Re: Above the Pizza Parlor: Mars/Lear
She might not have had much life experience to speak of, not the practical kind, but one thing that Mars had mastered forever-ages ago, was pretending to be somebody else. Inside the terrible walls of Hailsham, as a child, she would inculcate herself with virtue, strength, or imaginary immortality. She might pretend to be a brave heroine or just anybody else who was better equipped to the pains of her reality. But there wasn't pain anymore, not here in Repose. It was still a habit that Mars found useful in times like these, when she had no idea what she was doing and no intention of admitting as much.
Confidence was sexy. Mars didn't know if Lear was confident or if he just didn't care, but she was going to be confident tonight. And if her surety was borrowed from Lana song lyrics or Youtube tutorials on how to master the perfect, bad bitch eyeliner wing... well, what did it matter? She'd never been a shrinking violet. Even with the kiddie socks, she wouldn't be mistaken for one. Mars had studied the femininity how-to manual in everything from the pages of romance novels and to the spreads of Hustler centerfolds, but she didn't feel at home with either stereotype. She was ideas without a proper outline, but Mars counted on figuring it out along the way.
When Lear crowded close, she didn't really lift her face, but rather viewed him through her lashes. There was something dangerous about him. It made her heart beat fast, and that was familiar. She'd lived in a state of stress and panic for almost her entire life. Now that things were calm and nice, Mars found that she felt almost numb. Not actually dying young, it felt like a part of her identity had been stripped away. And maybe this was a mistake, but it was her mistake. "Upstairs," she instructed softly.
Around the back of the pizza parlor and up some stairs, she led him to her apartment, which was very generous terminology for the tiny thing with stark wood floors and cold, brick walls. It was a very small set-up, but designed in such a way that it looked as if an issue of Teen Vogue had exploded across most viable surfaces. In lieu of a closet, her clothes hung on upon racks against the walls. There was a sheepskin rug underfoot and no furniture to speak of except for the bed in a wrought iron frame. The bed sat near the only window, and was framed in curtains of gauzy white chiffon that was pretty but impractical.
"Have a seat." There wasn't really anywhere to sit except the bed, and she gestured vaguely. "I'm going to change." Mars edged toward the bathroom and snatched something off of a clothes rack in passing, before slipping inside and closing the door.