❨ dirty paws ; marley&angel ❩

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

Marley enters the Justice Building before he can convince himself that it's a bad idea — and even as he makes his way through the crowded halls, nearly tripping over himself several times, his smile never falters. Grief hangs heavy in the air, tension washes over the room in waves, but he doesn't want to drown in it. He wants to be bright and kind; a distraction. His brother might be a king, but he's a jester. Let the people laugh and wipe away their tears.

The thought of Mackenzie causes his grin to stretch wider, thinking back on the last few months and the blur of memories that follow. He's still figuring things out with the Pryce family, still connecting with his sister and still learning about his brother, but the fact that he can call them that is enough. Marley's the same happy kid he's always been, but now there's no weight pressing down on his shoulders. He's light as a feather — and he's grateful.

A lot of charm and a few words later, he reaches his destination and is granted access. Angel de Costa is right there, standing just a short distance away from him, and it's difficult for Marley to realize that there's a death sentence written across the boy's wrists. And what terrifies him most is that the volunteer signed it in his own blood. That doesn't stop him from spreading his arms and coming in for a hug — because why not? The worst thing that could happen is that the guy might punch him in the jaw, but he's got a thick skull. "Hey, man!"

He moves away after a few seconds, giving Angel his space. "You don't know me, and I don't know you, but I just thought I'd come in and check on you." He scratches the back of his neck and blushes, trying to figure out the right thing to say. "Uh, not because you need to be checked on. I just, uh— I thought it'd be the nice thing to do." Tucking his hands into his pockets, he looks around and whistles to himself. "Damn, dude. They really gave you a nice place to chill, huh?"

---

( griffin )

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

my life is fleeting, transient, and i use that despicable tragedy as a cheap excuse to smoke again. the men in white took pity on me, it seems, because they did not refuse when i asked – with the most doe-eyed features intact, of course. people grant me what i need but there is, nevertheless, always a price in the end. i don't see myself as someone who is deserving of luck or miracles. breathing constellations cannot speak to a dead boy. i don't expect kindness from anyone.

but, the door swings open and there's a bulking presence, striding inside in a haste. hair a crown of twigs, height a towering length – a blatant trait of seven. however, his face doesn't flash recognition. it might as well be a junior capo of someone powerful he infuriated, here to exact revenge. he draws closer and i don't move, feet rooted to the carpet beneath.

he pulls me in an embrace and my depressive, gregarious ass returns the gesture, arms clinging firmly onto broad shoulders. nose gives burial to the crook of his neck — i crave touch, i hunger after warmth, anything that could distract me from the edge i am walking towards. the already broken device inside breaks even more, and it leaks, as empty tears, as an outburst of unfiltered, raw sadness. fuck, i am a sloppy mess.

“Who are you?” throat swallows a sob down, but then i realize that i don't need to. we're alone here: no cameras, no surveillance, no audience to enthrall. “Do i have to pay for the moral support?” lungs tight with mild catharsis, i give avoidance to his gaze whilst hands desperately wipe the tear stains from my cheeks. he radiates a positivity i've never been accustomed to, yet appreciates. “They prepare a well-decorated casket for the dying children.”