Don't Make Me Over || Fontaine's

Ninette slammed the door of the house, not caring if her mother would come yelling or not.

What did she care anyway? It was a door - she'd grow up and move on. There were far more important things to care about. Or rather, there was nothing important to care about at all.

Caring just lead to...

Her hair, newly chopped and died, helped - at the very least in the colour choice - by the younger Rousseau, and clothes dark matched her new blank stare as she stomped up the stairs.

She rolled her eyes at the form blocking her way.

"Move it."

He was actually back.

He'd been a little surprised when they'd finally discharged him a few hours ago, but it'd been a welcome surprise. Because as weird as it felt, this was home now, and he'd have to get used to that. Humming softly to himself, Julian stood in the hallway, merely noting every difference between this house and the one he'd grown up in.

As much time as he spent here, it was still sort of weird. Flinching at the sound of the door, he bit his lip, breathing slowing down as he strained to recognize who it was, slowly stepping away from the stairwell. They were coming upstairs. What - what if -?

At the sound of Ninette's voice behind him, he visibly relaxed. Somethings never change. Smirking, he replied, "Move yourself."

Turning around to face her, his smirk faded as he took her in, from the bright pink hair to the dark clothes. "You - your - what?" His arms hanging limply by his side, his mouth gaped wide open as he just stared at her.

Ninette raised one eyebrow, an unimpressed scowl appearing on her face.

"What you looking at Rousseau? You know its rude to stare right?"

She rolled her eyes, and flailed a hand at the boy.

"Now, pick a side before I make you pick one."

"But - I know that, but, you look -" Continuing to splutter, his words faded away into unintelligible stammering, not unlike the way he did when he knew he'd be hit.

Stepping towards her, his eyes still wide in shock and disbelief, he poked her stomach, "You sound like Nine," he said softly, more to himself than anything else, looking up to meet her eyes, "but you look like - like - a -"

Trailing off once again, he shook his head at her, brain still unable to process the new Ninette.

Ninette was unimpressed with the boys stuttering. And more importantly he was still in her way.

"Use you're words Rousseau - I know you at least use to be intelligent enough for that."

She moved to step forward, and was ready to shove the boy out of her way when he poked her. She swatted the offending hand away, gaze darkening slightly.

"I look like a what Rousseau?"

Flinching back from her touch, Julian reeled backwards, stepping away from her. God, it was like every time someone touched him, his brain just flashbacked back to that alley. Rubbing his eyes, he shook his head miserably before returning his focus back to the girl in front of him.

Waving his arms around, he finally spat out, "You look like - you look worse than I do." Laughing morbidly, his shoulders shook, and he grinned at her, spreading his arms out wide. "And I almost died. I applaud you," he clapped slowly, never taking his eyes off of her, "for once you're actually trying to make me feel better about the whole almost dying thing." Wiping away an imaginary tear, he faked a sniffle, "My Ninette's growing up. So proud."

Part of her - a part of her she was determined to ignore - felt bad for touching the boy after seeing his reaction.

But the rest of her just sneered.

"Get a life Rousseau," she said stomping past him, not quite pushing him out of the way, in fact not pushing him at all, but the act was still rough.

Did he feel bad about what he'd said? A part of him did, a part of him always did when he was an all around ass to people, but he'd ignored that nagging voice for sixteen years, why not another moment? Searching Ninette's gaze for a moment, he flinched back as she stepped towards him, plastering himself against the wall, swallowing hard.

"I have one, Ninette," he called out, wincing at the cold tone of his own voice. "It involves getting beat up on a regular basis and making out with girls. Not a bad one, if I do say so myself." Lies. All lies. His life was a bad one, he just preferred not to admit that to anyone.

Sinking to his knees, he stared blankly ahead of him, crossing his legs underneath him. Part of him wanted to chase after Nine and tell her everything. But God, he couldn't. He - no one could know. It was just something he needed to deal with himself. Their pity wouldn't change anything. Just like crying never did.