* FLIGHT / RISK.

✦ * · ˚ 003.  with maverick → @flightsrsk​ .

date: december 24th, 8:30 p.m.

location: the braxton’s annual holiday party .

donatella didn’t know what she was doing at the braxton’s mansion. perhaps it was the false sense of security her last encounter with her ex had gave her, perhaps it was the masochist in her that made her show up, but for the first time in two years she stood there. as she looked up to its grandiose stature, the brunette realized that the last time she had been to their annual holiday party, she had been maverick’s girlfriend - she had been welcomed. now, she was probably persona non grata by the whole family. she hoped that none of the braxton siblings decided to do something rash, like kick her out - that would be humiliating. 

taking a deep breath, she walked in, high heels clicking on the foyer. the familiarity of the event, even after not attending for the last two years, was HAUNTING. she remembered how maverick had hated having to take part in it, how he dreaded the event for months before. it occurred to her that maybe that was the reason why she was really there - the last time she had talked to maverick, it had been… interesting. for a while, it had felt like they were back together and that everything would be fine. but their encounter had also left her worried about his well being - something about his expression that day and the begs under his eyes had spooked her. 

she had convinced herself that she wouldn’t actually talk to him at the party, just make sure he was alright and leave. well, maybe drink a few glasses of champagne and then leave. so when she noticed him, mere minutes of entering the ballroom, she didn’t really know what to do. maybe she should just assess his appearance and ignore him for the rest of the time she was there. yes, good plan. 

it turned out to be a BAD plan, she realized as soon as she locked eyes with her ex. his eyes weren’t as empty as they were when she went to his apartment and the bags on his eyes weren’t visible from the distance, but there was no disguising his unwelcoming expression. donnie looked away after what seemed like centuries, an anxious feeling forming on the pit of her stomach. this is not good at all. snatching a champagne flute from the waiter that was passing by and turning around. she needs privacy. it took her a while to remember where the closest bathroom was, but she couldn’t help her sigh of relief when she finally found the door. drinking the remains of the drink in her hand, she entered the room - only to be surprised that she wasn’t alone.  ❝ oh, i’m sorry. i didn’t know there wa- maverick ? what are you doing ? ❞

                       THE BRAXTON FAMILY HOLIDAY PARTY is quite possibly the worst night of maverick’s year –– each year he tries to convince himself that it’ll get easier, that he’ll become more sure of himself, that he’ll finally be okay mentioning to the whole entire fucking world that he’s not interested in theatre anymore, that he’s pursuing philosophy now. that he has other dreams other than the ones his father planned for him. every year, he tries to muster up the confidence ( with the help of some liquid courage, as of recently ) to say something, but each time, he hits a wall. like the cold realization that lying his way through one more night is less of a task than destroying his family legacy. 

it’s hard –– fibbing about the classes he’s taking, the roles he’s preparing for, the playwrights he admires. he can’t even resort to more destructive tactics to keep himself afloat: it’s far too risky, the way he might spill his change of heart, if under the influence of something a little stronger than champagne. add on top of that, the looming question of melanie’s death –– the only thing maverick thinks is EASY to admit is that he’s hating every moment of this, his bowtie feels tighter and tighter around his neck every minute. 

and of course, locking eyes with his ex from across the room doesn’t do him any favors. in fact, it makes his heart sink. what’s she doing here ? his mind starts running, just as it always does –– doesn’t she know that this is the worst fucking night of my years ? doesn’t she know that the last time she was here, we were together ? doesn’t she know that i’m already confused out of my GODDAMNED mind ? he doesn’t find the courage to walk toward her, either, his feet tugging him the exact opposite way, in fact. that’s it, he tells himself. seeing her is the sign he needs to excuse himself from his social obligations –– i’ve done enough chatting for the night.

he excuses himself from the latest conversation ( something boring and dull, like inheritance taxes ), feeling absolutely sick to his stomach. he runs for a nearby bathroom; he’s choked up –– he doesn’t know what to say, his palms are sweating profusely, his chest hitching with every breath. it’s certainly EMBARRASSING that someone has the power to push him over the edge, to feel immediately out of control of his own emotions. their last conversation had left him confused as ever –- that they were able to go from yelling matches to comforting conversations in a blink of an eye. he had replayed her words in his head a dozen times: the way she seemed like she flirted with him, the way she complimented him, the way she encouraged him –– but also the way she dismissed him, the way she frustrated him, the way she berated him for being stubborn. it INFURIATES him, how much he’s let her dictate his wellbeing, even now, years after they had presumedly severed ties. 

he needs to feel in CONTROL, needs something to get him through the night. he’s cursed himself for making his own terrible habits so accessible for himself –– and reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to procure a small bag of fine white powder, and begins to create alluring lines with his credit card. he’s halfway through inhaling one when the door swings open, the chatter of the party streaming into the room –– along with one donatella navarro. “fuck.” he locks eyes with hers again, the second time that evening, and for a moment, he’s stunned.

but a split second later, maverick jumps from his hunched over position, immediately rushing to shut the door she had just opened. “you didn’t see anything,” he almost shouts as he slams the door and makes sure it’s locked this time. it’s as if she had just opened pandora’s box –– his secret habits nearly revealed to anyone who just happened to pass by. he supposes it could be worse –– she could have been his father, his mother, or any of the other guests at the party whose allegiance was with his parents, not him. he’d hoped, at least, that donnie wouldn’t say anything to them. if she still cared, she wouldn’t. 

once, there had been a time that cordelia knew the number of steps she had to walk & the number of stairs she had to climb in order to get from the front door of the braxton mansion to maverick’s bedroom — at least SUBCONSCIOUSLY. there had been a few years in high school where she’d spent a lot of time there, with all the rest of their friends. now, however? it had been a long, long time since she’d last been in maverick braxton’s bedroom & STILL she found herself moving in that direction when the rapid-fire of questions from mr. braxton’s theatre buff friends about what she wanted to do after graduating & if they should expect to see her work any time soon became TOO MUCH. 

she wasn’t sure if she was looking for maverick or looking for an escape, but somehow she still winds up leaning into his doorway at the sound of him calling her name. “do i know how to tie a bowtie?” she repeats, giving her head the slightest shake as she started into his room, reaching one of her hands forward to gingerly ease the garment from his outstretched hand. “it just so happens that THIS is your lucky day, iceman. you’re in the presence of the fastest bowtie tie-er in the midwest. our costume department would be lost without me.” with that, she slings the fabric around his collar, tugging one end forward a fraction. “it’s not so hard, once you get the hang of it. cross it over, around & up, down & over, fold, knot, adjust…” her fingers give one final, gentle tug before stilling their motions entirely. “see? FAST, right?” she dares to hold his gaze for a few beats longer than she might have any other day, though she isn’t quite sure what’s fueling it. “now you’re both fashionable & fashionably late. which — it is awfully impressive to be late to a party held in your own house, i must say.”

