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All Max does is smiling down at her happily. He likes the moments like these when there’s nothing but her happiness. No hostility, no animistic behaviors. He’s got his sister with him and he’s just happy to have that much. He watches her fix herself to the cart and he can’t help but chuckle, starting to push it forward with a quiet, “As you wish.” He pushes them through the store, ignoring the people around them. If they stare or look in awe or admiration. Max doesn’t care. He’s blind to everything else but her at the moment.

whole lotta food.  { max & bea }

She smiles her thanks as he grabs it for her, then nudges her shoulder beneath his impishly. Bea is unable to resist, filled with childish excitement. Ducking her head, she aims to perch at the helm like a captain at sea. Her arms casually slip between his, her fists curled around the cart’s rail on the inside of his own. With a step, she’s on the back ledge, and Bea leans against it like it were a ride rather than a practical tool. Her brow furrows with consideration, teeth gnawing her bottom lip. 

“Fruit.” The late spring heat is stifling. She can almost feel the juices trickle down her chin. Expectantly, she waits for him to push the cart – and, in turn, her – to the crates of produce. 

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Sam Claflin

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Sam Claflin

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Maybe they remember their childhoods differently, but Max likes the taste of Wonder Bread. It reminds him of the innocence and the things he left behind. That he’s not so much of an adult has he originally thought. Max doesn’t want to be an adult. Not the men who wear suits and ties and talk about bills. He’s happy with his young heart and he wishes to keep it that way. At least that way, he wont have to thing about all the real problems around him. Well, not until he has no other choice but to face them.

Through the side of his eye, he sees his sister beginning to reach upwards, trying to grasp onto the loaf of bread with is much much darker, and far healthier looking than his own bread. He expected as much from her. 

But she can’t reach it, and it makes Max smile the way she’s jumping to reach it. Just barely, he thinks to himself. She’s so close to having the bread to herself, but the plastic only slips from her grip. Finally, Bea stops and Max looks at her with raised eyebrows and a small smirk. “I guess,” He raises his heels to grasp the loaf, tugging it from it’s spot with such ease and drops it into the cart.

“Where to next?”

whole lotta food.  { max & bea }

She is overwhelmed with the possibility. 

Rows and rows of foods, dried or preserved and tucked into sleeves of plastic, into cardboard boxes, all competing for her attention. Before Savannah, before they had money of their own, there was no period of deliberation. She simply sauntered in, and slipped out with whatever her arms could hold. Now, the entire, vast store is her domain. From the dozens of granola bars to the fresh fruit at the back. She can’t wait to roll her fingers over every peach’s smooth surface, to select fruit devoid of bruises. She had a knack for that. Now, however, she finds herself staring at a looming stack of bread that extends well over her head. There are loaves like dense, golden prisms, and others spherical and with a glossy, dark rind. Her eyes flit to the bread closest to her wandering fingertips, which scan each and every one. Wonder Bread. 

Their mother had always gotten them white bread. Bea could feel on her tongue the mealy texture it would get when saturated with mustard. It was also what she served at work, to greasy men with lingering gazes and traveling hands. 

She picks a rich, dark loaf spotted with seeds. Familiarity breeds contempt.

Bea extends her arm, stretching it to its limit in order to reach her choice. Then, automatically, she jumps, legs springing beneath her. Still her fingers graze it. Defeat. She doesn’t turn to look at her twin, instead just keeps her determined gaze on the bag that eludes her. The look she is giving it could be likened to a stink eye. 

“I guess only the tall people eat this stuff.”

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whole lotta food.  { max & bea }

Max has tried grocery shopping with Beatrice, but then she just groans about the food he gets (when she herself barely eats food from home to begin with). So by this point, he’s dragged her with to make sure she gets what she wants--- which is never much. 

He hunches over the cart, pushing it down one of the isles and Bea looks at all the different types of buy. For those rare mornings when she wants toast. Also for Max, because he likes sandwiches for lunch. He watches her carefully while she moves, with her hair looking as though it’s gone a few days unwashed. She has her head tilted up slightly to look at the breads higher up. Her arms drape at her sides like there’s no energy in that part of her body. All her focus is on the breads ahead of her and he tries to figure out which she’s looking at.

