worry begins to eat at her insides once she realizes he’s serious— though not because she believes he can’t do it. he can, maybe, if he tried hard enough, if the romans saw that. (or if she made them take him in.) it’s not that at all. it’s living here. an occasional visit to california is manageable; the entire time, the awareness that her father is near is in the back of her head, prickling at her skin, but she can handle that. being here full time is different. rationally, she knows the possibility of running into her father is very low, but in new york, it’s nonexistent— the certainty is comforting there.
there’s the little things, too. the fact that just the sight of a raiders jersey is still able to bring her back to those nights when a football game would be on, father drunk, ten-year-old mikayla’s skin blooming with bruises, as if it were her fault his team was behind; here, that’s unavoidable. the possibility of running into some of her old classmates, having to answer their questions about why she left, what happened.
everything about it feels terrifying, though she’s faced far worse. still, saying any of this aloud doesn’t feel like an option. she’s never mentioned her father in detail before. she doesn’t intend to start now. “ you should. it might be good for you. ” because she knows better than to laugh at him, because it might even be true. “ even if you can’t, you’d still be braver than some of camp half-blood. they wouldn’t even try. ”
it’s rare for mikayla to feel unease when the focus of the conversation is turned back to her. admitting that she doesn’t want to seems impossible, because she’d have to offer an explanation. pretending she doubts herself isn’t exactly plausible, either. “ maybe. but california’s just, like— overrated. everyone’s annoying. ”
“ oh, ” is all felix can manage, trying not to sound too disappointed --- and failing entirely. it sets in his features and he’s confined to silence, trying to digest her unwillingness, contrasting against the very sudden thought that he must do this. the certainty bores into his brain like an icepick, sharp and electric, a feeling of conviction he’s never experienced; it feels almost divine, and felix’s arms prickle with gooseflesh at the speculation of celestial intervention -- a blessing from his father, maybe, offering approval at his decision ---- but her disinterest is as equally sharp. and the idea of california, of new rome, without mikayla feels too much like breathing without lungs, an impossibility, and the tightness in his chest is how it must be to gasp and claw for oxygen. sweat beads on his palms. felix swallows, throat desert-dry.
felix feels like there’s more to it. he doesn’t push, but he feels it, and it weighs on him. he leans into her, bumping shoulders, hoping that it’s comforting -- and he decides that he can’t. even if that was a sign from his father, he can’t. he couldn’t do this without her.
a storefront to their left draws his attention. felix nudges mikayla, then jerks his head, silently asking her to stop, wait. he pulls a handful of denarii from his jacket pocket, and trades it for a basket of fruit -- just the right amount of ripe, bright red and vivid orange and green against the brown of its container. he looks at mikayla with a crooked smile, but there’s a hint of sorrow tucked into the corners.
“ let’s stop at the temples, then, at least. leave an offering for our parents. ”
dededos
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
theartofmadeline
titsay
stormborns
kaledo-art