                      HE HAS TO DO A DOUBLE TAKE –– seeing cordelia enter his room almost feels nostalgic. it brings him back to a time, a much simpler time. high school had been the bane of his existence: lots of expectations to do well in school in order to get into a good university, beginning his real stage career, not to mention fighting the wars of puberty it was PEAK comparison time, too –– SAT scores, essays, stage credits were all scrutinized while he lived under his parents’ roof. it didn’t help that he hadn’t really begun to think about what maverick actually wanted, submitting to the desires of his parents most of the time. cordelia … well, she’s a reminder of those past memories, sure, but she also reminds him of the good things he still has now. 

                       MAVERICK'S RELATIONSHIP WITH CHRISTMAS WAS certainly complicated — though complicated seemed to be a pattern when it came to his feelings for things. ever the accidental self-sabotage, it was almost as if he FEARED the feeling of liking something, of feeling confident in himself, his abilities, his friendships … he seemed to never be enough to hold onto those great feelings, and instead, would push them away, instead of relish in their beauty for the moments he could have. christmas was just as messy: he loved it because of the atmosphere: the snow, the treats, even the songs. but christmas came with family obligations — participating in holiday plays, making smalltalk with relatives who only cared about his successes, the inevitable comparisons with his father and brother. the only part about christmas and being with family that he did like was spending time with his grandmother, the one person who actually ASKED him about his life, who knew him well enough to get him gifts that were meaningful.

                            OUT OF ALL THE THINGS maverick hates, relying on people might be at the top of the list. he hates the feeling of being helpless, of needing to ask for help — it’s the entire feeling of not being able to complete something for himself, of not being able to finish the job when he’s expected to excel in … well, everything he godammned touches. some mountains of disappointment are larger than others, this current situation feels like everest. even if all that’s holding him back is one piece of silk.

ella shushed him as reflexive apologies flow from his mouth. she always apologized, for basically no reason, but it sounded wrong coming from mickey. he clearly couldn’t stand on his own, ella taking a good chunk of his weight, but still she insisted “it’s okay, mickey, it’s fine.” all mickey needed was help, and to learn how to accept it. 

he was so exhausted and desperate, it was hard not to cradle him close, press kisses to his brow. everything about him was wrung out, wrung dry, and ella didn’t even wanna think about what kind of cocktail was brewing in his system, what it could mean. his skin was clammy, but his heart was still beating at a semi-reasonable rate, she presumed. nothing too concerning. “no, you’re not,” ella insisted, voice almost shaking. “you’re not okay, mickey, please, i need you to tell me what you took.” she didn’t want to sound as scared as she felt, mickey didn’t need that right now. she did what she always did; tamping down her own emotions to better serve the emotions of others. 

she shook her head, pressing a hand to his forehead for a moment. ella stood up, leaning across him to grab the blanket that was lying on the other side, wrapping it around and tucking it under his body. he still had his boots on, and ella cursed, going done to untie them and slide them off. “i know i don’t have to,” she insisted, glancing back up at his glassy eyes. every time she looked in them, her heart panged. she hated to see them like that, not as alive and mischievous as usual. “i want to.” because mickey had taken care of her in more ways than he could possible realize. 

she tugged one boot off his foot and placed it on the floor, before working on the other. ella prayed that she wasn’t making a massive mistake by letting mickey sleep, that he would wake up the next morning. she was in the middle of taking care of his other boot when he started to talk about moving, and ella looked up at him again, shaking her head. “no,” she said, voice soft. “no, just… just stay here, okay?” she’d figure out somewhere else to sleep; the rug on her floor was pretty fucking plush.

once the second boot was off, ella made to stand, to go grab a bucket or something, just in case mickey got sick in the middle of the night, but then she feels mickey’s hand reaching for her own. she clasps his right back, sighing to herself. there was something so innocent about this touch, so simple, that it absolutely broke her heart. she scooted down the floor towards him, checking to make sure he was actually asleep. “good night,” she murmured. she hoped he slept well. 

                        WAKING UP IN SOMEONE ELSE’S bed remains the strangest fucking feeling for maverick braxton. there’s a reason why he leaves parties relatively early, a reason why he sneaks out of or leaves cordelia’s room ninety-five percent of the time after he visits her. there’s simply a sense of order to his day when he wakes up to the same ceiling, the same curtains, the same walls staring back at him — the same way he likes keeping his room spotless. perhaps, maverick feels, if he can control the small things in life, he’ll be able to conquer larger mountains with greater ease. that, and … well, he doesn’t like to be attached to other people, out of one fear or another. and waking up in someone’s bed isn’t already an out-of-body experience, waking up in an almost foreign room, with a raging headache and a pang in his stomach, triggers a sense of absolute terror in maverick’s body. where the fu –

his train of thought is interrupted when he spots ella laying on the floor, breathing softly onto the rug, her soft features glowing in the early morning light that streams in from the windows. holy fuck, i’m the world’s biggest asshole, he berates himself in his mind as he covers his face with his hands, embarrassed and guilty for dragging ella into the pit of his deep-rooted problem of self-hatred and self-destruction. it’s certainly not the time to involve ANYONE ELSE into his crazy emotional complex. even worse, he’s certain he’s ruined every single good impression he’d made on her, proving him to be the inconsiderate asshole everyone else on this campus could paint him out to be. not that he’s pretending to be someone he’s not around ella … it was more that he’d hoped he could transform full-time into the person he is when he is around her. he’d just fallen into his own traps a few too many times. he wasn’t strong enough, not yet.

he gives himself a moment to take in his surroundings before quietly stepping out of her bed, stripping the sheets and bundling them up under his arm — the least he could do for her is wash them; after all, she’d given up her bed to him, and for a moment, he wonders if she didn’t trust him enough to lay next to him. not that it matters, of course, but the thought is sad enough to make his stomach drop, and his heart sink. he steps over her lightly, hoping not to wake her, as he maneuvers his way out of the room and into the common area, throwing the bedsheets into the washer. what the fuck do i do ? he didn’t want to wake her, but he wasn’t about to leave without saying thank you, at the very least, and apologize for whatever shit he’d said or done the night before — and it’d be at least an hour until the washer was done. he decides to leave for a moment, feeling his stomach rumble and ache. it’d be completely rude to look through her and rosemary’s fridge, so he trudges down to the dining hall, hoping that it’s open, first and foremost, and secondly, hoping the way he has taped a card on the doorframe between the handle and the wall leaves their apartment inconspicuously unlocked for any … perpetrators to enter. 