When she stops, he stops, too, standing up straight and walking around the cart to look where she was looking, matching her pose almost exactly. “What is it that you want?” She looks indecisive. Or she’s just thinking very hard. There was whole grain, and whole wheat, and a whole lot of bread. He just bent over to grab the white loaf because that’s what he liked. He threw it into the cart and looks back at her with raised eyebrows, expecting a response.

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Maximus Arvil DuHart Twenty-four Male, He/him Reincarnation of Apollo  Sam Claflin

PAST LIFE AS A GOD

The God of truth, healing, prophecy, plague, music and much more. In certain parts of history Apollo is considered the God of the Sun as well. His parents are Zeus and Leto and his twin sister is Artemis. Though, he get seems to get most of the attention, he is boastful, arrogant, and most definitely powerful. He is not afraid to strike someone down if they wrong him. Apollo has a large following, including a whole island dedicated to him and his patronage. 

REINCARNATED LIFE

The sun is often thought of as a sign of happiness, or optimism, and of purity. What is not considered is the sun’s heat, the intensity, the fact that no one can possibly get anywhere near it without being burned to death. In other words, the sun is a gas stove, turned up to high.

That’s where Max found himself most of the time, in front of the gas stove, hands in his lap, watching the flames dance while his Mac & Cheese cooks because his mother didn’t have enough money to buy much else. There was something about it that took him. He could actually watch the burning stove without going blind, but the general effect was the same. He got stuck inside a lot, be it in a car, or motel where their mother wouldn’t allow playing in the street (because there was no other space to play), but when he did, boy it was like he was alive. The vitamin D was being soaked up through his pores and he could run around and kick around a ball with his sister.

There wasn’t a lot for them to do other than that, though. Max’s sister was more into rolling around in the dirt, so Max found himself staying in, and growing curious about the bible in the bedside table drawer. Did you know every motel room had one? It was kind of nice since he wouldn’t have to steal one. Max had an issue with all things dishonest.

So he took an interest in the Lord. He only had the pieces of paper and his own mind— his own interpretation of the New Testament. Neither his mother nor sister were interested. He learned that forgiveness was the key to all. That everyone can be redeemed in the eyes on the Lord as long as you have asked. Multiple times Max tried explaining this to his mother, saying it wasn’t too late to ask the Lord for forgiveness, as it was not right to leave your husband. Holy Matrimony binds you till death, and clearly, his mother was not bound.

Eventually, his mother got fed up with her twelve year old following her around and nagging her every day. Max found out the truth about his father. He had another life. Max’s mother was just a simple mistress, and while the father intended to be supportive, his wife had found out, and the woman did not take the information kindly. No, in fact, she had made it very clear that her face was not to be seen anywhere. Max’s mother was on the run from some rich privileged woman who could clearly do more damage than it seemed.

That wasn’t something in Max’s Bible. He spent weeks flipping through pages and trying to find an answer to the situation he couldn’t figure out. It left him with nights crying of frustration and excessive yelling. How could the world be so cruel? And how could it leave such good people stranded with a life not fit for anyone? Max didn’t become bitter, just… adapted. Distant. Separated himself from the world he had known would tear him apart if given another chance.

His sister was the only one who held that special place left in his tender chest. Where things were still warm and close and Max still smiled like the sun’s bright rays. He’d braid his sister’s messy, tangly hair sometimes, and his sister would trace patterns in his legs and Max would sing because musical notes strung together always sounded nice. It was a time to forget the world around them. Together they were something else. They were the sky, too far above the earth to even let it all matter.

And all of a sudden, they were gone. His sister had packed most everything, Max just needed his notebook and bible (he made sure to ask for forgiveness afterwards). They were sleeping in the woods and making their lives work on their own. Max didn’t care, he had the Lord and his sister. What else did he need?

Apparently, a little more.

