before shuffling to hide it behind the lower half of his makeshift tunic. "I would appreciate it very much," he mumbles, still hating how squeaky his voice sounds. He really dislikes how small and pitiful he looks right now.

"That's what I was trying to do, before the stupid officer started chasing me," he pouts, unable to resist the urge. God, that was a frightening thought. That he might be reverting to his eight year old self fully.

Dorian bites his lip to avoid letting out a giggle at the expression on Marius' small, round face. His stature may not be the only childish thing about him, at the moment, but it doesn't bother Dorian in the slightest. He is just happy to see Marius safe and mostly not having a meltdown about all of this. Everything else could take care of itself, eventually.

Reaching out a hand, he places it over Marius' scraped knee. With a soft, green glow of Dorian's magic, the skin begins to knit itself back together, the pain fading away with the wound. Dorian was no great healer, but he could shore up a little scratch or a bruise in the field.

"Well, the stupid officer is now going to be quite distracted, calling the stupid fire marshal. Which gives us a chance to buy you some pants. Shall we?"

In some ways, even running from the cops is happier than Marius' actual childhood back in Paris, where all he did was hide from his tutors and grandfather, who would eventually pull him out of whatever cabinet he'd climbed into to laugh at in front of all his friends. So Marius supposes the indignity of a pillow tunic and a scraped knee is one he can live with. For the moment.

"Dieu," he breathes, glancing down as Dorian magics away his injured knee. "Merci, Dorian." His tendency towards French becomes more pronounced the longer he remains as young as he is.

"That sounds good," he admits, running a hand awkwardly through his hair.

"It wasn't a problem. I am the man that makes the magic happen -- literally."

Dorian reaches a hand out and, despite himself, ruffles the thick hair on Marius' head, before he starts heading for the department store he knew was three blocks away on the same street. If he could get Marius clothed, fed and back in his apartment, he wouldn't feel entirely guilty leaving him to his own devices after that. Marius had many friends.

"Has this happened to anyone else you know? Have you any idea how long it might last?"

Marius grins at the hair ruffling, despite himself. If it were someone more like his grandfather making such a gesture, he would scowl before running off. But Dorian is a friend, and he knows he means well by it, so he allows it. As much as he can allow anything while trapped in the form of a child.

"No, it's not something I've seen happen to others I know," he admits, walking alongside the other man. "I hope it doesn't last long!" He blanches, horrified by the idea. "I have work and...other things to consider."

"This is the situation you're in, and you're worried about work?" Dorian says, voice amazed. Dorian supposed he might be the same, not because he was a particularly responsible person, but because someone might fuck up his job if they were covering for him. Archiving was a serious business for which Dorian was full of a lot of feelings.

"Do you have anyone who could call off for you until you can get back in? Here -- this place looks good."

Dorian stops, hands on hips, in front of a children's clothier. He likes the clothing inside. Suits and other fine things, like adult clothing but in miniature.

"I'm worried about of things," he replies in a huff. "Including work. I remember what it is not to have a job; I don't want to wind up fired because I reverted back to childhood." Though he knows the city provides them with a monthly stipend enough for rent and food, he hates the thought of not earning his own income.

"I suppose I could ask Courfeyrac," he says, much as he winces at the thought of his friend seeing him like this. "Oh no." He smacks his hand against his forehead. "It's his birthday party tonight, I almost forgot!"

Marius wrinkles his nose at the sight of the clothing in the window.

"Do they have to be this fancy, the clothes?'

"Yes, asking Courfeyrac sounds like a capital idea," Dorian agrees. He doesn't know much about Courfeyrac but from what Marius has mentioned, but Dorian is all for the division of labor when people are suffering from strange magical enchantments that make them smaller versions of themselves, or something.

"And yes." Dorian pushes the door open. The little bell rings. He ushers Marius in with the wave of a hand.

"They absolutely have to be this fancy if I'm buying them for you. Deal with it."

"At the very least, it'll give him the chance to flirt with Marie again," Marius muses, shaking his head. He knows Courfeyrac will help him out; he always does. But he also knows his friend well enough to know that he will seize any opportunity he can to find favor with a pretty woman.

