For this moment between them, his mask is discarded. Placed elsewhere from his being; there’s no need to shield his face from the gaze of his former partner. After all, eyes such as hers could penetrate any face he dared to take up. It was simply the strength of their bond after all. Though guilt is beyond immense, for if possible he would cry out with it, and yet he doesn’t. He chooses to not for the man he has made himself into. Someone who would rewrite the truth of their horrible world, even if the road he treaded was paved with ill and sin. 

          Theo sighs heavily. Leaning into whatever touch Violette might grace him with. The aches that throb begin to subside, faint but ever present. Acceptance. Even if it were wrong, perhaps even amoral, this was an expression of accept from her. Though an apathetic soul on the front, Violette has always taken to him in all of his fragility. 

         She never truly required him to remove the mask, it was only for the sake of seeing his beautiful face again after a long, long twenty years. Violette was perfectly aware of the turmoil his mind was in right now, no mask could hide that from her, no--she knew him too well. Those eyes change too quickly for her to need to see the rest of his face to discern his status, never mind the fact that he's always been an absolute wreck when it comes to her; it only leads to a guilt on her part, that she causes all of this. But when he tells her not to apologize, she finds herself unable to continue riding the guilt train. Even she needs reassurance on occasion.

       Her hand drops to his shoulder, and she turns her gaze from him to the wall behind.

"--Well, I suppose we're partners, aren't we? Aren't partners...supposed to look after each other?"

        Again, he stands silent. For the sight of tears shed for the likes of him brings about a nauseating, almost suffocating experience. To see his partner from so many years ago, his old flame, weep such tears… Oh how it brought upon that guilt he continuously resisted. Dearest Violette, more beautiful than any other soul that might be. Truly did he feel so strongly for her, though he worried if it was even possible to have both. His agenda, and his dearest. 

          He didn’t want this to be their last encounter. Even though her presence might instill instability within him, he couldn’t quit her. The feelings were too strong, both of those admitted, and those denied. Even if the man once named Theophilus now stood as a devil of his former self. With a slight, exaggerated breath, the Mad Masque raises a gloved hand to his face; Digits pressing firmly, as he pulls away the mask. It was the most he could do, to thank Violette. 

          Though nearly twenty years had gone by since their last encounter, time had been kind to the likes of Theophilus. The man bearing the strongest smile he could muster with such aches plaguing him; Amber eyes narrowed with their stare to Violette, as the color of his hair hadn’t changed for much, if at all. While he wasn’t quite the same young man he was so long ago, he was far from resembling the terribly aged.

         She is shocked by what her gaze is met with, as she looks upon the man she has searched for in such vain. It's the way his eyes are filled to the brim with emotion--longing, guilt, anger, love; but most of all...fear. She did not doubt that he feared what she would think of him after all this time, yet even Violette couldn't bring herself to hate that face. No, not now.

          She looks up, steps forward until she's close enough to reach him. Vi is determined to stop this pain he's suffering through, and if that means renewing her love for him, then hell, she would do it. One lone tear leaking out of the corner of her eye, her hand reaches up to cup his face as gently as she can. She's aware of his delicate condition, and she isn't about to let that get in the way of the two of them.

          Her thumb brushes over his cheek and she takes a shaky breath.

        What, oh what could she do for him? She who had survived the tragedy of his descent. She who had pursued his shade for nearly twenty years. She who was unable to hate— to hate him. One side of the Mad Masque found Violette to be a poison in her presence alone; the way she looked at him with eyes full of curiosities preying upon his unstable mind. But another side still yearned for her company, rather it so desperately desired for her side at his. But he knew he could never ask that, for the path he had set off on wasn’t for the likes of those who accepted this world of theirs. 

          It was so very tough on him. Voicing such words, attempting his hardest to rid himself any desperation. He wanted to appear strong, he must appear strong. But, he knows that no matter what face he takes, in the end Violette will only see right through it. Just as it has always been.

            Redemption. Yes, it made sense now. He felt the guilt she herself had suffered through for such a lengthy amount of time. It was about time, but it so worried her that he required one of the members to survive to prompt such an easily acquired emotion as guilt--especially for the likes of Theo. The little things like this; those were the things that truly scared her, though she could never show it, they would mark her for as long as she lived. But, the only way she would completely humor his need was if he sated one of her own.

        Her chest felt as though it might burst. She loved him, more than he could possibly know.Yet, it hurt her to know that she could never quite fathom the pain he felt at this moment--and it was that fact that forced her to blink away the hot tears creeping to her eyes. Yes, she wept, but those tears were for h i m. 

