𝒻𝑜𝓇 : @televanglisms ( mouse ) !
𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖗 : 1:18 am .
𝕝𝕠𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 : spider's web hq.
whereas there's not much that unnerves his peers, his siblings, really, if that, there'd always been a certain tremor in the fingertips of roman leblanc. a tell if he were to play poker that'd make him a most terrible player, but the perfect competition. though if one were to remove such a pessimistic view, it could also be an advantage. one that removed him from those that suddenly showcased their effects of anxiety: a sudden twitch in the edge of their lip, a quickened rise & fall of their chest. whereas he'd kept something moving — the edge of his pen falling victim to his nervous tics, chewing at it absentmindedly as deep thought plagues his conscious. two days. that's all they had left. just the two to truly back out, for almost anything to go wrong. he had it all planned of course, an impulse from one of the members, a retaliation that would leave them in the dark. not even the creak of a rusted door could pull him out of the everlasting thread of what if's.
Hunched over a desk, Roman's frame was still imposingingly tall over a slab of oak; his profile was fine and expressive. Mouse longed to offer a refrain that would elicit his smile -- to dream up something that would please, and earn him a surging rush of devotion, having been offered the genuine article (Qwerty, happy). But Mouse lingered against the door, finding the frame ample to support both his weight and sense of dread; he could not look upon their venture without seeing a death march. "This is the part where I tell you that you should be in bed, something about beauty sleep, early bird gets the worm and all --- but I know why you're up. It's why I'm up, too. Unless it's about...." His faithful prattling was immobilised, hanging upon the declaration he feared to make --- Qwerty would face his father, his figure bearing upon them not in the flesh, but as a spectre of the past. He and the others sought infamy and further corruption of the the capitalist elite; not Qwerty, not truly. Mouse played with the hem of his night shirt (princess diana was collaged on the front), not wishing to see Qwerty's carved and Grecian features flex under the weight of his words. "Do you want to go get coffee?" And so, ever submissive to the prospective of negatively arousing Roman's feelings, Mouse deflected; a bashful expression, accompanying the absurdity of his late night proposition.













