Post by dutchsushi on Jan 5, 2013 1:13:11 GMT -6
"Do yourself a favor. Have some fun."
Lars had lost count how many times he's repeated that phrase to himself. Though everytime he does, he finds the true meaning behind it gradually slipping to nothing. And he's completely forgotten why he was telling it to himself in the first place. His chapped lips parted slightly and hazel eyes drawn together in a bit of frustration, daft fingers wrapping around the top of his black tie to fix it.
Oh, now he remembers.
Mathaias has invited Lars to the apparent Masquerade with him.
Ash blond eyesrows furrow together before he takes in a small breath to repeat the phrase again. But now, he finds himself unable to.
In the manor, an torturous maze where every end is another heart shattering event that reduces the Dutchman to nothing but fear and agony. Each possibility of happiness or escape is another ruse, illusion drawn together by the fabricated ideas of hope for living, and every second reminds him how his sanity is slowly slipping away from him. He only releases a sigh, and drops his hands from his wardrobe.
"Do yourself a favor, Lars ..."
He can feel himself crumbling, but for his sake, and the sake of those around him the ash blond decides the only way to live on is to carry on as things may retain some form of normalcy. So when his best friend, one of the few people Lars can outwardly say he trusts more than anybody, invites him out to the Masquerade he reluctantly agrees. For the sheer fact that he prefers companionship rather than persistent solidarity. The Dutch nation grabs an orange mask and peers down at it with some disdain, but stuffs it in his pocket anyway.
As he makes his way downstairs toward the ballroom, black dress shoes make tiny 'clack' noises that echo throughout the hall and ring in his ears. He takes this time to peer around, and no matter how frightening the manor was it was in its own way rather astonishing. Golden eyes were studying the gentle brushstrokes of the paintings lined up on the wall, the eerie ceramis statues carved of marble, an the long ruby rug that led to the double doors of the ballroom. He'd say it was magnificent if he wasn't admittedly afraid of it.
A wave of relief washes over Lars when golden irises come across the form of another figure in a suit. The blond spikey hair, the tall figure, the .. well, suit.
"Well, you invited me here. Let's get this over with." Lars grimaces a little at him, arms crossed rather expectantly.
Lars had lost count how many times he's repeated that phrase to himself. Though everytime he does, he finds the true meaning behind it gradually slipping to nothing. And he's completely forgotten why he was telling it to himself in the first place. His chapped lips parted slightly and hazel eyes drawn together in a bit of frustration, daft fingers wrapping around the top of his black tie to fix it.
Oh, now he remembers.
Mathaias has invited Lars to the apparent Masquerade with him.
Ash blond eyesrows furrow together before he takes in a small breath to repeat the phrase again. But now, he finds himself unable to.
In the manor, an torturous maze where every end is another heart shattering event that reduces the Dutchman to nothing but fear and agony. Each possibility of happiness or escape is another ruse, illusion drawn together by the fabricated ideas of hope for living, and every second reminds him how his sanity is slowly slipping away from him. He only releases a sigh, and drops his hands from his wardrobe.
"Do yourself a favor, Lars ..."
He can feel himself crumbling, but for his sake, and the sake of those around him the ash blond decides the only way to live on is to carry on as things may retain some form of normalcy. So when his best friend, one of the few people Lars can outwardly say he trusts more than anybody, invites him out to the Masquerade he reluctantly agrees. For the sheer fact that he prefers companionship rather than persistent solidarity. The Dutch nation grabs an orange mask and peers down at it with some disdain, but stuffs it in his pocket anyway.
As he makes his way downstairs toward the ballroom, black dress shoes make tiny 'clack' noises that echo throughout the hall and ring in his ears. He takes this time to peer around, and no matter how frightening the manor was it was in its own way rather astonishing. Golden eyes were studying the gentle brushstrokes of the paintings lined up on the wall, the eerie ceramis statues carved of marble, an the long ruby rug that led to the double doors of the ballroom. He'd say it was magnificent if he wasn't admittedly afraid of it.
A wave of relief washes over Lars when golden irises come across the form of another figure in a suit. The blond spikey hair, the tall figure, the .. well, suit.
"Well, you invited me here. Let's get this over with." Lars grimaces a little at him, arms crossed rather expectantly.