ALWAYS AN ANGEL, NEVER A GOD.

𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬: the "loner turned heartthrob" archetype, being a doom magnet, coping by creating, fighting to escape your roots, & much more ! triggering & nsfw themes will be largely present. please read all carrd pages. 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡: @deatheless & @behe4dings.

it's easy to forget that mina is, technically, medically ― dead. paris has been intimate with death for a long time now. even now, the very word carries a heavy connotation, conjuring up images of her late brother's smile. to paris, dead is synonymous with gone, and mina can't be dead because she's is right in front of her. mina is holding her hand, or paris is holding hers.

the news is long from fresh. even when it had been, paris had believed her instantly, no questions asked. there was little room for skepticism in the hospital bed they ended up sharing. and yet, it still hadn't took. much like the grim reaper had refused to grasp mina fully, paris couldn't wrap their head around the overwhelming all of it. her mere presence ensures that said loose end will remain untied . . . so long as that dark messenger stays at bay.

none of this rumination answers her question, though. in fact, all paris can think of initially in the wake of it is: i miss my brother.

❝  ― i dunno.  ❞ she says, voice barely above a murmur. paris turns mina's hand around in hers to glance at her palm. ironically, she doesn't think she'd be able to survive missing her too. ❝  i can hold your hand.  ❞

( she'd barely been able to look at tommy in his casket. that's a mistake she won't make twice, not when she's lucky enough to still be able to touch her. )

when mina does go intangible, as paris calls it, it's hard to ignore that something isn't right. now that she's back, she feels inclined to never let go of her ever again. maybe that'll keep her tethered to whatever plane the rest of them are on.

❝  ― hey ! what do you have against my dogs, man ?  ❞ she turns on her heel, mock - offense clear on her face. on behalf of the dogs, of course.

PAN TO: jackrabbit harrow. the oldest bernedoodle on the planet, flopped down on the floor, none the wiser to the conversation happening above him. he has been a hundred years old for a hundred years. large, yes, but the opposite of aggressive. not a threat.

PAN TO: three time grammy award winner fiona apple farris-harrow. yes, that is her full name. a sugar-sweet havanese puppy and borderline service dog. would roll over in front of a masked intruder for belly rubs. one atom big. not a threat.

yeah, the restraining order might be the right way to go about this. paris flops down on the couch and pulls her phone out of her pocket to pour over her manager's messages yet again. then, she looks up at ben, kicking her feet like a kid. it's nice . . . having a normie like him to bounce famous people problems off of. he's got a good perspective she has since lost.

❝ so, ❞ they drop their suitcase to the ground. it makes the wooden floorboards, old and out of use, creak loudly. ❝ this is my room. ❞

it still feels like it is. paris hasn't slept in the bed since they were nineteen, but knows even now the well - worn mattress will morph to their shape. sneakers that they used to trudge through the forest behind the house in still lay on their side . . . haphazardly tossed there. left behind. it was hard to decide what would stay and what would go. but there was always a part of them that knew they'd be back here eventually — that they would see all the knick - knacks and old socks again.

mina shouldn't be able to exist in this space. nothing from the new life they carved with their own two hands should ever set foot in ohio. but here she is, tangible, trying to discreetly eye the photos and magazine clippings and random shit still tacked to their corkboard.