Marius doesn't quite sulk into the store, but he doesn't rush in, either.

"I have my own money, you know," he grumbles, holding up the crumpled bills from where he stuffed them into the side of his pillowcase.

"Is your friend Courfeyrac quite the ladies' man?" He gives Marius a sweetly amused smile, swallowing a giggle, when the little man, the boy, seems to pout about the state of his finances. Like he were shaking a little bank full of father's and mother's cast off coin, proud of his collection. It's an interesting juxtaposition of youth and the pride of adulthood, wanting to be self-solvent.

"And I know you have the money, but that's not the point. The point is that it will make me happy to buy you clothing. Especially if I get to dress you like a tiny doll." Dorian's amusement grows, before faltering slightly as he turns to look through racks of little sweater-vests. Children were not likely to ever be part of his future, that much he knows. It only hurts in moments like this.

"To say the least," Marius replies wryly, memories of all the various stories and 'encounters' Courfeyrac's entrusted him with throughout the years suddenly rising to the forefront of his own thoughts. His best friend could give any modern Lancelot a run for their money, to be damn sure.

He's about to protest that he isn't a doll, he's a grown man, thank you very much, when he catches the faltering in Dorian's amusement. Marius has always been weak to sadness, especially in other people. Catching a glimpse of sorrow in his friend's expression, he decides that he shall just put up with being treated like a tiny doll. For the moment.

"Alright, what shall I try on first?" He asks, chewing on his lip and scuffling his feet.

"Vest," Dorian says, holding it out for Marius, along with a white button-down and a pair of trousers. It's youthful, and it's clean cut. It's not Dorian's personal style at all, but Dorian isn't dressing himself. And with the fashion he has to work with in Darrow, he thinks it will suit Marius.

"You'll be the most handsome." There's an adoring tone in Dorian's voice, and pleasant.

Marius manages to accept the vest, button-down, and pants without so much as even a sigh, which feels like an accomplishment in itself. He makes his way towards the dressing room, where he makes quick work of exchanging his pillow-tunic for the more socially acceptable outfit.

"Well?" He asks once he emerges, unsure if he's arranged everything quite as it's meant to be.

Dorian gives Marius a decorous round of applause when he exits the dressing room. He looks fine -- he looks adorable, actually, and Dorian is quite proud of himself. And Marius, for reasons Dorian doesn't want to look into too closely. He knows it can only lead him down an uncomfortable road. Dorian isn't even certain that a relationship is in the stars for him. Far be it, a family, children, any of those things that he was brought up being promised.

He sighs and gives his chin a thoughtful stroke with his thumb.

"Is it comfortable? I don't actually want to frustrate you, making you try on everything in the store. You'll need shoes, though. And socks. And smallclothes or whatever it is they call them now. Underthings."

"It is surprisingly so, yes," he admits, caught off guard by how comfortable he feels in the clothes. They are snug, but only in the sense that they frame his body perfectly and won't fall off him like the rags he's seen on gamin back in Paris. Glancing down at himself, Marius finds himself pleasantly surprised by how much he likes the look.

"Shoes might be useful," he admits, trying not to stare at the blisters he feels popping up all over his feet from running around that morning.

"Yes, I'll say," Dorian says, careful not to laugh at the state of Marius' poor footsies. Or to call them footsies. He thinks Marius might object to such a childish word in his current state. Dorian can see that they're dirty and worse for the wear.

"Come on then, let's see what size you wear."

Before he can think not to, Dorian takes Marius gently by the hand to lead him to the shoes at the back, stacked up on tilted fixtures against the wall in neat rows.

"Then you'll be all set, and you'll have the day off. No more Dorian in your business."

"You lead the way," he says, following Dorian as one of the shopkeepers shoots Marius a nasty look for daring to come into her store without shoes. A little bit tired, he gives into his urge and promptly sticks out his tongue at the woman.

He finds himself nearly walking on Dorian once he takes his hand; he winds up clinging a bit, craving the closeness he never really knew during his actual childhood.