You would never be able to guess that a girl was missing dead. Looking around at the people of Hemlock, you would see nothing out of the ordinary, except perhaps the palpable excitement in the air that grew as Christmas approached. The din at Bean Me Up was loud as ever, a far cry from the low hum of mourning that had fallen over Covington. It wasn’t that Maisie didn’t feel festive-she did, in a way (the drink in front of her was a peppermint mocha soy latte, extra syrup because nothing could be too sweet. Her sweater was red. Festive). But it felt forced, an echo of how the holidays used to be, even more quiet now that she was stuck at school. 

Art had always been an escape for her, and now was no different. She was having trouble sleeping, too many thoughts clouding her mind and keeping her awake until the the dark of night began to fade into a new day. Instead of staring at the ceiling for hours, she lay curled up with a notebook, writing down whatever words came into her head and drawing the monsters she saw when she closed her eyes. But drawing with someone felt healthier, happier. Maisie smiled up at Maverick. “You’re welcome! I’m actually just here to boost your ego. Because, you know, it’s so small and fragile?” She laughed, silent except for the soft sound of exhalation. 

“Well, some things I do from memory, I guess it kind of depends on what I’m drawing, like…” she trailed off, a smile growing on her face. Maisie set down the sketchbook in front of her and grabbed a second one from inside her bag. She began to flip through it’s pages, looking intently. “Okay, see, this one I did in person,” she explained, showing him a drawing she had done of Griffin a few weeks before. “Well, most of it I did in person, but I had to finish it later because it was taking me forever to draw individual strands of hair,” Maisie added before sifting through the pages again, eventually abandoning her search in favor of the first sketchbook. “And this one is from memory,” she said, holding up a second drawing, less detailed and more stylized than the first. “Actually, that’s a lie. I cheated and looked at her instagram. It’s mostly from memory.” It felt good to show him. The drawings weren’t secret by any means, the first was even a homework assignment about portraiture. But when her teacher had asked her about the subject, Maisie had describe it as her ‘friend’ Griffin. With Maverick, she didn’t have to lie. He knew how and why those eyes had been committed to her memory. 

                        BEAN ME UP HAS THE uncanny ability to put maverick in a much better mood than he would have coming into the store. maybe it’s the scent of coffee, the natural lighting that soothes his eyes from fluorescent school lighting, but most likely, it’s the company that hangs around with him there. the holidays make the place feel even more like a haven, one he looks forward to the moment the bells chime when he steps into the doorway. there’s no place he’d rather be accepting jabs at his fragile ego — which, maisie jokes about, though it’s painful how accurate her words are. maverick might not even realize it himself, but even now, after years of experiencing criticism after criticism, it sucks the LIFE out of him to be told he’s not good enough. humble wouldn’t be a word to describe him, perhaps because he doesn’t believe he has achievements or skills to be modest about. “ don’t talk about it like that, ” he jokes, referring to his own ego. “ she needs to be nurtured with love and adoration. ” he jests, but it’s true. one compliment thrown his way, even in pity, means more to maverick than most would figure.

𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: austin braxton ( @brickyellow​ ) & maverick braxton ( @flightsrsk​​ ) 𝙡𝙤𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙩: the braxtons’ dick’s secret library 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚: nine pm

“alright, miscreants! i have successfully acquired two whole bottles of champagne. the party is on!” dick declared, thrusting both his fists into the air in triumph. the annual braxton holiday party had commenced approximately two hours ago, and the air was already thick with old money and even older tensions. the ancient crowd was some sort of viscous substance, and trying to part it to move from one room to the next was absolutely hopeless. but as the eldest braxton, richard took his job entirely seriously–he had to somehow secure the alcohol while simultaneously diverting the attention of various name-droppers and moneybags with charming small talk and dashing good looks. it wasn’t a foreign task at all; dick knew his way around words, and he more than knew how to distract middle-aged ladies with charisma.   

the braxton trio were in lesser spirits than previous years, as a result of melanie’s disappearance and supposed death. she had meant something to each of them, even if it was in different ways. so the need for better spirits was easily fulfilled by the two bottles of bubbly. “i did, however, get a little felt up by mrs. rice in the process. but what’s new?”

                        MAVERICK HAS MIXED FEELINGS ABOUT being back home. he supposes the one advantage of living a stone throw’s distance away from covington is that he is granted the freedom of returning home for the holidays — only to be met with a resounding reminder that he and his siblings are expected to put their mental state on hold in order to entertain guests at his family’s dreadful holiday party. there were few times in maverick’s life where the party had actually been BEARABLE, most due to the aide of alcohol. this year, more than ever, he just wasn’t quite feeling up to chatting with old, rich friends of his father who seemed to pile greater and greater expectations onto his shoulders as the years went on. with melanie’s disappearance and subsequent death, he wasn’t particularly chatty, and slipped out of the party as soon as he found an opening, bounding up the stairs to take a few swigs of vodka from his own stash before heading to dick’s library — as was tradition.

ella jumped a little when mickey yells, not expecting that reaction from someone laying supine and boneless on her couch. her eyes went to rosemary’s door, praying her roommate doesn’t come out, before they returned to mickey, half alive and fidgeting. drugs, she realized all of a sudden, and knew she wasn’t savvy enough to even begin to decipher what kind. as soon as he started apologizing, her heart broke all over again. 

she lowered herself to mickeys level, putting a careful hand on his shoulder. “no, hey, it’s okay. we’re- we won’t go to a hospital. just-.” she looks back at her roommate’s bedroom. “just be a little quieter, okay? i don’t want to wake anybody up.” she could barely stand to look at mickey right now, something so… wrong, and threadbare about him. like he was one more shock away from unraveling. 

ella leans over mickey’s head, brushing her hair behind her ear before pressing the back of her hand to mickeys forehead, taking in his clammy skin, his massive pupils. that were staring directly into her own. her heart flips in her chest, suddenly fully aware of herself, and of him. it was quickly too much, and she had to look away. 

“water,” she repeated, which was… back in her room. she bit the bottom of her lip, deciding, “come on, i’m gonna take you to my room, okay?” just in case rosemary came out to investigate, it was best to take care of him there. while she was tall, ella didn’t have a whole lot of muscle, so she wouldn’t be able to carry mickey on her own. still, she hooked her arm under his shoulders, hauling him upwards. “can you stand, mickey?” 

with mickey’s arm across her shoulders, ella helped him towards her room, step by careful step, assuring he didn’t trip over himself. when she finally got to her bed, she lowered him down as gently as she could, assuring he was lying on his side with his head on her pillow. he looked… younger, like this, and before ella knew what she was doing, she was running a gentle hand over his messy hair. 

as soon as she realized, though, she pulled away, reaching for her covington crows water bottle on her bedside table. it was just having someone on her bed, that was all. she’d never had anyone in her bed like this, so… so it was just playing tricks with her head. she opened the bottle up, putting the spout to his lips with a smile. “here.” 

when he was finished, she pressed her lips together, looking away as she asked, “what… what did you take, mickey? i know you took something, and i… i need to know so i know what to look out for.” or, at least, so she could google what to look out for, any danger signs. “and how to take care of you.” 

