06-10-2018, 01:03 AM
AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT
Bastille encountered the paintings first at the far end of a hall, coming to a slow stop as he realized that the basement floor was... glistening up ahead. It took him half a second to think Hazel, and the thought hit him hard as he tilted his head to the side to study the intricate lines. He remembered, seemingly ages ago, standing by and peering up at Maes' murals, thinking about the way that Hazel had stared at the blank walls and mentioned wanting to paint them. At the time, he'd commented in an off-hand way, as if it didn't really matter, that Maes should leave some free walls for Hazel -- he could still picture the guy nodding, as if he hadn't even questioned the suggestion, could feel the faint flicker of satisfaction in knowing that he'd saved space for the girl, done something that might make her aura light up just so.
Now Maes was dead and Hazel looked at him like she wished he was.
It doesn't matter, he reminded himself, forcing his thoughts back to the present, to the sprawling lines of paint before him. He knew they were constellations, and he followed them down the hallway slowly, cold stare tracing the fine details and the little stars connecting acting as joints. There was a part of him that felt almost guilty, like he shouldn't be here, studying Hazel's art so intently -- but he couldn't bring himself to care, not when he knew almost without thinking about it that this had been for Starry, somehow. He had always been trying to liven up the lower floor and find new ways to offer direction to newcomers; this was exactly the sort of thing he would have loved to see, and the stars were... perfect, really. Starry would have loved it.
He took his time, tracking the constellations through the halls that were already painted, so easily picturing Starry running through the corridors, sparks flying at his paws and casting light over the glimmering paint in his excitement. It almost made him smile at the thought, but he couldn't quite feel the brief flicker of light that such images prompted. There was something there, faintly, just beneath the surface, but he continued on in silence, his stare sliding over the art slowly.
Eventually, he heard their voices down the hall, but he didn't stop. By the time he ran into the group, he was coming to a slow stop at Hazel's side, studying the paint before her over her shoulder. He didn't seem to notice the proximity -- this was the closest he'd been to her in ages, heat radiating off of her and soaking into his bones -- as he continued to take in the details, commenting absent-mindly, "Starry would have loved them, Haze."
(He seemed off, distracted -- caught up in the gesture, in the memories of Starry, barely registering the others and offering little reaction to their presence; some of that had to do with the certain awe that Hazel and Pele's work inspired, but some of it had to do with the drugs in his system. He kept fixating on things, focusing on them single-mindedly, too absorbed in their existence to experience anything else. Now, he was fixated on the paintings.)
"You guys did a good job," he murmured as an after-thought, tilting his head slightly as his gaze continued to follow the trail of constellations towards the end of the hall.
[align=center]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGSNow Maes was dead and Hazel looked at him like she wished he was.
It doesn't matter, he reminded himself, forcing his thoughts back to the present, to the sprawling lines of paint before him. He knew they were constellations, and he followed them down the hallway slowly, cold stare tracing the fine details and the little stars connecting acting as joints. There was a part of him that felt almost guilty, like he shouldn't be here, studying Hazel's art so intently -- but he couldn't bring himself to care, not when he knew almost without thinking about it that this had been for Starry, somehow. He had always been trying to liven up the lower floor and find new ways to offer direction to newcomers; this was exactly the sort of thing he would have loved to see, and the stars were... perfect, really. Starry would have loved it.
He took his time, tracking the constellations through the halls that were already painted, so easily picturing Starry running through the corridors, sparks flying at his paws and casting light over the glimmering paint in his excitement. It almost made him smile at the thought, but he couldn't quite feel the brief flicker of light that such images prompted. There was something there, faintly, just beneath the surface, but he continued on in silence, his stare sliding over the art slowly.
Eventually, he heard their voices down the hall, but he didn't stop. By the time he ran into the group, he was coming to a slow stop at Hazel's side, studying the paint before her over her shoulder. He didn't seem to notice the proximity -- this was the closest he'd been to her in ages, heat radiating off of her and soaking into his bones -- as he continued to take in the details, commenting absent-mindly, "Starry would have loved them, Haze."
(He seemed off, distracted -- caught up in the gesture, in the memories of Starry, barely registering the others and offering little reaction to their presence; some of that had to do with the certain awe that Hazel and Pele's work inspired, but some of it had to do with the drugs in his system. He kept fixating on things, focusing on them single-mindedly, too absorbed in their existence to experience anything else. Now, he was fixated on the paintings.)
"You guys did a good job," he murmured as an after-thought, tilting his head slightly as his gaze continued to follow the trail of constellations towards the end of the hall.
Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]