ecoute mon coeur

Believe it or not, Mischa wasn't the brightest. Sure, he could easily pass his science exams and skim by just fine in the rest of his classes, but otherwise, his smarts fell short. Now, he finds himself laying in his bed in the basement of his adoptive parents' home. It's dim, and cold, and has that musky cellar smell it's carried since he arrived. Yeah, sure, earlier he might've gotten a bit tipsy (he was fucking hammered at this point.) But he didn't think it would hit this hard.

Mischa let his head fall to the side, his blurred vision directed to the wall that was littered with posters of miscellaneous rappers he would listen to songs by on his mp3 player with his tangled earbuds that hurt his ears to wear.

Speaking of hurting, Mischa's head was starting to pound. His limbs had gotten heavier, he found, and his mouth was getting drier. His eyelids were drooping and the sounds of his adopted mother's heels clicking on the floor above him started to fade away. He could hear a door opening in the distance and a quiet voice began to speak.

"-ischa?" A hand on his shoulder. "Mischa?"

And everything faded to black.

-

"Monsieur!" A loud voice called. His eyes snapped open. Mischa wasn't in his room anymore, he was in what seemed to be a pub. People were jammed in every nook and cranny of the building, a quartet on a small stage filing any space noise wasn't present.

"Yeah?" Mischa replied. He was sat at the counter on a wooden stool. He wore a sharp cream-coloured blazer paired with a pair of the same coloured slacks, above a white button-up shirt with the red tie sealing the collar.

"You are wanting another drink, no?" The latter asked. He looked young, mid-twenties maybe, and his french accent carried through the air that was thick with smoke.

"Uh, I think I'm quite alright. I must head out now." The words seemed to slip out of Mischa's mouth without him having to think. He stood and straightened his jacket as the bartender nodded and toddled off to another customer that had waved him over. Mischa reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins before dropping them onto the counter and making his way toward the exit.

The air outside was instantly refreshing. The cool, odourless breeze was calming. The cobbled streets were lined with lights and small groups of people could be seen walking down the sidewalks, sharing small conversations in a language that was foreign to Mischa. The sky was dark and small stars were splattered, the full moon standing out against the rest of the lights in the sky.

Mischa started down the sidewalk, his hands sitting politely in his pockets, his head facing down. Truthfully, he didn't know where he was. He didn't know how he got here and he wasn't even sure of who he was anymore. He was taller and his voice was deeper than he remembered. The clothes, too. Much too posh for his liking.

Soon his travel would lead him to an empty alleyway. Burnt-out cigars sat in piles by the walls of the buildings that formed the small hallway. No person seemed to be here. Mischa took this chance to lean against one of the brick walls, starting to debrief his situation in his head which no longer hurt.

He took a deep breath.

That's when Mischa started to hear the telltale sound of heels against the ground, a sound he'd become familiar with. Mischa turned his head to the source of the disturbance, where he would find a figure in the shadow of the building opposite his cast. He backed off the wall and stared and the person who was approaching.

"Who are you?" He called out. God, what kind of popular cliche was this? The person let out a short laugh before stepping into the light, and Mischa's breath hitched at the sight of who was approaching him.