                          MAVERICK IS TOO FUCKED UP TO EVEN be embarrassed by the fact that he’s relying on someone else, for the first time in a long time. for most of his life, he’d rather flee the scene than ask for help — and while it’s gotten him hurt more often than he’d like to admit, it saves him from the embarrassment that comes with classic braxton judgment. 

he wants nothing more than to snap out of this agonizing CRASH, to get up off his ass, stand himself up, apologize to ella for being a nuisance, and head back to his apartment. but he can’t — he physically cannot stand; he can hardly remember half of the things she says, even a few seconds after the words leave her lips. he’s FRUSTRATED, that he can’t be better, can’t be all the things he’s set out to be because of her. he’s tired of himself, of his self-sabotaging ways, of the fact that he can’t even express his own self-disappointment to her, because it’d take too much energy out of him. his RAGING headache isn’t helping either. fuck. he’s struggling to make a note of it in his head, to tell her later how sorry he is … but it’s wishful thinking to think he’d remember it in the morning. “ yeah. i’m sorry, i’ll … be quiet … ”

he has no choice but to react when she speaks — he’s no stranger to the comedown, the fall, the crash after euphoric highs. it’s just the CIRCUMSTANCE of it all that makes him feel everything a thousand — no, a million — times stronger. his mind is fatigued, body completely exhausted; it’s taking a far bigger toll on him, one his body has never experienced before. it’s fucking embarrassing and terrifying at the same time. he wants to cry, to let streams of tears fall freely on his face, like they’d carry the pain out of his face, but he’s too exhausted to even muster up the strength for them to flow. he lives, right now, in a state of oblivion. 

“ okay, ” he responds to her request to relocate, but he can hardly remember what he’s agreed to until she’s maneuvered her way under his arm. “ yeah, y-yeah, i can stand, ” he’s actually completely unsure if the feat is possible, but he tries, HARD, so goddamned hard to cooperate — he’s already caused enough trouble for her. “ ella … i’m sorry, ” he says for the dozenth time, yet his heart does not feel any less free of guilt. “ i’m sorry. ”

his head hits her pillow: it’s soft and cool and just what his head needs. it smells like her, too — her shampoo that he can’t quite figure out in his state of mind. it feels SAFE, a feeling that is almost foreign to him at this point. the braxton estate hardly feels safe; it had never really felt like home. his apartment, though warm and cozy, with great company in wolfie, was never his place. and before he can even process the feeling, he feels cold water trickle down his throat — and water has never tasted so damned good. 

her bed is so soft, he thanks the gods above that he’s been able to find shelter this nice, when minutes ago, he’d been lost in the cold. yes, he can feel his fingers again — tingling as they clutch the bedsheets beneath him. he focuses on the texture — how soft they are, as a distraction to her question, one he DEFINITELY does not want to answer. she can certainly tell, by his current state, some of his darker, less favorable tendencies, but admitting them aloud is another thing. he’d never been good at admitting his own shortcomings — it wasn’t in braxton blood to be anything less than picture-perfect. except maverick never perfected the formula. would he risk, in his mind, his image of the one person who might think of him as someone GOOD ? maybe he should have thought about that before he’d shown up on that one person’s doorstep, high out of his mind. he sinks into the bed more, accepting that he’s already failed in his personal quest to better himself — at least, in this attempt. 

tik tok. tik tok.

the clock was ticking, but the last message sent on their conversation was hers. 

she noticed when the delivered label turned into read, she noticed that those three dots signalizing the other person was typing never appeared, she agonized over every second that had passed without a response. donatella wondered if it was even possible to delete her messages from his phone and from his memory. maybe if she acted like they never existed, he would follow her lead. maybe he didn’t even read them, just opened the conversation to get rid of the notifications.

maybe he’s laughing about your messages with his friends right now.

she deserved it, of course. their last conversation didn’t end so well. in fact, it was the worst they had for years - melanie’s disappearence was messing with their heads, making everything more pronounced. her mind was more chaotic than it had ever been. she knew that he owed her nothing, she was the one who started pushing him away so long ago, who made everything seem so hopeless. that was all she knew how to do, after all. by now, it had been years since he had even cared about her. years ever since she had shown him how much she cared about him.

tik tok.

she was going C R A Z Y, that was the only reasonable explanation. donnie didn’t understand why she had reached out to him; maybe it was because eden was done talking to her about melanie, not that she would understand why she felt so out of sorts, anyway. maybe it was because she was feeling selfish right now, needing the comfort only he could ever give her. maybe it was because she was tired of pretending, at least for a little while, that she wasn’t vulnerable, that she didn’t need him, that she didn’t love him anymore. 

maybe her subconscious was trying to tell her that it was ok to need someone, to tell them what was going through her mind. at least some of it.

TIK TOK.

thirteen minutes had passed, the only sign that he had even read her SEVEN messages was the label. she had already given up by now, even if her eyes didn’t stray from the small device, even if the only reason her fingers left her mouth was to make sure her cellphone wouldn’t lock automatically from inactivity. her previously well groomed nails were down to stubs, and she couldn’t even bring herself to care. it had been years since she had bitten her nails, the last time she had done it had been years before they even started to talk. it had been a bad habit when she was a chid, but she had gotten over it - until now.

he would’t reply, he didn’t have any obligation to at this point. 

GOOD FOR HIM.

and then, unexpectedly, the three dots appeared. his message was to the point, impersonal. almost like he didn’t want to acknowledge her question, but did it anyway because he’s a good person. and she was feeling selfish, so she left her apartment not even five seconds after his reply, the first pair of shoes she could find in her feet and without her keys or a coat; she only had her phone with her. donnie had to get there fast, before any of them regretted this. later, when she stopped to think about this moment, she’d realize she wasn’t even sure how she made her way to the apartment he shared with wolfie, she’d notice that she wasn’t aware of her surroundings, of the innumerous posters hanging around, of the people she passed. the only thing on her mind was her destination. 

and when she finally got there, she stood for a while, just staring at his door. she knew it was a mistake, she still had time to turn back around and leave - hell, she had never texted him back, so he never knew she was on her way. but before she could talk herself out of it, she saw her fist raising and felt the three knocks on the wood. and suddenly the door was open and he stood there, looking like her guardian angel. she went in for a hug, before noticing what she was doing and stopping herself.  ❝ hi, ❞ she started, her voice cracking. she realizing right then and there that she had no idea how she looked; but she was probably looking very pale, her hair all over the place. she wouldn’t be surprised if she even had bags under her eyes. 

her hands went to her hair, wanting to smooth out her windswept appearance, but other than that she couldn’t bring herself to care.  ❝ can i come in ? ❞ 

