#illusoryelement

“I wouldn’t be too worried about that. Couldn’t die if I tried.”

Sasha climbs up to the top of the ramp, sets her board down on the very edge, and steps on it to keep it rooted. Her eyes trail down to Valentine.

Today, nothing seemed out of the ordinary... disregarding the occasion that had taken Felix out of his dark room out into the sunny day. He’d finished reading all of his books; new material was necessary to keep his sanity.

His steps against the pavement were the only things he was focused on for a while, but as his eyes drifted upwards to remind himself of where he was going, he noticed a woman dash into an alleyway.

A curious eyebrow raised, and while normally Felix would have continued walking along... his urge to look was too strong. And so his eyes drifted over the woman as he stepped into the alleyway as well, only to find her in a... rather odd pose.

"Erika."

Self-control. Something Mako had never been very familiar with, not even since he was a child. It was just never part of his nature; he always wanted to do what his mind and heart wanted the same second they demand it, regardless of the consequences. Now, he was no different.

All his mind and heart could think about, ever since she said she needed a break... was Erika.

Erika. Erika. Erika.

Sure, not seeing Erika for a few days is hard on him. ( Which is why he watches her from afar, despite her telling him to stay away ). But what really hurt, what truly tore at his insides-- was her not caring about him anymore. He knew, in a small, sensible space locked away inside him, that this pain was selfish, and that his actions were selfish. What mattered was Erika's happiness.

But he just couldn't bring himself to let her be happy without him.

"Please." He stares at Erika, with eyes shrouded in dark circles and a sickly, unfocused gaze. It's night out in the city, giving them the privacy he's needed.

"Please..." He takes a moment to think of something to say, grabbing the first that comes to mind. "...Love me again."

24 hours earlier.

“ERIKA–!!”

Mako drops everything in his hands ( which consisted of a paper with fish stickers and a sucker ) and turns to Erika as she skips her way over. The items on the floor quickly forgotten, Mako gives a massive grin and places his hands on Erika’s shoulders.

“I’ve already got the best gift~! C’est toi! Y–you wanna be with my for my birthday, oui? Bon anniversaire à moi!” Mako slows down at the prospect of being bought actual gifts from the smaller woman– an even bigger happy surprise! “Vous êtes un ange tellement. Je t’aime…” Mako turns his attention to his top, giving the ratty, worn down button up a few tentative pats. It had been shoplifted several years ago… He supposed new clothes were in order…

“New clothes sounds so good. Can we eat, too? I haven’t eaten anything since the night before yesterday and my stomach is hurting so bad.” Despite the worrisome circumstance, Mako’s smile is still plastered onto his face and his tone is as lighthearted as ever. The blond claps his hands together excitedly and finally pulls Erika in for a hug.

( Poor Erika, he hadn’t been in a shower since a few days ago ).

Send ☆ for my muse to give yours a compliment. @illusoryelement

“She’s STUNNING-!”

“𝔖𝔱𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔩𝑦 𝔤𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔞𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔲𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔭𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯. 𝔑𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔡𝔢.“

past experiences help shape who we are currently, how we see the world. Send in a symbol and I’ll write a drabble of one of my muse’s memories. || accepting

☤ — a memory of death/loss

The first time Max had gone to a funeral was when he was seven.

It was raining, the landscape was tinted with touches of gray and Max was dressed in a little tuxedo– it was uncomfortable, but he liked how it looked. In fact, he liked how everyone looked at the funeral. He couldn’t stop focusing on the pretty dress his mother wore, or how nice and clean-cut everyone else seemed.

Stop staring, his mother warns. Simply look at the casket and be quiet.

And that’s what he did. Not because he wanted to, per se, only because mother told him to. He didn’t even know this man. The only indicator Max had of this man’s appearance was the framed picture standing by the eulogist, who was talking about a man named “Maxwell” to the somber crowd.

After all is said and done, an older woman approaches Max while his mother is away, facing him with a disapproving frown.

“Why are you here? I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’m Max Valois. Nice to meet you.”

“… Fiona. I’m Maxwell Valois’ sister. Why haven’t I seen you before?”

Finally, his mother intervenes, and her tone, cold as ice, cuts through, “he’s his son. They never met.” Before ushering him away from the crowd, from prying ears and eyes. She takes his shoulders and kneels down, keeping him from looking at the family behind them.

Quiet. A little tense, with the question waiting on the boy’s tongue.

“Mother… I didn’t know I had a father.”

“You did…” Acknowledgement. That’s all she gave.

“…Why did I never meet him?”