Max had a tendency to sit in front of a high school track team on some days, just watching, scribbling down poetry that’d flow through his veins. He kind of wished he had the ability to be apart of a club of those sorts. He couldn’t really just get up and join them though, Max wasn’t all that confident in talking to others at that point.

But Cynth was different. Cynth came up to him, sat next to him, talked about his poetry. He was nice, and sweet, and pretty, and Max liked the way his sweat glistened and rolled down his sharp cheekbones. For once, that little part of him only saved for his sister was being opened up for Cynth. They’d run together, Cynth would teach him frisbee, and roll in the summer grass. And being that Max was still sleeping outside, Cynth would bring him into his home, let him shower, and eat some food. He was the first person Max loved. One that wasn’t blood. He was the first person who touched him and told him sweet things and let him feel what it was like to be apart of the earth. To be human.

Only, good things don’t last forever and Max should have known that when he had that dream, things would get ugly. Ugly in the sense that he’d touch his lover and find out not long later that he had infected him. Seeped whatever it was into his body and let him rot. It was internal bleeding from the head, they told him. Something they couldn’t control. His brain was too big for his skull and eventually just became too much. They said it was normal but Max knew it was not. Not even his sister knew.

The shame, the guilt, the loss, all hung over his head and suddenly the sun had been drowned out with clouds and rain and he was further in a pit of himself than the was before. He had no interest in following his sister’s suit. He controlled what he had to best of his ability, but only to the point where he could cover it up.

They moved. To Savannah. His sister said it’d be good for him. Max was sad, clearly, in a slump of everything where he went through three journals of writing over every blank space, some even waved with the dried tears shed for the dead lover.

Thankfully, his sister loved him, and knew what was best. He was brought to a church. A large, beautifully sculpted one at that. He met the priest, and through him, he confessed to the best of his abilities without sounding insane and not coming out as having a gay affair. He had said he hurt the one he loved and now they were buried in the ground and left to the Lord. He had told Max that he was forgiven, and that there should be no guilt to hang from his shoulders. It was then that he saw it—- what he had to do. His sister had said he was the embodiment of the sun, but that was not what Max saw. He was belief, he was redemption, he was poetry and music and youth and he had to serve the Lord in his name. He did for others what the pastor had done for him. He became a minister. He spent most of his time in the church with other people, slowly becoming more familiar with interaction, becoming more adored in the community. They near worshiped him for his actions. He liked that feeling. He just had to keep that up. He couldn’t let a soul down.

ABILITY: 

So Max’s got a pretty good grip on his abilities. He doesn’t like using it that much unless he really needs to. Like, in the moments where a rather sickly person has come to visit him and he’s aware of it (a sensory thing, of course), and he will try his best to help them through sympathetic touches and heals, discussing it to make it seem more like a miracle from God than himself. As that’s what he’s there to do. It doesn’t always work like it’s probably 50/50. But he’s got a good hold of not hurting people. He’s just not sure how to use it, not like he plans to, and that’s probably why he has no idea. Though he often doens’t think about it as it just upsets him.

Now, this might not be an ability thing, or maybe just something in his mind that fits with being a reincarnation of Apollo, but he picks up instruments very quickly. He plays the piano and guitar but he’s learned both of those within the past year. As well as a natural flow of beautiful words and poetry.

Hah, and he can’t grow a beard. Which frustrates him a little but in a cute way.

CONNECTIONS

ARTEMIS: the twin. Their relationship is seen as unhealthy and even inappropriate at times by those around them. Even though they took a vow to never have sex, many view their relationship as borderline incestuous. They can’t live without the other and as a result they are rarely seen without the other.

HERMES: They didn’t get along at first. Hermes stole something from them and it set them off because it was something of their mother’s that they took with them when they left her. Plus, it wasn’t like they had much to begin with. But when Hermes returned the token to him and gave him more than that they started to warm up to Hermes, but it’s a shaky trust.

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Cherry Wine | Hozier

Her eyes and words are so icy Oh but she burns

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Be it may that his sister was correct, Max still had a large part of hi in denial about the other being inside of him. To believe he is a man of a God would make any other happy, but to Max, it only proved how wrong he was. That his whole life was a lie. So he tended not to believe everything that was happening. Most days, at least. 

