1 × Mundane

There wasn't anything special about him.

Besides his appearance, there wasn't anything special about him. Clear blue eyes like the deepest oceans, dark hair so black that it was nearly blue, and fair skin only marred by scars.

Most of those scars, he got by tripping on his feet, swinging his hand, or trying to do god-knows-what in the kitchen. Not by getting into fights, or cutting himself -- he's not that kind of guy.

He was so frustratingly normal, his eyes had long dulled in his boredom with life. Often, he'd find himself doing questionable things to relieve that boredom. Like screaming out of nowhere or blurting out something into the darkness of his house. It usually ends with him wondering if he was stupid.

No, he wasn't crazy. He didn't have the urge to laugh for no reason or anything like that. His thoughts just have a way to warp into something very cursed that it ends up making him go into a giggling or raging, rambling frenzy to get it out of his head.

He wasn't going to think of one now just to give an example. His neighbours already think he's crazy enough to belong in a madhouse.

Also, if he thought about anything else, he'd never finish his work. For extra money, he wrote and drew web novels and comics. Sometimes he drew random characters and posted the process of the digital animation on YouTube. For an everyday torment, he toiled from morning to afternoons or sometimes evenings as a waiter in a famous fine dining restaurant. It usually meant his legs and arms would be in need of a massage by the end of the day, but at least he wouldn't accidentally give unsuspecting people food poisoning in the kitchen or break the dishes.

But still, it would make him wish he wasn't so awkward and lonely.

Still, what he earned was just enough for him to live comfortably, albeit on the minimalist side. He wouldn't go find someone to go and split what little he had with.

Selfish, but it was him doing the mundane thing called surviving. He didn't want to take someone's child and make them suffer with him as he did.

Besides, his preference wasn't exactly the most accepted thing around him.

With that thought, he sighed. He went on with the work on hand. Stroke after stroke, the lines slowly formed the image of a boy.

"Great. I made myself another OC. How fun. Who is this guy now."

This boy had been something he'd been repeatedly drawing for a week. Only now did he finally bring himself to think of a name for this new character.

This boy carried a gun in his hands-- and he wasn't going to bother with what type because he didn't have the slightest ideas about guns -- and wore all black, save the splash of colour that is a dark blue turtleneck. Short, puffed jacket and trackpants with silver zips; sneakers and gloves; and a beret over shoulder length hair.

Looks like me, he thought. He wished.

The similarities ended with the hair. He didn't even have that good of a fashion. He was broke.

Despite that, he gave it a name similar to his.

My name is Lucien, your name is Luca.