bryce hall / d1 / (fin)

For as long as Bryce could remember, he’d always been plain.

Plain as in cuffed sleeves and a bland expression – as in two sugar cubes in his coffee and waking up at eight, sharp, for school – as in doing his homework at seven in the evening on a simple desk and going to bed around ten – as in liking geometric figures and being fervent for arithmetic – as in spaghetti dinners and no spice because it made his mouth burn – as in reading the newspaper and ironing clothes at the same time. Plain as in boring and tedious.

Plain as in he’s never let himself be anything else⁠—

because being not-plain was a sure way to get yourself killed.

He’d seen in the not-plain Frays with a glimmer in their eyes, beauty encasing every inch of them. Not-plain Le Rouxes that marched around the district, their golden manes a crowning glory. Not-plain Lumieres with their strange family histories that lend itself as great gossip material. Bryce Hall knew he would never be one of those not-plains. Even my name sounds boring, he would muse sometimes with a grin; Bryce Hall. Bryce. Hall.

Plain as in safe and unscathed.

Plain as in I want to live.