He had watched as men and women grew sicker. One his way to the chapel, he had heard whispers of the family in the home down the street had all gotten a deadly disease. All but the children, of course. To be honest, he felt no guilt. No part of Max wished ill upon people, but he’ll be damned if he sheds a tear over those whom have contributed to this ridiculous riot.

Things were tense in the chapel. Everyone around him was wary of him, and the things he did. Sure, they have no proof that he is of the freaks, but his sister is, so he must be one as well. There were still some that believed he had been touched by God, and didn’t deserve the same fate as the rest. They still found ways to call his sister a freak to his face. That she was a descendant of the devil. Just a few days ago, he had snapped. An older gentleman had said something about Bea and Max blacked out. The next thing he knew, Father was clutching him, asking him if he was alright. No one ever spoke of the older man util word came that he had died of infection in the lungs. 

Max didn’t give a rats ass about what happened to him.

Since then, he’s kept quiet. Cleaning, stilling leading his Youth Group, cooking for the shelter. He spent a lot of time in crevices with his journal and pen, earbuds playing music as he ignored the world. It was just better that way.

It was long after a service, where he was certain everyone had gone, or at least migrated to another room. He was fixing everything in the chapel. Straightening the books and picking up the sheets of paper left around. While he streamed music into his ears, he managed to notice another figure. One that struck a sense in his body. Like a shot up his spine. He paused his music, and stepped to their line of vision, raising his eyebrows. “May I help you?” He asks quietly.

SANCTUARY; clara & max

One moment they were Persephone and the next they were - well theirself. Clara always knew the lines between them and Persephone was thin - paper thin at that, but with all the chaos on the streets the line was gone. It made some days very confusing, but Clara was forever grateful for her. For Persephone. They’d surely be dead by this point. The Queen of the Underworld was a fierce woman who would not be toiled with. 

( You are the Queen now. )  I am more than a Queen - I am a G o d d e s s.

However, they could only fight for so long. They were not immortal - they were not a divine being. No - Clara Huang was very much a human, one with special talents but they fatigued just like everyone else. And there was only so much fighting that they could do in one day. 

So, they ran into the nearest building after wrapping vines around the ankles of three men and bringing them to their knees. However, the mortals were growing smart. They brought knives that could cut through their vines - even the thickest ones. Clara hadn’t wanted to resort to poisonous vines in the beginning but now it appeared they had to.

As Clara stumbled into a seat, they quickly realized it was a church pew as a Bible dropped at the their feet. It almost felt like it would burn them if they touched it - which would be ridiculous. Clara was no heathen. No witch. They were made of divinity. 

Slowly, Clara bent down to retrieve the book from the worn wood floor and as their fingers wrapped around the spine of the book they secretly sighed in relief. No lightning striking down upon them today. 

(Zeus would never. He knows I would make him pay.) Hush, it was a figure of speech.

The soft creak of the floor boards snapped Clara from their thoughts and their brown eyes snapped up piercing the strangers with intensity. Her posture clearly indicated they were ready to leap into action in a split second if need be. 

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Snowberry. [ self para ]

One month prior.

You can’t rub away the tired. Yet still, Max brings his knuckles to his eye, adding pressure as he rubs, in hopes that the colored dots with fade, taking the sleepiness with him.

He was not hungry, but he sat at the table as darkness enveloped him. The pale light of the moon creeping through his window. He was out in the open of their kitchen table; beside the window where breeze would come to cool the sticky skin of his chest. The last bit of skin that his shorts didn’t cover would stick to the bottom of the chair, causing discomfort every time he moved.

There was no way he’d sleep in the heat, that’s what he’d tell himself. He didn’t want to think that the possibility that they weren’t home, so Max couldn’t sleep soundly. Max liked to think he could function without them, and he could, but letting himself rest was impossible if he didn’t know where they were. So instead of tossing and turning in bed, he sat with his sketchbook, making the delicate lines of flowers he’d pass on his way home. 

