Mercuxio froze when the mask came off. Even though she already knew it was him, the removal of the mask made it all too real, and felt her hands ghost over his face, inspecting every crease and crevice, the small wrinkles that had made their way onto his visage in his maturity. Though he was beardless, there was a slight stubble there, vague to the touch that would scratch at her hands a little.
In return, his hands lifted her mask from her face, though he knew she wouldn't want him too. "I don't want something to remember you by," he said, looking a her. His eyes burned, but no tears would come. His hands held her face, feeling her cheeks, what skinned was roughened, what skin remained. But his tone, however, could not specify if those words were meant to push her away or hold her close.
Still his face remained. "I don't want a memory," he leaned in toward her face, breathing against her lips. "I want a reality." And he kissed her then, hot and longingly, underneath the blanket of stars, in the cold, in the wind.
