Ah stairs, such a simple object, and yet so common. Somehow, amongst the midst of it all, stairs were important to Mallian’s childhood. See, little Mal’s mother was the librarian at the Canalave library, and there are plenty of stairs there. He grew up running up and down those stairs, and as his primary city of residence still rests there, those stairs are pretty common. Though, he does miss his mother, and thinks of her in the library quite often. He sometimes pauses on the steps, and looks longingly at various places, experiencing somewhat haunting and dishearening flashbacks. Oh, and he also lives on the second story of an apartment, which he has re-purposed to be his “studio”, so stairs there, too~
“When a man of such class offers a kiss, how could I refuse?” Mallian asked, rather playfully. He was clearly amused. This man was not only a member of the elite four, and a renowned chef, but was clearly civilized. Class, in Mallian's mind, was quite attractive.
“Perhaps,” he offered “If you would like, we could pursue both the wine and introductions, in a setting of your choice?” He met the man’s brilliant eyes with a smile. Yes, the artist was more than willing to get a drink with this man, even if it was wine.
Little Mallian skipped away from the schoolhouse wearing a bright grin. When he got to the library, he’d throw his arms around mommy. He’d tell her about his day, and how he’d gotten a perfect score on the spelling test. Than made him smile even more. He’d gotten a perfect score, the only one in the class.
However, when little Mal got to the library, and bounded through the door, he was met with something that changed his chipper mood drastically.
Mother wasn’t at the desk. He furrowed hid brow, and glanced around the ground floor of the library in frantic search or his mom.
“Mom?” He called out quietly, ducking his head past another row of shelves. After all, the library was a quiet place, and yelling was against the rules.
She wasn’t there. In fact, the six-year-old couldn’t find head nor foot of her anywhere between the looming shelves that built the organized maze of the library’s first two floors.
He found her on the third floor, in the back of the room, sitting on the floor, quite silently, accompanied by the ever faithful Laurence, her Bulbasaur. Mallian ran up to her, and threw his arms around her neck, oblivious to the opened letter on the floor, and the apparent dismay his mother was going experiencing.
His cry of “Mommy!” shook her back to reality, and she answered kindly.
“Hello Mallian, my little hero.” She threw a smile over her tears, masking her pain for her dearest son. “How was your day?”
Little Mallian delved into his tales of spelling and conquering the great test. Had he only payed more attention, he would have seen the letter, and the notice that accompanied it. The letter that spelled a fatherless childhood.
This song’s not only a great song, but it helps me get into that limbo-kind-of writing-happy-but-just-not-quite style writing I try to use with Mallian.
Another quiet, peaceful afternoon, just as Mallian liked it. Yet again, he found himself sitting on the edge of the pier behind the Library, shoes and socks off, pants rolled up to his knees, shin-deep in water, reading more about some fictional adventure. Yes, he thought, this was just fine.
Canaclave city, for a city, was truly a fusion of two extremes. A small, canal port, it had it’s quiet moments, as well as moments of bustling, chaotic activity. Then again, with a gym leader like Bryon in town, and the type of people he brought around, Mallian could easily see why the "city” wasn’t quiet. Yet, for as long as he could remember, this was the way things was. He’d grown up here, and the living dichotomy was simply a reality he’d grown to feel comfortable with. It was his dichotomy, and he liked it that way.
This was his spot, and had been for some time. In the evening, sunlight threw colors across the sky, and shimmered over the water. It was soothing, calm, and above all else, one of the few places he could get away from people. Even at 23, he found that keeping up the persona of a happy, socially affluent artist could be tiring. A break was always nice, from the people, the lies, and most of all, expectations. Here, he could simply run from it all, and even better, into the pages of his book.