It went on for hours. Pages and pages filled with roses, lilies, peonies, and so on. He rests his chin on his arm, resting on the table as he draws a single stem of snowberries, feeling his eyelids growing heavier. He wasn’t going to fall asleep, though, he wasn’t going to let himself do that. What if they wouldn’t come back? What if they were in trouble? He looked up from his page to the coffee and PB & J he had made hours ago for when they’d come home. Maybe they’d be hungry, or just need something. But without them here, it just looked sad sitting there, the white of the cup glowing in the dark from the moonlight. The sandwich looking small on the table. Lonesomeness enveloped him, and mocked him.

Though he was a person whom held mockery like an old friend. It wasn’t hard to find something to mock. 

Looking back to the page, he continued the sketch, letting his mind slip into the deepest caverns of thoughts. Crevices he left untouched for reasons that would only come to disown him.

How his blossoms were no longer circles. The stems grew longer, and more delicate. The spread out, and took up the negative space of the page. They formed a pair of lips he’d studied for years through the eyes of shame. They were left to curve in the smallest of smiles. He thought of the laugh he could feel would pass after the smile. How the eyes reflected the fondest of looks. They berries sparkled and glimmered in the moonlight. The leaves made lashes long and full, to bat with a pout. Whines of begs and pleas where thin, stem-like hands would grab his branch-like arms. 

His blinks were becoming longer, and his grasp on the pen became weaker. The picture of the flowers was being replaced with the face he’d be greeted to every morning--- just happy to see him. He stopped drawing when he opened his eyes, looking at the perfect form of the scattering hair like the halo of an angel. 

He looked at the space at the top of the page, where no marks would be. He was in the state between awake and asleep, his brain still roaring with thoughts, only now the filter was broken down and destroyed. He scribbled down words he didn’t think about before his pen fell from his hands and his eyes shut.

Tonight, I feel you in the moonlight, Telling me it’s alright.

In my dreams I feel you under the moonlight, we glow like stars that belong beside the rest.

I feel your bones and hear your heartbeat, and sin is too small and far to touch us. I whisper words never spoken by Man, so we are no longer earthbound.

And you will touch me, and sing verses written by angels and only meant for us.

Tomorrow, I will not feel you, and you will not tell me it’s alright.

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The Song of Apollo's Glory. [ self para ]

There was a lack of fear in Max’s bones. In an honest situation, Maximus would most likely find himself sitting on the church steps reading a book as the world burned to the ground. He knew, there was that feeling in his body; what was there for him to be afraid of? He’s thought that his whole life. He could get broken, and bruised, and they could crush his soul, but never would Max fear anything. Not even himself. 

He’s felt fear for other people, however. Like now, the streets were raging, and they’d called in troops to settle this crazed situation. He wasn’t afraid himself, he was afraid for those getting hurt and killed. Be them ‘freaks’ or not. So many nights he’s spent nibbling on his nails watching through the windows as the streets represents horrors Max has only read in books and seen in movies.

Max had no intention of laying low. Not any lower than he normally lays. He’s been helping those who have needed it. Holding prayer circles for those who need to wish for safety upon their loved ones. Just being a help to those whom have needed it. But he’s not going to be able to do that forever.

He finds out about his sister, and what’s been happening to her. He listens to the words whispered or even shouted about her. Their accusation. Their were people making accusations about them. That they have something sinful behind closed doors. He’d had people from church come up to him, fearful of what they’d heard about their precious Maximus. He’d grow greatly uncomfortable, the idea of it making him stir inside. No, they were just really close. And he’d tell them exactly that. Only, he knew there was more to it. What they had was not the same of normal love. He’d know, he’s felt the same love other’s have. 

Everyday, things grew more intense. He could feel everything build up. Not only outside, but within himself. The threats grew, the pain grew, and he kept seeing Matilda in danger. Even if she could take care of herself, that doesn’t mean it was okay.

He stood behind the doors, looking through the glass at the chaos around him. His hands were deep in his pockets, tracing the bottom seam back and forth. They didn’t understand. None of them did. They didn’t understand that these people were not harmful. They’re only there sent from God as a means of control. It was a misunderstanding of the whole situation. It only made him angry.

