esmerosuâ:
âRepose-toi, tu es en sĂŠcuritĂŠ,â the words drip through parted lips. She relaxes on the floor in front of him as he wakes - basking in the warmth of the fireplace. âHow cruel the world can be,â she begins, finally looking up to him, âHow are you feeling?â She waits for his reply until an interruption pulls her attention.
A statuesque man with a crooked smile and dark eyes - both of which did a great service for his tragic lack of substance - appears before them in suit and tie. âMademoiselle RoĹu, a word.â His eyes dart between EsmĂŠ and Mateo and when her gaze does not falter he continues, âThe man,â he whispers, âhe has departed this transitory life.â She cocks an eyebrow and nods, âTo the next world then.â He stands still until she flicks her wrist, âHurry,â then he disappears.
She sips from what appears to be a glass of wine - though thicker - darker. âYou must be exhausted, dear stranger.â
@yesmateonoâ
It always felt murky, the morning after. Little clips and pieces of horrible things heâd done, beautiful things heâd seen, things his human mind could never understand. The only thing that ever felt real, however, was the pain. And the guilt. Thatâs what he woke up to, only able to focus on the hurt. Thereâs a weird sharp, metallic smell around him, and what vaguely registered as French. ...Did he run all the way to France? No, wait thatâs ridiculous, thereâs, like.. water. And that awful wall-- that he could remember: furiously throwing his form at it last night, scratching at it, unable to understand why he couldnât run.Â
âMmh-â Mateo rolled over, curling in on himself, and registered heat near him. Slowly he opened his eyes and saw fire- fire place. Oh. He sat up rather suddenly, taking in the room, turning, and- there she was. âYou? Why-- where- what the fuck-â God, he hated morning-afters. âWhere am I? God, it-- stinks in here.â