                            HE LOOKS LIKE HE’D GOTTEN stuck in the path of a wind turbine while wrestling with a horse. perhaps not that disheveled, his completely ransacked mental state only exacerbated his disordered mood. he wouldn’t have cared — he’d spent the last week and a half with bed head and clothes so wrinkled his mother would have a field day if she’d seen him. but it dawns on him that donnie might be coming over, and he’s sent into a mindset filled with even more FRENZY.

maverick’s current array of feelings toward donnie were … COMPLEX, to say the least. these days, every time he’d see her, he’d just get HEATED, reminded of their previous conversation — or rather, argument. time and time again, he’d become more and more frustrated, and no closer to understanding her justification of how and why she’d become so mad at him, especially after they hadn’t even interacted in … months ? years ? 

he didn’t have to be left guessing, he remembered the exact date when she had decided to give up on them — and kept arguing that maverick hadn’t made much of an effort to stay, either. maverick wishes he could remember everything they had said that night, but a mix of adrenaline, heartbreak, and his active pursuits in blocking out the pain from that night had muddled his memories. he’d remembered begging her to stay, to reconsider, to re-evaluate what she had in front of her. but it was all for nothing; at the end of the day, neither of them wanted to fight any longer.

he changes into a less-wrinkled shirt and jeans, partially because he’d be embarrassed to present himself in his previous wardrobe to her, partially because he, for whatever reason, feels the need to look more put together than he seems — particularly for donnie. it’s clear that maverick doesn’t exactly LIKE being vulnerable in front of others, his ex-girlfriend especially. for so long, he’d fought to get to a place where he both looked and felt fine without her. it’d taken him some time, a couple bad habits picked up along the way, but he could say he had gotten there thanks to a lot of self-reflection. still, she has the uncanny ability to draw emotion from him, these days only ones that are raw and sour. 

he makes a promise to himself not to let such emotions get the best of him today — that is, if she even decides to come. he presumes she’s hurting, just as much as he is. confused, startled, vaguely aware and hyper-aware at everything all at once. she wouldn’t have texted him if she wasn’t feeling DEEP in some pit. donnie had too much pride.

maverick has to do a double-take when he hears raps on the door, and has to take a breather when he confirms it’s her through the peephole. he still has absolutely no GODDAMNED idea what he’s going to say to her, what she might want to say to him, but he sees his hand reaching out to unlock the door. “ hi, ” he responds, it’s almost like an exhale it’s so soft.

just as quickly as his blood used to boil at the sound of her voice, his heart begins to tear at its seams. he realizes he hasn’t seen her like this — that is, not completely put together, head held eye with heels clacking confidently across paved floors and lipstick perfectly applied — since … well, they were together, sharing moments with each other in the privacy of their rooms where they promised themselves they wouldn’t have to put on acts. it brings a sort of comfort to him, knowing that even donnie, one of the strongest people he knows, is still affected by … all this. it’s sadistic, it’s terrible, but to him, to someone who has been held to the highest standard of perfection his entire life, it puts him at ease, if only for a moment. 

cordy: maybe it’s what i have to do... a sacrifice to the writing gods to rid me of this writers block ..

cordy: a small price to pay for salvation

cordy: how do authors name their characters the most OBSCURE things and everyone just accepts it

cordy: if peeta and four can just be named that can i name a character night? that’s what i’m asking

cordy: idk!! bc!! i have them introduced at “sun up” and “sun down” and i know if i was in charge i’d do some type of warm wash/cool wash situation with the lights but i can’t put that into the script so ?????

maverick: god you're almost as dramatic as dick

maverick: i'm kidding. but i feel like there are much less dramatic techniques to get over writers block

maverick: yeah it's whack. i guess they have reasons for their names, though, no?

maverick: and it seems you do too

maverick: what do you mean? you can, you are in charge!!!!

maverick: if people can put colors of peoples' hair and their clothes, you can put in some small note for lighting preferences too. you should see the specific shit people write in their scripts

penelope wondered why this whole thing was happening but her brain couldn’t even begin to wrap around it. maybe if she’d been the one to go missing melanie would’ve found her already - been able to think and conjure up a plan of action, find some clues to solve the mystery of where is penelope araceli rivera. but the situation wasn’t reversed, and her sister was left with penny being the one to sit here wallowing, not anywhere near smart enough to comprehend where to even start. all she’d been able to do was answer the police’s questions about stuff that she didn’t entirely think had to do with her sister’s disappearance. people acting weird at parties wasn’t unusual because that’s what you did at parties; you got into trouble, you got into fights, you drank too much, maybe hooked up with someone and then went home. none of that meant anyone at the party had to do with melanie disappearing. 

even the stupid obituary that had been plastered across campus didn’t feel right, but penelope couldn’t put her finger on why. if someone had deliberately hurt melanie, why plant the seed that she’s already dead? didn’t they know that was going to happen anyway? and if they hurt melanie, why would they make her obituary read the way it did? why make it at all? it was beginning to give penelope a headache. truthfully, it was probably just a troll, someone using the opportunity to strike fear on a power trip or something. or that’s what penny hoped it was, because admitting that her sister was dead meant that the last things she’d said to her… 

she glanced down when she heard maverick coming up the stairs, glad he’d decided to come. if she was left alone with her thoughts for too long her mind started going places she didn’t want to go. she said nothing as he took a seat next to her, putting her lunchbox between them so that he could grab a tamale if he wanted one. everyone else she’d spoken to thus far hadn’t really asked her what she wanted, and it was nice to be considered. not forced to talk about melanie, not forced to ignore the situation completely in the form of small talk. “i… i don’t know.” her tamale was half-eaten and getting cold now that it wasn’t in the warmth of her lunchbox. she forced herself to take a bite, knowing she had to eat even if her grief was making her lose her appetite. 

“i was so mean to her that night, and over something so stupid.” she spoke with her mouth full. her hand went through her thick hair, fingers getting caught in the tangles she hadn’t been assed to brush out. “whether she’s gone by choice or not, i fucking hate myself. that it might be the last stuff i said to her.” her voice cracked as she chewed, but she didn’t break. she felt like she’d been crying nonstop and she was getting kind of tired of it. melanie had been mean to her, too, but penelope was still here. “and either way i’m just reliving shit. dad, donnie…” she glanced down at her chipped manicure, deep sigh leaving her chest. “how are you doing?” finally, she turned to look at him with tired eyes, nudging his shoulder. 

