Ain't We All Just Runaways? [Minos x Heath]

He was cooked. Roasting out in the heat of the sun, wearing his dancer’s shorts, Heathcliff danced along the desert and sand. Where was he going? The dunes kept shifting back and forth while an orchestra played—not far away, the conductor not turning to back an eyelash, despite the sweat dripping down her back. Heath had to keep dancing, even with the cotton mouth coming, or the sand that spat into his eyes. Was his sister here, too? He felt a chill run up his spine as he continued to dance much more alone than before. The sun would keep beating, and the band would keep playing, and he would dance here, in this desert, until his legs gave way. But the song continued, and he kept dancing, the dunes shifting until—



Heathcliff sat up in his bed. The room was dark, and he threw his sopping wet sheets up over himself. Staggering out of his room he hissed away an avox. Two glasses of water later, he couldn’t help but feel as though a livewire had been run through his body. He tried every possible position atop his bed—face down, even—until at last it became clear that sleep would not be an option that evening. The world outside his window was not yet alive, except in the distance across the water. His district partner was likely sleeping, and he felt little love between the two of them since the train.

Better that he wander than his mind. Heath had become accustomed to roaming the halls to map all the nooks and crannies. He stepped atop the cold tiles of the floor and pressed into the training center. The lights were low, but sprung alive again at his entrance. Motion detectors must have alerted his presence. He moved toward the square platform that had been set up to practice polestaffs. He spread his legs and pressed his nose down to the floor. He stretched himself as far as he could, still seeing himself in the desert. Taking a pole in his hands, he started to take footing, leaping across the platform. He swung the polestaff and spun around on his heal. He flitted here and there, imagining his mother shouting that he needed to be faster, that his ankles didn’t come together.

He paused to catch his breath, sweat dripping down his forehead. It was then he spied the boy from five—was he in the shadows? Had he been here this whole time. Heathcliff leaned forward and lost his balance. He dropped the polestaff on the floor with a clatter and brought his hands to his mouth.

“Sorry!” He called out, even though he wasn’t. He gave a shrug. “People don’t usually creep up on me. Because… people aren’t usually creeps.”

Made by Frankel