psychosis.

Iris nibbled on her lower lip as she averted her gaze to their surroundings, attempting to come up with an excuse that was believable enough for the male to leave the topic alone. As a Druid she could sense any supernatural beings, however she’d have to touch them to know exactly what they are, so with that barrier, the female was always on edge when she smelled something strange. “You smell like a celebrity–” That was the best you could come up with?

“A... Celebrity?” Well, that is most certainly not what he was expecting, and his features contort into an expression of blank confusion, lashes fluttering as he blinks-- once, twice, thrice. What exactly does that mean? He’s no celebrity, although he does in fact live with one, but there is no way she could know that particular scent is that of someone of fame and fortune. “Should... Should I take that as a compliment?”  

She was caught definitely, she could sense it in the aura that the male was portraying. Her lower lip sucked into her mouth as she looked over the stranger in front of her, trying to decypher exactly what he was. “Ah, yeah… But I wouldn’t be able to explain it–” Iris was trying to get out of the situation as slyly as she could.

“Well, try.” He insists, knowing now that there is definitely something strange about the girl in front of him. He supposes he could do the honors of explaining this distinction in his scent, but he would rather not expose himself-- and he in turn would have to explain how she smells like his cat, which probably wouldn’t be much appreciated by the petite woman. “I’m interested in what you have to say.”

“Yes.”

He, too, steps forward now, standing toe to toe with the fragile human being that twitches and quakes with unkempt emotion, so very similar to his own. The only difference between them is the mask he chooses to wear; a well honed expression of passive interest. “Why did you do it?” Comes the question, lacking the hostility that threatens to escape in tendrils of sharp words and fatal actions. Instead, the inquiry is softly spoken, lingering in the short distance between them. It’s almost as if he’s curious, but this is only an illusion. “How did you do it?”

the liquid is hot, scaldingly so as it lands on the flesh of his hand, he barely heeds it – feels it; glancing down passively at reddening skin, his only visible response disinterested acknowledgment. it’s an arrangement he had perfected years ago, his mouth moves accordingly despite the dryness settling on his tongue and the words vomit from out like a well-rehearsed mantra stapled in false politeness, the features on their face begin to blur away as if he had some touch of prosopagnosia – they’re familiar in a sense, but he cannot place a name, “it’s fine, do you want another one?”

“I--” his words cut short, because there’s a haunting familiarity in the way the stranger slips into this casual and dismissive facade, even as he should clearly be in pain. Fingers tighten around the styrofoam cup that is held between his hands, still half full even after the spillage that leaked through the flimsy plastic top.”No, that isn’t necessary. But, really,” a hand leaves the cup to delve into the pocket of his lightweight jacket, pulling out a napkin to hand to the man whose hand must be sticky from the contents of his cup. “Here, take this. Are you sure you’re alright?”

      Her facial expression immediately turned to one of wonderment after he asked the question. “Perhaps this would be weird to say, but it’s a question I often ask myself, and no matter how many times I think about it I am always stuck at a crossroad. On one hand, the thought of pain is as frightening as death itself, so naturally I’m leaning towards passing peacefully in my sleep. But wouldn’t it be nice to go out with a bang? Perhaps a freak accident where everything happens much too fast for it to even register would be a proper candidate as well…but…ah. Sorry, I’m rambling. What about you? How would you die?”

Shoulders then roll up into a shrug, and a contemplative expression contorts his features before he responds. How would he want to die? Well, he has already chosen his death, but that likely isn’t something she would believe, nor understand. “I would want it to be by own choice; my decision. Maybe even by own hand. Perhaps it’s a bit morbid, but life is a constant roller coaster. I at least want some sort of control of my life in death, even if I’ve never quite had it while living.” 

Iris flushed slightly, realizing she had spoken her hidden thoughts out loud. “Uh, did you run through the perfume department–” The feline tried to mask what she was actually thinking but her nervous demeanor probably gave it away.

There’s something odd about the young woman in front of him, and not only because of the strangeness of her words. She speaks of his scent, but her own is rather unfamiliar-- not of that of any human he has come to know or has come across in passing. It truly is odd, but he soon questions her words. “No, I didn’t. But you don’t mean it like that, do you?”