{ character info }
STATSCHARACTER NAME: Michelino "Mikelo" Constance, prefers to go by Mikelo
AGE: 17
APPEARANCE: Mikelo is 5'1" tall and weighs roughly 100lbs. Prolific as a dancer, he has a petite build, however in lean muscle, and is more or less physically healthy. His face is quite childlike in appearance, even feminine, making him seem younger than his seventeen years (a trait which he certainly has and will use to his advantage, as he sees fit); his skin warm with soft gold and yellow undertones, which during the summer gains a dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His eyes are a fair hazel, often bright and expressive, and his hair is a dirty strawberry-blonde; a little long, at times covering his eyes, and with a mild kink. He never bothers to style it much, except for the occasional clip or headband to keep his bangs from obscuring his vision, particularly when inline skating. In combination with his small physique, and being light upon his feet, it wouldn't be all that unusual to liken Mikelo to a pixy.
His clothing style is typical of a runaway, bouncing around between living at the old dance studio, and the run-down apartments of his fellow dancers. Clothing most often comes from donations and second-hand shops; his shirts are usually on the large side, pants have tattered hems and tears and holes here and there, and well-worn sneakers. The one article that Mikelo always has on his person is an over-sized messenger bag; it is secondhand as well, made of canvas, is a rusty shade of orange, and carries all of his material possessions.
-((Mikelo's PB is the character Michinaga, from the one-shot manga, Bitansan Ren-ai. He can be seen on the right, here, and here.))
BRIEF WORLD INFOMikelo's world is present-day Earth, as we know it. Its history is more or less the same, as well, give or take some discrepancies and your little nuances every here and there; tragedies and triumphs, surprises and let-downs all along the way. Things such as witches, vampires, and other various supernatural types exist only within fiction, from movies and television, to imaginations, and old myths. A wide variety of animals share the planet; domesticated ones, and those out in the wild; some of them still yet to be named, while others sit on the precipice of extinction, and none that would be considered all too fantastical. Wars have begun and ended, technology is ever progressing, and lives are born and lost everyday. There's poverty, the relatively comfortable, and those who never have had to work a day in their lives. Humanity simply goes on like always, be it merely existing, or enriched and thriving. It's an ugly yet beautiful place to be.
HISTORY See: short & summarized (or) detailed & complete.
PERSONALITYSilence does not define Mikelo. It never will, and it would seem that he'd prefer to make a point of it. He cannot vocally communicate what he's thinking or how he feels, but he can type or scribble out his thoughts just as quickly. He may not have the whispers and giggles to talk during a movie and show his amusement, but he has a smile that can explain more than a fragment of sound ever could.
He's only mute. Not stupid, not oblivious, and by all means, not so naive. It can take patience and understanding when dealing with Mikelo.
Even so, emotions are a part of him that he came to guard and protect at an early age. If his past experiences are any indication, there's reason enough why Mikelo has a wall standing firmly between himself and others. There's a reason why he wears a mask that's been carefully pieced together, and why, at times, it's much easier to not even try to allow for a deeper level of friendship. Used and rather abused almost since birth, quite often, the idea of allowing someone within the walls of his heart is more frightening than not. ...Nevertheless, that doesn't mean that he has rendered himself completely resistant against potential camaraderie. It just takes time.
Mikelo's time on the streets (and with his adoptive parents, to a small degree) continued to shape him even further. It was and never will be easy to be a full-blooded Italian-American living in Japan; on top of that, and in addition to being mute, it had never been easy to be a male who, so it seemed, reached his full height at a mere 5'1". Being mistaken for a girl wasn't uncommon. And yet, if anything, Mikelo might even be thankful for his slight build, knowing that it attributed to his taste for dancing, and flexibility and mobility as a whole. He always utilized what he has, and whatever he was given, to his benefit.
His size and abilities, as well as appearance, didn't always lead Mikelo down the best paths, however, although that isn't to say he came to fully regret any of the decisions he made. He came into the habit of pickpocketing over the course of three months after leaving the house, quick on his feet and nimble and small enough to get away unseen within the crowded city. His young, almost girlish looks, combined with foreign allure had landed him in the beds of men sometimes almost three times his age, although this hadn't gone entirely against his will. The desire to assure to himself that he would have enough money to live and food to eat was a continuous flame that burned brightly at the back of his mind. Although there were times where Mikelo wouldn't especially enjoy the decisions he would make, if acting upon them resulted in providing even a little more insulation (a little more food to inhale), Mikelo wouldn't really care. Personal greed and the simple, but powerful desire to live are his survival strategy.
