The Violet Hour

[shelley_winters]

Shelley tugs the neck of the shirt up again, irritated. His clothes are all far too big, the shirt she is wearing as a pyjama top almost as long as a tunic, falling down to her thighs. A pair of his socks - an attempt to keep her freezing feet warmer - flop pathetically against the floor as she walks out of the bathroom, hair soft and clinging with static to her cheeks from overbrushing.

She had stayed there as long as possible, but you can't ever hide forever. As she closes the door behind her, she grits her teeth, determined. There are couches in the other room, and that's where she's headed.

The girl doesn't look at Ishamael as she makes silently for the other door.

Comments

[always-a-liar.livejournal.com]

In the room's soft light, Ishamael sat and brushed his hair. His ankles crossed beneath his seat, his toes tapped idly to the tune he was humming softly. His eyes remained firmly on his reflection in the mirror, not looking at Shelley at all.

"I would highly advise against that. It will be exceptionally cold."