The whole morning, he’s felt angry, an emotion not typical for Max. These people were fighting. Something which is clearly unwanted. God doesn’t want the world at war, but at peace. This was not peace. This was most certainly the opposite.

For years, he’s felt this itch. Like one you feel at the back of your throat that you can never fully satisfy. Max had been trying to itch it for years. But now, now he was thinking about letting it itch. Embracing this feeling that made his fingers twitch and his mind wander into greater thoughts. When he’d slip up and call them humans. When he believed more than his God. When he knew he and his sister were something greater than the rest. When he knew he had a love for her that was no sinful, or disgraceful, but beautiful and respected. 

Max had to let that feeling win. He might have been fearful of the consequences that would come, but now, it didn’t seem to matter. There’d be consequences no matter what. 

Like a sun coming from behind the clouds, the door were pushed open and he walked down the steps, his sea colored eyes staring straight ahead. He paid attention to no one. He listened to no one. They didn’t understand that he was their god. That they should build temples in his honor to pray to him. 

He was a hunter, a man of health. He was hope, he was belief, he was what the people needed. When you doubted your outcome after death, Apollo was the man you went to. These people had no eyes for that. They didn’t understand their place. They were arrogant, they understood nothing of their higher powers. They deserved to suffer. Apollo didn’t mind waiting to see them suffer. He’d wait months to allow it to unravel. To see them turn to their Jesus Christ and beg for forgiveness, when the one they needed to beg was the man before them.

Apollo had stopped, seeing a child standing on the sidewalk, watching the mess of the streets. Every thought of havoc stopped, and he turned, eyebrows furrowed and head tilted. He walked forward to the boy, and looked down. “Why aren’t you inside?”

The little boy looked up, and Apollo noticed the tears, “It’s so scary.” As if he completely ignored the question, he still felt a little ache in his chest. The ignorance and naivety was making Apollo rethink his actions.

He bent down low, getting eye level with the child. He watched the tear for only a second before placing the pad of his thumb to their forehead, tracing a circle and reciting the words engraved into his soul in his native tongue of Latin, moving down the path to his chin, and the middle of his chest:

“Juvenes praeparate vos ad canendi ac saltandi uoluptate. Apollo se non omnia, sed ad bonum. Qui viderit magna qui non facit, humilis est. Videbimus te Opificis procul nunquam sit humilis. Ne taceas strepitum citharae cessatum.” (Young men, prepare yourselves for singing and dancing. Apollo appears not to all, only to the good. He who sees him is great; who does not is lowly. We will see you, Worker from Afar, and we will never be lowly. Let the cithara not be silent.)

Apollo brought himself to stand, looking down at the boy, who was no longer crying. “Go inside,” He ordered sternly with a nod, “And all will be well.” That was all he said, and he’d began moving again, leaving the boy behind to decide his own fate, be it to go inside or stay and watch the brutal truth of life. But the prayer could not be broken, spoken by the true god of worship. 

He would not let a single child suffer the wrath he’d cause.

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When Max was a kid, he often got restless from being stuck in a car all day. and running around in tiny motel parking lots often meant he’d trip and fall (being oblivious and clumsy as he is), so this incident, was no surprise. Still hurt, though. He’s had a broke nose once, but it seems like he’s forgotten how much one bleeds when that happens. “It’s okay,” He says quietly, muffled by his hands. Though speaking probably wasn’t a good idea, as when he closes his mouth, he can taste the blood. Which is gross, and only making him frown. He could feel his hands getting covered as he’s walked away from the punching bag and to a chair. He hasn’t hurt himself like this in a long time. He’s then handed a towel, which he takes, and just puts against his face, he looks at his hands grasping the towel, seeing how red they are. He’s still sort of in his own world, but the man’s talking to him still and he looks up, half of his face covered by towel. “I'll be okay.” He doesn’t want to take up their time with a petty broken nose rather than someone who actually needs it. He keeps looking from the towel, to the stranger, to the towel again. He really just wants to wash his hands more than anything else. It’s bothering him more than the pain of his broken nose. It’s a rather disappointing evening working out. Though not much of a surprise. He even sighs, just unimpressed with himself that he got hurt again, due to his clumsiness. He keeps forgetting there’s someone in front of him, and when he looks again, Max figures he should say something before it gets weird. “Sorry I wasn’t paying attention.” He still sound eight when he says it, like all the times he had to apologize for his lack of awareness.