Then Dorian says that he'll be all set, and Marius starts, panicked by the very idea. "You're not going to leave me are you? Please don't leave," he winces when his voice first comes out as a squeak, and then cracks. The instincts of his younger body take over , and he finds himself clinging desperately at the other man's pant leg.

"Marius. Amicus. Whatever is the matter?" Dorian asks when the very small version of his friend reaches out to tangle himself against Dorian's leg with a grip that seems intent to last several days, if Dorian lets it.

He shuffles himself to bend next to Marius, folding his hands over small shoulders with an expression softened with care and concern.

"No. I won't leave you on your own if you don't want me to? Not until you're with someone else you're comfortable with. But eventually I'll have things that I want to do ... I think they frown upon people as small as you in some of those places."

"I just...don't really want to be alone like this, is all," he mumbles, shuffling his feet and fidgeting with his hands in the fabric of Dorian's pant leg. He spent much of his childhood on his own, or with tutors and governesses that were only there to instruct him. "I kind of forget how scary the world is when you're this little."

"Okay, thank you," he glances up at Dorian with a small, appreciative smile. Then he considers what Dorian has said, and he tilts his head, trying to understand. "Are you going to one of those adult stores?"

"The world is always scary. No matter how big you are. You just get numb to it," Dorian says, stroking Marius' hair despite himself. There is a part of him that will miss Marius being this small and open. When he is older, probably, and Dorian still has the urge to stroke his hair comfortingly, probably.

It's a little less socially acceptable.

"How do you know about adult stores?" Dorian asks, suspicious, forgetting for a half second that it's very likely that Marius, old as he actually is, knows about things like that.

"But no. I don't go to those stores. I get that sort of thing delivered discreetly to my chambers by other people. I'm going to a massage parlour."

"I suppose," Marius mumbles, leaning into Dorian ruffling his hair, appreciative of the gesture and the warmth it exudes. The last person he remembers showing up such affection in this form was his mother, just before her death. He clings a little bit more to his friend. Even as an adult, sometimes, he thinks he still isn't numb to the terrors of the world.

"I got a gift card," he explains, blushing red as a beet. "For helping tutor one of the college students in French, before I got my job at Tintern Abbey." As soon as he says it, he feels like he's going to regret telling Dorian this. He hasn't even told Courfeyrac about this.

"A massage parlour?" Marius asks, curious. "Like what they call a spa, here?"

Dorian gives a guffaw at the idea that Marius managed to get a gift card to a sex shop in return for language tutoring. He is very handsome, and moreover, Dorian can only assume now that what he's heard about Orlesian men follows through with French ones. They must hold some sort of allure that the domestic sort just didn't have.

"She must have seen a little je ne sais quoi in you," he jokes. The sales attendant doesn't seem to be nearly as amused as Dorian about the turn of the conversation he's having with a child, however, and she lets Dorian know with a glower over the forbidding tortoiseshell frame of her glasses.

"Sure, a spa. Close enough. Why not?"

Marius feels Dorian's guffaw from still leaning on him, and he glances up at him with a small scowl on his face. He never imagined anyone would ever actually offer him such a payment for his tutoring services in his life.

"That, or she just wanted to laugh at how red my face turned when I received it," he mutters, recalling that night with a wince. She'd meant well enough, but he'd still have rather have been paid in cash.

Marius catches sight of the saleslady again, who really does look like she wants to have both their heads on a platter for this conversation. Marius finds his childish nature does not care.

"Do you like getting messages?" He asks, curious.

Dorian snorts at Marius' continued, uncaring about the disapproval of the sales attendant. Dorian ought to take a lesson from this little Marius. He'll never see the sales attendant again. Why should he care for her opinion?

Taking a pair of shoes that look to be in the right size, he hands them off to Marius.

"Take these," Dorian says. "And yes. I like to get massages. I like big, strong hands all over me."

Marius takes the shoes Dorian hands to him, studying them for a moment. He likes the look of them; they have a certain flair that reminds him of Dorian, but they also appear comfortable enough for him to walk in.

"Merci," he says, moving to sit down so he might try them on.

"But of course you do," he replies with a wryness more accustomed for an adult. The sales lady seems to be turning an impressive shade of red as she continues to watch them.

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Running around like a clown on purpose.

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