The mask that Mikelo wears is both a survival tactic and a way of acting ("I'm okay. Promise!"), yet at the same time, it can be difficult to say when the smile on his face is real or not. He's picked up on how and when to pretend and when not to; when to go along, or when he'd prefer to rebel. Even if he is conscientious of what the right choice is in any given situation, it doesn't necessarily mean that he'll opt for it. It also isn't uncommon for Mikelo to swap the "when to" and "when not to" with "want" and "don't want". Frankly, this is what, at times, has earned him the title of being a brat, rude, or selfish, in particular, but usually, he doesn't care much about that. While outsiders may find it irritating, Mikelo's fellow dance-mates just see it as Mikelo being himself. It's Mikelo being and doing as he feels he needs to, if it means he'll get by. Perhaps that is one reason why they became what one might define as "family," whether Mikelo would openly admit the sentiment or not.
Dancing, but only during the time when he's alone, is the only instance when Mikelo will allow the mask he's built to shatter. It is there where his emotions bubble to the surface, sometimes even escaping in tears, no matter the passion, anger, or despair that happens to be racing through his body as the music plays. To move his body, even if the music is solely the tunes he recalls in his memories, is his main catharsis. As if in lieu of air, Mikelo craves it and the freedom it instills within him. To move, to dance, is to be alive.
However, regardless of dancing, despite the past and its jagged, rocky path and how it has come to shape him, Mikelo is still a teenage boy, and quite honestly (remarkably), not all too upset with his life. So, much of what others see may indeed be a front, but there's still a truth to his age. Mikelo will joke with others; he'll be chipper and friendly when he desires to. He has his favorite movies and television shows, despite the very few he's honestly seen. Mikelo has numerous notebooks that he'll doodle in when he feels lazy, and a small laptop that he likes to use for the occasional game and, of course, listening to music on. He has a favorite animal (rabbits, of course; they're silent just like him. Although birds are certainly a close second, quite ironically, with their songs, colors, and glorious flight), food (strawberries are golden), and, dancing aside, a deep love for in-line skating, which holds a good chunk of his heart. He still does, deep down, crave that elusive unconditional brand of affection and warmth.
Long of the short is, just don't expect Mikelo to be or get particularly close to anyone in a short period of time. Don't expect him to be fully open and honest when it comes to himself, or too shocked if he decides to try and steal from you. And, perhaps, most importantly, don't expect to shatter any of Mikelo's deeply set feelings of paranoia. Even if a person is lucky enough to prove themselves trustworthy, don't necessarily expect Mikelo to believe it so easily.
SAMPLES
NETWORK: Here!
LOG: If music had a will of its own, what would it say? If it could come and go as it pleased, would it root itself to one place, or live like the gypsies? If music had a taste, would it be creamy and sweet like chocolate pudding, prickly like the millions of bubbles in a newly popped can of grape soda, or bite like a chili pepper?
What would music feel like? Soft, warm, comfortable? Like the wind on a summer's day, arms as wide as eternity to envelop the soul?
The question was always on Mikelo's mind. He played with the answers, envisioned them as though music was something tangible. On a Monday he could feel it between his toes like sand, on a Thursday it pulsed electricity through his veins and all the way to his fingertips, until sitting still simply wasn't a possibility. On a Saturday, Mikelo loved the way a piece of vocal jazz reminded him of a glass of cider, the sweet bubbles dancing along his taste buds and down to his toes.
Even here; even now, in this distorted Japan, from his room far above the streets, Mikelo wondered about music. When one of his favorite tunes began to play in his mind, he closed his eyes and let himself smile despite the entire ordeal. When he could hear the music in his head, he knew that he was free to let everything else fall away for a little bit, and when that happened, everything was in its place.
There were still a few hours before he needed to meet with a client, and he'd use them well. Dance, then a nap, and finally a shower. Even as he decided, the song that played is moving through his blood. It guided him like a willing marionette on its strings; up, down, his arms go to embrace himself, legs brought together as he fell to his knees, brows knit. It went on.
The song looped. They always do, but Mikelo knew that he couldn't waste time, as much as he desired to keep to himself right now. So, he curled up to sleep. An hour passed in the blink of an eye, and he woke, then, a shower. He made himself presentable; a bit of blush, some shine on the lips; a sparkling green clip to each side of his head. They go with his hair, some have said. Once again, it seemed, it's the client who liked the young look. Foreign, pretty; submissive, even, but Mikelo knew how to play that, when he wanted to. It was just acting. It was just like a stage. When he thought of it that way, maybe it wasn't as bad as it might seem to an outsider. So that was what he did. A habit acquired and made natural.