pocket-change [era x florentine]
Apr 3, 2024 16:00:21 GMT -5
Post by ᴥ on Apr 3, 2024 16:00:21 GMT -5
era murdock.
I count my freedom in footsteps. Twenty paces to the exit, forty more until the looming shadows of the school building lose their grip. A preordained pilgrimage across sun-baked pavement, it's the time of year where Four's weather is unrelentingly pleasant. Boys fight with their ties as they rush past me, shedding black jackets like skin. An infectious joy I do my best to avoid, shoving clenched fists in my pockets and focusing on the scuffed leather of my shoes.
It takes twenty-five minutes to reach the Murdock Manor, I'll make it in twenty. Less time rot-bloated ocean breeze, smelling salt on the air and remembering the sting of it in my lungs. In the absence of everything else, I will always be a good son. Docile, down to the blunted edge of my canines. I'll file them myself, if only to keep my father's hands off me.
Go home, do not stray. Ignore the warmth of golden sun. I have no place among laughter, I've grown used to it's siren's drawl.
But today is a little different.
There's pale hair in my peripheries, perched on a stone pillar. Easy to miss if her jewels didn't catch the light like mid-day stars. I'm good with faces, I'm sure I'd remember hers. Especially with a smile like that, both strange and sweet.
I am not greedy, except when I am. She sits like a thorn, blood welling in the corner of my eye she inhabits. Days are predictable things, my father had taken great care in finding somewhere so unremarkable we'd never be tempted by such dangerous things as curiosity. These streets are mine in all but name, anyway, so it's my right to know why she is here.
Maybe I'll make it home by minute twenty-six.
"I don't think you're supposed to be there." I lay a palm against the stone, digging my nails into the gashes worn by weather. Perhaps a bit possessive of it, there's safety in the way the world revolves around me. She doesn't know that, doesn't know me, and I've got no idea if this smirk I shrug on is the kind she'll find pleasant or off putting.
I look, a little closer, at pink cheeks and plaits. I wonder how so many people have walked past her without a second glance. "Is there a reason, or are you just a bit odd?" However derisive, the question's genuine, "I don't mind either way but I'd like to know."
It's clumsy, I'm not very good at causing trouble. "Era by the way, if you want to trade names."
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