                        DEALING WITH HIS FEELINGS HAD never been maverick’s strong suit. he’d spent his entire childhood punching his pillows, wondering what he’d have to do to garner his parents’ attention the way dick had, for trying to rationalize the way he’d feel immense pride in his family one moment, and complete and utter hatred the next. he’d felt both trapped by the immense braxton expectation, and incredibly fortunate, too—the harsh dichotomy of being a rich kid, as he’d put it. he’d be classified as a pretentious, ungrateful PRICK if he had outwardly expressed his troubles with his family name. it just seemed like a minuscule problem in comparison to some of his peers. so he’d learned to internalize his struggles from a young age—turns out, it wasn’t quite the healthiest practice.

it’s not a surprise that he’s done the same with melanie’s supposed death. his memories of her were weaved with complex threads: not that he was ever really more than just a friend to her, but she was always THERE. in grade school, amongst their high school hangouts, eventually at their family dinners when she dated her brother. he even had mixed feelings about her and dick’s relationship—which stemmed from his mixed feelings toward his brother. he’d been happy, when he’d found someone again, someone who made him happy, someone who his parents seemed to approve of. but he couldn’t help but feel a sliver of joyous surprise when she’d broken up with him, if only to prove to the universe that he wasn’t the only braxton who was capable of being the victim of heartbreak. it was slightly sadistic, yes—maverick wasn’t proud of the way he felt, so often times, he’d hide his feelings altogether. if his own feelings were muddled, he could only imagine the pain that penelope would endure.

cordy: sos???!??!!

cordy: there are no good moon-adjacent names for boys??

cordy: there are like 5 million girl sun names and no boy moon names

cordy: but like is that too on the nose? do i need to be more abstract or do i need their names as something concrete to drive home the whole concept of what they’re meant to represent

cordy: not to b dramatic but i’m 2 seconds from setting fire to my manuscript

maverick: first of all, please don't do that you're going to regret it and i will PERSONALLY have to light a candle honoring the death of great piece of writing

maverick: hmm

maverick: i guess it depends. it might be a little on the nose but it depends on how ... adjacent

✦ * · ˚ 002. with maverick → @flightsrsk​ .

date: december 20th, 1 p.m.

location: donatella and eden’s apartment

donatella was freaked out. sitting on her sofa, her gaze focused solely on the now worn out paper in her hands, she felt like it was finally official. melanie rivera was dead, no matter what the police wanted them to believe. she had to be, there was no other possible explanation to her disappearence, not in hemlock. and there was the fact that the police was suspiciously silent, which logically meant that they had to know something. they wouldn’t just keep a bunch people locked in the university if that wasn’t the case; they wouldn’t keep them if there wasn’t at least a little bit of proof that one of them had been responsible for whatever happened to melanie. 

in the back of her mind, she knew she was trembling - she didn’t know if it had anything to do with the poster she was still staring at or if it was just because she had yet to eat ever since stiletto had woken her up at nine a.m. maybe it was both. but still, she ramained there, her elbows propped up on her knees, burning eyes rereading the same sentence over and over again.

it is becoming increasingly apparent that melanie is no longer with us. 

she knew this was coming, she was not naive. she had heard people talking about the missing girl all over campus, she had heard the speculations. but it still caught her off guard. she still had some kind of hope that this was all just a nightmare.  it is becoming increasingly apparent that melanie is no longer with us. her cat’s purrs startled her out of her trance - it seemed like, no matter what had happened to melanie, life went on. it didn’t wait for anyone to catch up. 

life was a bigger bitch than her, apparently.

❝ you’re hungry, huh ? ❞ she distantly heard her voice talk to her stiletto, felt her body getting out of the sofa, one hand still holding the crumpled paper for dear life. she saw herself reaching. out with her other hand and dumping her cat’s food into the bedazzled cat feeder she had just bought. it felt surreal, almost like an out of body experience, she knew she was the one doing it, but she wasn’t in control of her own self. she wasn’t in control of her own body.

blinking excessively to try and regain authority of her own actions, she turned her attention to the poster in her hands again. she had to get rid of it. stalking straight to the bathroom, she felt mildly relieved to see that it was free. quickly ripping the paper to shreds, she threw them all into the vase before flushing. there. out of sight, out of mind.

it didn’t take long for her to realize how wrong she was, in fact, it took less than five minutes. flushing the poster down the toilet didn’t help. in case, it only made it worse because now she was staring at the messages she had just sent to her ex boyfriend, the same one she just had a screaming match with a couple of days ago.

[1:30 P.M.] DONATELLA: hey, i know you probably don’t want to hear for me. and tbh that’s valid and fair. but i kind of need to talk to someone right now [1:30 P.M.] DONATELLA: and you’re probably wondering why this is your problem, and it’s not. [1:30 P.M.] DONATELLA: but the last time i needed someone this badly i talked to you and now i don’t think i can talk to anyone [1:31 P.M.] DONATELLA: i don’t think i know how to talk to anyone anymore, honestly [1:31 P.M.] DONATELLA: these posters got me fucked up [1:32 P.M.] DONATELLA: where are you? can we talk in person? i’ll go to you rn      

❝ stiletto, i think i just fucked up. ❞ she stated, staring horrified at her screen.

[1:35 P.M.] DONATELLA: please ignore all the previous messages, i’m clearly fucking crazy rn

                     IF THERE’S ONE THING MAVERICK feels at the moment, it’s fear. only a few hours had gone by since the entire campus had blown up in a frenzy, words confirming the reality that everyone had feared in their minds—and maverick is just as afraid. he’s afraid of how his parents will react to him being tied up in the investigation. he’s afraid of the judgmental glares, the whispers—maverick isn’t exactly an angel. he’s afraid he’ll lose someone else. he’s afraid for his life: melanie’s death is just a reminder to them all how DELICATE life is, and if someone had actually been malicious enough as to kill her … it’s more than likely that person is still lurking around campus, the only one not plagued with fear in their eyes. it’s a level of TERRIFYING he’d never experienced before, one that strikes him from an ungodly number of angles.

and he isn’t at all sure of how to go about processing them. if he tackles them one by one, methodologically, he can cut his losses, focus his energy—but every time he had tried approaching his problems as checkboxes in the past, he’d just end up piling more what-ifs into his brain, forcing him to abandon the list halfway through for his own sanity. there must have been some philosophical or psychological term for prioritizing methods … if he was lucky to remember his query, he’d research about it later, but for now—

ding.                         ding.                                                 ding.                                                                            ding.                                                                                                     ding.                                                                                                                              ding. 

his phone is sitting right next to him, but maverick doesn’t even have the energy to look. by the frequency of the texts, he can only imagine it’s his mother, begging him to call her back to talk about the updates in the case. 

ding. 

