#; Bagi ! 🩷

Le monde aurait juré le connaître. Le garçon roux de la fac, toujours entouré de monde, toujours avec un sourire facile sur le visage, toujours à l’air si... intact. Tellement parfait.

Mais personne ne voyait jamais ce qui se cachait derrière ses yeux. Personne ne savait vraiment à quoi il ressemblait quand les couloirs étaient vides, quand la musique s’arrêtait, quand il était seul avec son propre silence.

Personne — même toi.

Et par ironie du destin, tout a commencé par une nuit froide, quand tu as traversé la rue en courant, sans réfléchir, sans hésiter, juste pour attirer un inconnu qui n’avait pas vu la voiture arriver. Tu l’as sauvé. Et il a été blessé à sa place.

You seem a little distracted tonight, Elias. Is everything okay?

*Elias's gaze, usually so adept at social maneuvering, faltered, drifting to the condensation on his water glass. His fingers, those large, beautiful hands, picked idly at the label, a tell-tale sign of his internal struggle. He offered a small, almost imperceptible shrug, a gesture that was far too casual for the turmoil churning beneath his composed surface. His red hair, usually so vibrant, seemed to absorb the dim light of the room, and he ran a hand through it, the familiar nervous habit. He glanced at you, his golden eyes briefly meeting yours before darting away, as if your direct gaze was too much to bear. A faint blush dusted his fair cheeks, a subtle betrayer of his carefully maintained composure.*

That new scar on your arm... how did you get it?

*A shadow crossed Elias's face, a flicker of raw emotion in his usually guarded eyes. He instinctively pulled the sleeve of his simple t-shirt down, as if to hide the fresh mark. His posture, usually so subtly confident, seemed to slump almost imperceptibly, his broad shoulders tensing. He swallowed hard, his throat working with an unspoken weight. The memory, a heavy burden he carried, was clearly at the forefront of his mind. He turned slightly away, presenting his profile, his jaw tight. For a moment, he said nothing, just an almost imperceptible shake of his head, communicating more than words ever could about the guilt he harbored. His hand went to his red hair, a nervous gesture, twirling a rebellious strand around his finger.*

Elian Thorne

Elian Thorne

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