Like his hearing would when others would yell at him, his vision blurred once what he liked to call his sixth sense [anger] took over him. Nothing mattered but that one dominant, consuming feeling – that is until, like a black hole, consumed another. Silas was always good with tending others, helping others but himself? Not so much. It was a generous punch that he’d delivered at the bag when he swung it backwards, and although his hearing wasn’t as superb as his bond with the Earth to hear if it made the other’s bone crack, he guessed being on the receiving end of that indirect blow couldn’t have been a pleasant experience. “Fuck-“ he cursed out, quickly finding his way around the bag and to the man he accidentally wounded, his arms reaching out for him as if to keep him on his feet while he examined his face, eyes bewildered and wide open. “I’m so sorry man, I didn’t see you – shit…” There was blood, there was definitely blood. “Come, come-“ slipping into the nursing role, even if that was usually his mother’s role in the family, he guided the stranger to the chair in the corner, right next to the sink out of which he let a stream of cold water rush down while he walked over to where he left his towel and a bottle of water. Once when with a towel, he rushed back to soak it with cold water – which wouldn’t be as good as bag of ice cubes, but it was as good first aid as he could get…”Take this, fuck, is it broken, do you think I broke it?” he continued panicking, unaware of his uncharacteristic cussing, while feeling his pockets up for a cellphone only to realize that he hadn’t brought one with. Typical. “Do we need to call an ambulance?”

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Sam Claflin for Vogue, August 2014 - behind the scenes [x].

[maxavril-blog]

He liked playing outside. He liked soccer and those other sports, but that was kind of hard to do. Especially since he likes keeping to himself for the most part. He’s had that feeling you really need to stretch your muscles, except he couldn’t. Then he heard about the gym. He was talking to someone about this gym at Mass the past Sunday. Figured, why not? Keeping one’s body in shape is important, he knew that well. Now that h was here, however, he had no damn idea what to do. He had his music playing, and he was like a lost puppy, walking around and looking at all the equipment, not knowing what most of them even did. He ran for the past forty minutes, but now? Now he was just stuck in his own world, wandering around because everything was so odd. He tried to come up with ideas for the things being used that he didn’t know, which only lead to ending up thinking ‘It just looks like a torture device’. He wasn’t paying any attention to the things around him, that he’d gotten to the point where he wasn’t really aware of his surroundings. He kept looking at someone lifting weights that he didn’t even see the punching bag in his field of vision. Unfortunately, Max is just clumsy in that way, and with his luck, getting hit in the face with a punching bag was not a surprise. He stumbled back, holding his nose with both hands, trying to blink away the pain. If he were still eight, he’d say ‘ouchie’, instead he only said, “Ow.”

Getting gym membership wasn’t something Silas would go for on his own accord; really, it had been Lydia who got one for herself on a whimsy, during one of her ‘no one in this family understands me’ phases, because she’d read that for 10$ she could sleep over there (open 24/7 and stuff). That lasted for about a day, once she realized she was wrong and called Silas to pick her up - and he remembered the exact moment of entering the place for the first time. Seeing the man in secluded room through the glass, punching this bag thing, assaulting it with his whole body and looking like he was effectively channeling all of his anger out that way. And he wasn’t hurting anyone - which was the most important thing about it. Which was why Silas kept coming back. Sometimes he was alone, other times he was aware of having people surrounding him and only because he was out of the zone when he arrived and saw them there - but once the punching started, everything around him became clouded with haze of red. Each swing of an arm delivered by him was like a swing of another delivered into his lungs - each battle for breath was like pressure against his survival instincts, kickinging the adrenaline in and making him feel as in frenzy. The outlet he’d seen and craved, he was finally getting it.