“ fucking hell, mom, not n— ” he stops in his tracks: the texts are DEFINITELY NOT his mother. he has to blink, look twice, and make sure it’s not his delirium that is playing tricks on his brain. no—inexplicably, the sender field reads DONATELLA NAVARRO, loud and clear. he almost wants to laugh—there had been months, years even, where all maverick DREAMED of was for donnie to text him back. to apologize, or explain why she’d broken up with him, or in his wildest dreams, to ask him to take her back. he used to pick up his phone eagerly, to check if his latest texts might possibly be from her. but the messages never came, and sooner or later, like his own feelings, the hope of her reaching out faded. he’d assumed she had blocked his number, erased it from memory—he had almost done the same, too HURT to read any of their previous conversations that were filled with love and laughter and everything opposite to what they were now. and now, here he is, staring at a screen, a series of not one, not two, but seven texts from her.

he reads them slowly, inhaling and exhaling rhythmically as he digests each word. maverick tries to keep a level head, but donnie … she has a way of making him feel EVERYTHING so fucking intensely. it’s confusion—after the first message, wondering how she had thought of him, of all people, to want to TALK to, since all of their recent conversations escalated into shouting matches in a matter of sentences. frustration—after the second, knowing that she still chose to text him even when she knew he had no obligation to help her ( perhaps she knew him a little still ). guilt—after the third and fourth, for not knowing, perhaps, the lack of support she’d had after their breakup; he hadn’t exactly wanted to keep tabs on her, in case she’d found a new beau, he didn’t want to feel the pain of not measuring up to them. anger—after the fifth: she wasn’t the ONLY one who was having a hard time with melanie’s death. so why did she deserve special treatment now ? he couldn’t just drop the fights, the glares, all the reasons why maverick resented her for breaking his heart. disbelief—after the sixth, that she’d wanted to see him, when just days ago, she’d admitted how much she wanted the exact opposite. this girl was fucking unbelievable … so why was it that he was he still reading, still reacting, and not just blocking her number and ignoring her messages ? 

the devil on his shoulder almost makes him type ‘ eden’s not available, huh ? ’ and be done with it, solidifying his stance on his problems with donnie and sulk a little more, but he knows it’s wrong, it’s sour. his mind goes back and forth—trying to decide whether or not to even respond at all. fifteen minutes go by, wavering back and forth, weighing the pros and cons of seeing her—if she even still wanted to talk. 

MAVERICK, 1:50 PM: you can come over, if you still want to talk.

he knew why he sent it—it was because the seventh elicited sympathy. above all, he understood: his ruminating had rendered him a level of insane, too. that, and he didn’t want to be the ASSHOLE people painted him as by sending her some petty response, or ignoring her in a time when she was clearly in need: he was above that. or at least, he wanted to be. 

this wasn’t a foreign state for ella to be in, staring at the wall in the wee hours of the morning, thinking about melanie. she wasn’t sure what hurt the most with her; imagining how melanie would never look at her again, or imagining them falling deeply in love only to then pull the rug out from under herself. melanie had always been her favorite tool to hurt herself with, the ultimate failure in your own head, representing everything ella could never have. 

she wasn’t brave, or strong, or willing to be vulnerable and open with other people. she didn’t like to talk, or go to parties. she could never be worthy of the sunshine melanie had about her. she’d always be in some form of darkness. and those were the thoughts that would typically draw her into an empty, uneasy slumber. but now? now her mind was alight; was melanie being hurt? who put up those posters? was she… was she even alive, as the posters suggested? the thought that anyone like melanie, as powerful, as beautiful and untouchable could be dead… it seemed impossible. then again, she was a human like all the others, and ella did have a bad habit of venerating her. 

essentially, she was extremely and painfully awake when her phone vibrated unexpectedly. she pulled it out from under her pillow, eyes widening at the messages. help? what… what could mickey possibly need help with at nearly two am? nothing good, but… but she couldn’t turn him away. ella pushed herself to sitting, flicking on her lamp. 

ELLA, 1:50AM: of course mickey 

ELLA, 1:51AM: i’ll be at the front door in a few

she shuffled herself out of bed, the cold air nipping at her bare legs. she should probably put pants on before she went to the door, she decided, reaching for her pajama bottoms she’d discarded on the floor. surprisingly, despite the bizarre circumstance, she was comforted knowing that mickey was on his way. he was… well, he always made her feel a little bit better. a little more in her own skin. 

it wasn’t until she got out to the main room that she realized she’d worn matching pajamas to bed. with golden snitches and broomsticks all over them, but it was a little too late to get changed; there was a knock at the door. besides, she figured mickey wouldn’t mind, even if it was embarrassing. 

as she reached for the door, though, she heard his voice. his apologies. and her stomach dropped, her hand freezing on the doorknob. she thought of melanie all of a sudden, of foul play, of trashy murder shows, of men showing up on her front porch dripping in blood, but… but this was mickey, and he would never hurt her. 

so, she opened the door carefully, leaning in close to see her friend slouched against the frame. “mickey,” she breathed, and realized something was wrong, very wrong. “oh my god, mickey, what… what happened? are you alright? oh my- come here, come in.” she put her hand on his shoulder, trying to coax him into the room and shutting the door behind him. she corralled him onto the couch, whispering, “are you okay? do you… fuck, mickey, do you need to go to the hospital?” 

                      HE STILL DOESN’T KNOW HOW he got here. had his short-term memory not been absolutely shot, he would have thought to look at his phone, but now, it’s buried deep in his pocket somewhere, and to put the cherry on top of everything wrong, his hands are STILL numb. before he knows it, he’s falling backward, his chest hitching as he braces for impact, unaware that the soft pillows of ella’s couch are there to cushion his fall. he feels himself sinking in, the texture of the couch feeling so fucking soft … 

and then he hears the word hospital. “ no ! ” he almost yells instinctively, no—he can’t go to the hospital. there, they’d inevitably call his parents, and they might go as far as DISOWN him if they’d found out what mélange of drugs he’d been on that night ( sure, he might be overreacting; it’d be an understatement to say that maverick was on edge ). “ i mean … no … i … i don’t need to go to the hospital, i’m … f-fine … ” he insists, eyes glued to his fingers, but the softness of the voice in front of him wakes him up, if only for an instant. ella. he’d just YELLED at her, something he’d never thought he would have the capacity to do. “ i’m sorry. i didn’t m-mean … to shout. i’m sorry … i’m sorry … ” his voice trails off, the urgency fading with its volume.

he can feel the high wearing off, euphoric sensations retreating quickly like low tides—replaced quickly with dull pangs, and tense the feeling of his emotions concentrating in his chest, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. just not … yet. 

maverick finds his bearings, his fingers clutching the cloth of the sofa as his eyes look up at hers, hoping, PRAYING that they don’t look back at him in fear. there was a reason maverick never talked to her about his tendencies to rely on drugs every once in a while, mostly because he was ASHAMED. that was the part of him that he wasn’t proud of—and ella represented the person he strived to be: good. kind. pure. not tempted to fall back on synthetic and fabricated highs just to block out emotions that could be tossed aside for another time. and yet, here he was, sitting—no, lying—on her couch, barely coherent, barely functioning. i didn’t want you to see me like this, he wants to say, but his lips don’t move. they can’t. he can’t even feel them.