        What is it with her? That desire to help him, to mend his broken psyche. It was unusual. He’s wronged her, he’s stolen away the lives of their two teammates, and for twenty years has wronged her for their past relationship. So, why is it that she wants to help him here? Why now? 

          Confusion is evident, even with his face obscured by that mask of his. He doesn’t understand. Masque would love to, but he can’t. In this moment, she is a greater enigma than even the likes of he.

      She has never been capable of that specific emotion--hate, specifically. She doesn't have a strong enough reason to; well, she does, but she doesn't want to admit that. Violette could not hate him if she tried. In her mind, he is merely misunderstood, hated for wanting his own lifestyle--and yet, even she realises just how twisted that point of view is.

when ur muse is just so in love with another muse that it’s ridiculous

        He freezes again. It isn’t the repetition of his former name that wounds him, but the address of another. Misty. Formerly known as Misty Aker, a young male who was as equally assertive as he was kind; different from the apathetic Violette and the emotionally fragile Theophilus. A leader in the making, whose life went extinguished within the gambit of Theo’s downwards spiral. 

          He lets out a breath, such mania endangers his psychological stability. Cracks running deep. His eyes remain wide from within that so-called silly mask of his. Silly, perhaps, but at the same time does it serve a shield as much as it does a mask.

        A breathy laugh is given at that, arms unfolding and a hand coming to rest on her hip. She's only riling him up, trying to see just how far she can push. It's a test on her part--Vi's concerned, but it isn't easy for her to show it. She only wants to know how far he's gone, and how far she has to go to bring him back. Besides, it would only concern him more if she showed obvious emotion; thus the apathy. It's been the most useful tool she has, no doubt.  Violette steps forward until she's next to him, placing her free hand upon his shoulder.

      She moves forward, past his form and her hand drops.

        There it goes. Lost. His calm is fractured and shattered again; eyes visible with their widened insanity displayed. Insanity? Was it insanity? Voice trembling, he’s beginning to lose his sense of self. The reminders bear a heavy weight upon him, a weight too much for his fragile, human soul. 

            She knows. She knows all too well the 'damage' she's inflicted upon him. It isn't hard to see--the way his form freezes, halts, ever so slightly, the way his throat convulses as he swallows hard; all evidence of the breakdown he was amidst.

      With a single breath following his words does the masked man attempt to steel himself. Though he’s sure every endeavor for such was meant to fail. He’s always been out of control in some form or way; be it his emotions, or his Semblance itself, they all traced back to a common origin. Madness.

        Yes, calm, he’s achieved it. But for how long? Till the next time she breathes his former name? Sooner? He didn’t know, and honestly it brewed fear within his heart.

          Her words are soft, quiet. It's this day that the rest of her life has been leading up to; the scars, the memories, the simple and harsh truth that her partner had murdered the rest of her team and left her alive--but barely. Violette rather wished she had died there, with the rest of her team--Misty and Delilah, oh, they hurt her heart to think about them one more time--because, at least then, she wouldn't have to face this.

        Theo. Theophilus. The moment his ears could hear the utterance, the moment his patience snapped. Wordlessly, a single weapon is drawn, white and incorruptible as snow itself. His Gretel. In a moment, he aims and with a gloved finger squeezes hard the trigger of the weapon; bullet soaring past the woman he once upon a time fought alongside. Not a scratch on her, the bullet never meeting its mark except from within that of a wall. A warning shot. 

            Regardless of whether or not the bullet was aimed at her, she was not worried. She barely notices it. Her aura was strong enough by now to block any of the sort, but yet her concern was focused on his mentality at the moment. She's known him to have a history of being indecisive with his emotions--one minute he's fine, the next he's flinging himself off a building; no, she doesn't want to go back there.

        Silence. Was this fantasy? No. It was reality, a most absurd reality. Straightening his posture, gloved hands locked together behind his back, a single soul standing across from him. A woman. But, not just any woman. Her. 

          He stands there. Were it not for this mask, she would’ve seen him for how he truly felt. Horrified. But, the mask remained, and so did the secrecy of his emotions. Emotions he mustn’t feel, especially not now.

            The first clue to his identity was the mask--that disguise had undeniably been his. It used to hang from his belt, but now, he's become it; the very thing Violette has feared from the beginning. It wasn't the mask that scared her, it was the loss of his identity--who he used to be, gone, erased, but by his own hand.

           Always one to find the light in the darkest of situations, she was. Even here, she was determined to get the truth out of him--at least for one last time. The huntress would begto see his face again, for faces held truth amongst the lies, if one knew where to look. As always, all she ever wanted to do was help him.