Mosaic in Grayscale

Day 2: Texture, Loss, Double-edged

Hermes still remembers the coarseness of the ocean breeze.

It had been three months into him getting hired at his new job, and while it paid better and was in his field of study that he dearly loved, those first few months were an absolute madness of work, sleep, and eat blended together more often than not.

It would get better, he knew that. And he would have more time and resources to take care of his baby sister, Meteion, who always looked at him with stars in her eyes, a hero worship he felt that he ill-deserved.

And then he did the unthinkable.

He had came home to a dark and silent apartment, nothing new for this time of night.

But before he could do his routine check on Meteion, he noticed something on the dining table.

A cake, and, in crudely written frosting, were the words “Happy Birthday Hermes”.

His heart plummeted, belongings clattering to the floor as he burst into Meteion’s room, yet its owner nowhere to be found.

He swept through the rest of the apartment. He called her phone. He went through a mental list of where she could have went. Friends? Family? But they had no other family.

Guilt shot through his chest when he realized he didn’t remember what her friends were called or where they lived.

Hermes’ phone starts vibrating in his hand and he swipes without looking, the cold night air a reminder of his failure: “Meteion!”

But it wasn’t her. The man introduces himself as Meteor, a vet with a clinic nearby, and said he found Meteion passed out on the beach, phone clutched in her hand, and decided to take a chance and call her emergency contact first.

The rest of the night is a blur. Hermes remembers hugging her to his chest, shivering and cold and crying, punching him with all the intent to hurt him as he had hurt her.

He thinks he might have thanked the man, but that too is a unclear. He remembers taking Meteion home, and them sharing a bed like when they were little, falling asleep to her rhythmic breathing, looking so so tired but home and safe and right there.

Hermes remembers thinking he had failed her, even before he had gotten a new job, how she had become more and more withdrawn, how her outfits of choice leaned into the darker, less vibrant colors, and how he had persuaded himself that it was just a phase.

If it were, it had been wrought by his hands.

In his overzealousness to provide a better future for Meteion, he had neglected the time he should have spent with her in the now.

He should be better. No, he would be better.

He came home earlier. He cut back on work hours as much as possible. He started to make an effort to actually converse with Meteion, instead of passively letting her voice drift within his vicinity.

He gets into the online game she is playing, though he is never quite as good as her, and somehow becomes a moderator for his childhood friend, Zenos, now streamer of said game, surprising himself at how well he takes to the job.

And between all that, after a bit of searching, he even found the vet clinic, and together with Meteion they went to thank the man, Meteor.

It was then that Meteion started showing an interest in veterinary medicine, which turned into frequent visits to Meteor’s apartment as she began to study under him while preparing for her entrance exams—which was, quite conveniently, the same building as theirs.

It takes a couple months of Zenos chasing after a Meteor in game, then Meteion mentioning that Meteor the vet also plays the same game, for things to suddenly click.

Though Hermes briefly entertains the idea of telling one or the other that he knows them, he quickly squashes down that notion.

Zenos would enjoy working for that connection, and Meteor…he seriously doubts the man even remembers Zenos.

He might give a helpful little push here and there, but his priority was Meteion.

Surely a grown man like Zenos could work things out on his own, right?

Mosaic in Grayscale — dreamlightpegasi: I think we all know the real...

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

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Day 2: Texture, Loss, Double-edged