he's crumbling, and mari can see it. it's clear in even the soft crackle of his voice, nerves shining through in a stark contrast to the storm that's subsided within her. most of the time, fear is a feast that she has no problem consuming. there's no hesitance in drawing it out from others, eliciting the kind of terror that had left brad in a frozen echo of fatality, awaiting to succumb to his self-written fate. here, it's nothing of the same. mason's swelling emotions, battling against one another, would be nothing more than a tragedy she'd have loved to witness in any other scenario. instead, he rubs his hand against his neck, shrinking into a tiredness that she wishes to wash away, and she frowns. in this case, it's genuine. ( mari's aware that most people would have some conflicting emotions regarding such a situation, and she'd been prepared to soothe any reopened wounds for the sake of closing them entirely. but to say that she relates, or truly understands, is a lie. her father's death had been a moment to rejoice, and her mother's was simply a necessary sacrifice to avoid mari's slaughter. people die. some by her hand. to mourn the kinds of people she kills is a waste of time that wanes into nothingness, shoved to the side and fractured into memories that spur her onwards, instead of downwards. ) still, the fact remains: mason is not like her. he is not like lyric, or sebastian, or any of the typical crowd in her life that soak their hands in blood as much as they cleanse it away. she doubts he's ever bared witness to the kinds of horrors she sees on the daily, and she doesn't think for a second that it would ever elicit the kind of reaction she has to it.
so, she plays the fool. not her default, where she's ditzy-dizzy on some kind of disconnect from circumstance, crooking her finger into a void that yawns into a teeth shattering bite by the end; or the wildly innocent wide-eyed softness that sticks itself to whatever poor soul plunged themselves into her sweetness, and only came out sour. her honey-hollow croon isn't the solution here, and it's not believable, nonetheless. people don't turn into other people over night, and donning a mask that he can still see as her, is simply a matter of watering down the heat of her tongue and simmering her sadism to a barely-there flame. ' you should've c — called. ' her tone is flat, with a sliver of concern edging around the ends of her sentence. there's a blink, a stutter in the portrayal as he calls her mar. ( few people ever get close enough to call mari anything other than the name she gives them, and even fewer would be allowed to echo a nickname that her brother had been the originator of. lyric, thus far, has been the only exception. but she swallows, and can't bring herself to correct him, nor deny the warmth it spreads in her chest. ) her lip turns into a solemn kind of smile, almost watery in the psuedo-sympathy she feigns. ' possible suspects? ... the day you're on trial for anything m — more than jaywalking will be a cold day in hell. ' there's a laugh, softer than usual. his head leans on her shoulder, and she pauses: a hesitance that isn't quite a hesitance at all, but more of a necessary precaution in selling an act she knows he's already bought. it's no surprise he needs a shoulder to cry on, and mari thinks she's the perfect candidate. ' sh — shut up, mason. ' the words are harsh, but it's a mere exhale of a gesture. her body leans into his, eyes closing as she allows a moment of silence. ' ... you're not a — alone, or whiny. except when you s — say shit like that, so .. just quit it. ' she blinks, tone quieting to a murmur. ' i'm here for you. '