[maxavril-blog]

If it really came to it, he’d leave. Max could easily find life elsewhere and not care in the slightest, but just because he would, doesn’t mean he can. He feels like he’s meant to be here. That there’s a purpose. He has no idea what, or why, but he can’t leave.

True fact, Max is rather skittish. He gets startled easily and it’s clear to see with this example right here. He’s not going to lie, and try to defend himself or what masculinity he doesn’t really have, so he just smiles a little bashfully, embarrassment reflecting in his cheeks as they turn red. He looks up from the floor at the woman for a brief second to take note of her, making sure she knows he’s not completely ignoring her (which tends to happen sometimes, since he has trouble communicating with not only words, but the body as well). He can’t do much for the mess in front of him, but he gets the cup and tosses it in the nearby trash. He has no idea what to do now. Stare at it? Flag someone down? He’d rather not to the latter. 

“At least I didn’t ruin your coffee.” He chuckles quietly, and a bit nervously, scratching his nose out of habit when he has no idea what else to do. He figured maybe just trying to speak to the lady would fill in the gap of figuring out what to do, even though he’s still staring at the puddle of coffee. Should he flag down someone? No, Max didn’t really want to bother anyone with something as trivial as this.. Maybe he’ll clean it up himself. His eyes dart to the napkins, taking note that there might not be enough. “My fault, my coffee suffers the consequences.” It’s a tiny joke, or what Max tries to attempt at a joke, he’s just smiling weakly, still rubbing his finger to the bridge of his nose. 

among gods & men ║ max and gina

She had taken to changing her appearance with a masterful hand. On the usual, Gina was the sort who refused to indulge in a bit of makeup. Cosmetics and the heat of the Savannah summers, combined with her outdoor tendencies, her utter refusal to come in from working until the evening hours had long since then blessed the landscape with twilight, were not friends together. So when she had broken out the old palettes and invested in foundation that supposedly was proof to the heat - which she had tested, and seen proven correctly, and she had N E E D E D that day in Atlanta where no one knew her face so well - she was surprised to discover that she still quite remembered how to form the brushes and make herself anew. Her old college days came roaring back to her - the necessity for a full face, for the smudged eyes, for the nude lip. How she hadn’t felt alive unless she was armed and prepared for battle. 

It wasn’t that her confidence was waning, as it did back in those days. But she wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible. If that meant contouring the angles of her face to make her look like something quite different, just so she could obtain a coffee without her life being threatened, then that’s precisely what she would do. Besides, as her aunt always had said - the makeup comes off with a little bit of water and some pressure of a rag. Then she could return back to the Gina she knew, the Gina that her friends adored; if she even had friends now. Not that any of them had seen her ever since this potential exposure. No, she had no friends. Just her family. And the other ‘gods’ she stumbled upon by complete (un)happy accident.

Grasping the iced caramel macchiato in her hand, she fidgeted her undershirt around so that it rested just above her belt-line. God, everything was irritating her these days. Jean shorts and a wife-beater and her telltale old boots. Someone would say she was asking for trouble, and she’d just kill them at this rate. If anyone made an offhanded comment to her, down into the middle of the earth they would go. Disappearing without a trace. Aidan had done it. Silas had done it. Why shouldn’t she join the ranks? If they were threatened, threaten right back. That’s how it had to work now that the tides were changing in this small-ass-town. And to think - she hadn’t even considered Savannah to be that small. But its walls seemed to be shrinking.

She went to move past the figure standing in the opened double doorway; the coffee shoppe had no air conditioning except in the back near the freezer, and so the doors were wide open to let in the breeze that sometimes decided to come in. But then - he decided to turn around. And he dropped his coffee. Boom. And he yelped. It was the sound that startled her, making her take a step back, shudder in place.

“Jesus –” She managed to cut herself off before she finished the rest of the curse underneath her breath. Her heartbeat throbbed tight against her chest, and she pushed her free hand against it, as though to still the organ. “Skittish, aren’t you? That’s what standing in doors gets you.” Standing like a goddamn turkey buzzard.