001 ♕ The Little Prince

[butwedonot]

A droplet of water, then another, another, another, soon it's a steady noise, constant as the ticking of a clock. The sound echos faster, picking up like a heartbeat against the darkness. Small sparks of white dot the sky lighting up like fireworks but remaining suspended against the false navy backdrop-- pinpricks glittering against a void. He can

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[waterfell]

She is the Water. She is there in every drop. The blue is right, but it's her hair and her uniform; not the beautiful skin of Charles' adopted sister. When he reaches for her fingers, there is no reassuring grip, but a clinging and cloying one likely to leave him in the water's drowning hold instead. Likely to drag him into her sphere.

Then suddenly, he pushes through, beyond her grasp. He finds his way to freedom. When it finally ends, she seems calmer, just as he does. She steps closer, no polite keeping her distance nowShe reaches for one of the blueberries, to pick it up and hold it in her hand and examine it even as she finally speaks. She doesn't seem to object to his odd appearance, about the fact that he's standing there in his pajamas, though a quick look up and down suggests she sees it perfectly well, and notices. There isn't much a sharp mind like the genius Mizuno Ami misses

[butwedonot]

For several moments it appears as if Charles might not be inclined to answer her at all; but he isn't ignoring her, or being rude, he's simply trying his best to process her looks. It isn't familiar-- not in any way, she's blue, though, and he does like blue. It's like him, he knows in some ways, but like Raven too. This woman, though, is not Raven-- Raven doesn't play these games with him, doesn't trick him with faces he doesn't know

[waterfell]

"You mentioned that!" Her lips spread in a somewhat amused grin. She loves lording it over someone, even in that small way, that she knows so much more of what's going on than they do. She doesn't seem to feel bad in the least for leaving him confused by offering no explanation. There's a sense of energy to her now.

"I'm Mercury." She does, at least, give her name, even as she considers the berry in her hand. She looks at it, and back at him. "Why not eat it?" It looks delicious, from where she's standing. The fish-scale impression doesn't turn her away.

[butwedonot]

"Hg--" He comments, brows knitting at the name. "H-g, Mercury, yes." It's a name he might be able to remember all things considered; blue and chemicals, things he knows-- though her nature is abrasive in a way he's sure would be easier to remember. Or recall, to be more specific, he forgets little, but being able to draw it back to the surface of his mind is a bit of a challenge. It's all a mess, upstairs, so to speak but he can reach in and sometimes grip the right thing or two.

"It's not yours," Not his either; he only liked blueberries in the muffins his sister would bring home, in the things he could taste people in the town eating sometimes-- but not these, no, those were hers to cook with or make jam with. Not his. Not Hg's. "They're for my sister."

[helpmeguideit]

In most respects, it is beautiful to him. The way that the grass was laid out, the way that stems sprouted from the berries. The way that the spiraled wood twisted and took shape. It was unfamiliar figures to him. He walked along the grass, taking in the environment, feeling the air. It was unnatural, clearly, not only in the way that everything looked, but how it felt. The air was still against his skin, but moving through leaves.

It hadn't felt as odd as it did when he saw those familiar pajamas. He had those. And that face. The hair. It was like staring in a mirror in some ways. This person closely resembled him, but it wasn't him. Something was off, different. Unusual. It wasn't his dream, though. How could he be a stranger in his own dream

[butwedonot]

"I like it," For a moment there's a tug at the corners of his lips, but the expression doesn't quite stay-- it hardly ever does. For a moment he just stares past him, into the distance, at nothing-- because he's not sure what to make of Charles; this Charles-- it wasn't him. He could tell, too neatly pressed to be him. He doesn't believe he's real either; no, that would be silly-- he could belong to that part of his mind, the normal part, the one that let him know there was something wrong in his head. He wasn't oblivious to it, not with the way Raven had to care for him and help him out-- but he doesn't think on that for long either. Can't. Doesn't want to

[helpmeguideit]

"I don't have a good answer, yet. Yes and no," Charles said. He approached him, his eyes scanning over this Charles in front of him. He watched the small movements of his body, not moving into his mind. Not yet. Not without permission. If this other was a telepath, Charles kept his guard up securely. He would know if the other decided to take a walk in his mind.

The way he carried himself, though, was different from himself. He didn't move, though, afraid to somehow cross a line into territory that was not his own. There was uneasiness in his body, and Charles didn't want to upset -- himself. This himself.

"I think we might be different. A bit different, actually." He was interested, ever the scientist and researcher, in how they both existed.

[butwedonot]

There are the faintest brushes of his thoughts against the edge of Charles' mind, like a light tide upon the shore-- not invasive, just there. He hasn't got the ability to stop it, so he just idly wanders around the outside of his thoughts, like a kid not invited into the game and settled at the sidelines. He is unperturbed by this, or rather enjoys it a little bit even, it's long since been a time where he was solely in his own head without the pain that came from the metal wound so tightly about his head. He likes this quiet-- wonders if it's from his imagination-- if the man wasn't real he'd have no real thoughts, would he? though he seemed very real, real and different. Interesting.

"I like your clothes." He murmurs appraisingly. It's not too different from some of his own, comfy sweaters, vests-- soft things he favored over the starched feeling of pressed shirts and medical gowns. "I don't like shoes so much, though."