and he’s distracted again—her eyes are so, incredibly blue, it’s a mystery to him. like the ocean—but not a deep one. like a shallow reef, untouched and unsullied by mud and dirt and … and he was staring, now. fucking great, maverick. 

it was strange, looking at his so familiar face and not being able to understand what he was feeling, what he was thinking. their past together echoed tauntingly inside her heart, reminding her that if this was where they were, it was because of her inabilty to do things right. even in this very moment, she knew that letting him go was the best route she could’ve taken; if she hadn’t, she’d only drag him down with her. logically, she knew that. but having to remind herself every time that she needed to do this for him to finally thrive and become his own person was tiring. it was painful. and it only made her act how she felt, which only made him hate her in return. 

she deserved to be unhappy, to be so unsure of everything, to feel like she wasn’t worthy of being loved. and deep down, she craved all those negative feelings just like she craved attention - they had been her only constant for years, almost like they had been her best friends ever since la. she didn’t deserve knowing him so deeply, of knowing how her cared about someone. she didn’t deserve the honour of being adored by him - not anymore. maybe she never did. 

it’s ironic how maverick always thought the only thing people were ever interested in him was his name and status, because donatella couldn’t even imagine not loving him for being the person he was. she remembered feeling pity for the people that never gave him a chance, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world for being the one he wanted to get to know better. back then, she didn’t need a lot to be satisfied, just him, her father and penelope and she was happy. now, she had none of them, so she tried to compensate with other things. material things. maybe that’s why she’s such a raging bitch, now.

but if there was one thing she was sure about her ex right now, was that he was ANGRY.

she could recognize the telltale signs, the tightened jaw, the glare he was directing at her… she wouldn’t be surprised if steam started coming out of his ears. and if those weren’t enough to tip her off, the resentment in his voice was indication enough. ❝ i’m sorry if that hurts your feelings. ❞ she replied sarcastically, even though she meant what she said. she was sorry that she had to do things that would inevitably hurt him. she had long ago realized that it was easier to do this if he hated her. ❝ you always appreciated honesty.❞

it was her turn to feel bitter at his response, what did he mean he didn’t understand why she was so reluctant about describing him as trasnparent ? had it been her hooking up with someone who was always present in their life as a couple, she was sure he wouldn’t be feeling so confident either. but she was so tired of the screaming and misunderstandings, so d o n e with the situation that she just stood there, staring blankly into his eyes as he told her how much he didn’t know. she wouldn’t be clarifying anything; not today and maybe not ever.

her eyes were stinging. she really didn’t need this, not right now. donnie didn’t even want to see anyone, which was why she left her apartment - it was why she was at their rooftop. so having to argue with maverick when all she wanted was to cry was grueling. ❝ i was just bringing up the fact that YOU LEFT once, so surely you could do it again. i was trying to show you that i don’t have a say in what you do. and it’s not like i’m holding you hostage and not letting you leave. in fact, i can move, right now. ❞ her voice was higher, again. because apparently, all that she could do was scream with him. at him.

she felt defeated, like they’d never see eye to eye again, never even talk to each other normally again. at least one of them would end up screaming or storming off. but she couldn’t help herself, she could never stop the angry words from leaving her glossy lips. if there was something maverick always was good at, it was at making her feel. she felt marginally better when se realized that she, at least, was feeling more than just numbness. ❝ is that all you have to say ? ‘whatever’ ? ❞ she called out as he left, still rooted to her place.

when the echoes of his footsteps faded away, donatella felt her posture relax. and, as she leaned on the closest wall for support, the first sob escaped her lips.

a word of forms, hidden in the dark ;; featuring ( @flightsrsk​. )

            normally, fleeing to his sanctuary of the university’s art studio is a thrill. he doesn’t have the privacy in his dorm room to hone his craft without disturbing his roommate, or at the very least feel watched as he struggles through bringing his thoughts into reality. normally after hours the studio is blessedly empty, and coda is free to plug his phone into the classroom’s speakers and let his ‘creative headspace playlist #4′ run on shuffle. but with the investigation, that joy has been sucked out of him. instead of feeling like an escape, he feels trapped. stuck in this town, stuck on this campus, and chained to this room. the studio is his normal go to, but now it feels like his only option. like a mouse in a maze that has just been made aware of the cardboard walls around him dictating his path. his canvases have been deep purples with violent, vibrant blues lately. frustration, fear, loneliness. it’s a vicious cycle of needing to express himself but hating the circumstances that allow him to.

            when coda approaches the studio though, tugging his scarf free from his face, he notices a glow under the door. it’s strange, but understandable. the studio is available to any and all students enrolled in art classes at the university. coda himself has quite a few projects due after the break is over, so it’s not odd that others would be equally feeling the time crunch. coda’s curiosity gets the better of him and he pushes into the room, carefully glancing in. when he recognizes the figure he relaxes. 

            “hey mav,” he greets, stepping fully into the room. “are you working on the contrast assignment?” coda has already looked over numerous drafts of the other students in the intro to visual arts class, but he’s anxious to see maverick’s. he’s never made it a secret how much of a fan he is of maverick’s style, even if maverick doesn’t seem passionate in his arts in the same way. it’s fine, coda can bully him into sharing his work by lauding his ta role over his head. “god, fuck it’s cold out there. i thought my nose was gonna fall off.” he sniffles as he collapses into the stool across from maverick, a wide grin on his face. art is usually his cure for loneliness, but maybe he has a more concrete alternative now.

                        PASSING TIME WHILE KEEPING HIS brain occupied had become maverick’s biggest challenge. there were no classes in session for him to attend or to focus on, no crowds of people to hide amongst, no access to anything off-campus for a break from covington. spending time with his other friends who were stuck here seemed like an attractive alternative, but knowing that they were ALL involved in the same investigation surrounding melanie rivera’s … DEATH ( it’s still hard for maverick to wrap his head around that concept—he hasn’t let himself really break down the emotional ramifications yet ) … his parents’ lawyers had advised him against talking to anyone for fear of accidentally implicating himself, or something. it wasn’t like he was really up to TALKING to anyone anyway.

his room had been comfortable at first, but spending two FULL days inside those four walls had made him stir crazy—he couldn’t stare at the boring, pearly white ceiling anymore without it feeling like it was closing in on top of him anymore. he had to get out. 

he tried his hand at the theatre, but the place only reminded him of the resentment he harbored toward his parents and every play they had made him audition for, only to play secondary roles to his TALENTED older brother. the dining halls were too risky—he’d likely run into someone he’d rather not chat to. brainstorming led his feet up to the art studio, a room he’d spent a surprising amount of hours in the last semester. he’d tried his hand at taking an introductory-level art class, passing it off as a class he’d get an easy A in, yet found, to his delight, that he actually thoroughly enjoyed it. it was certainly something he could do to keep his mind off of the investigation, maybe a vessel through which he could finally let himself FEEL the sadness, the confusion, the loss.