sense u been gone [FWTDS day 2]
Mar 8, 2019 10:40:38 GMT -5
Post by cameron on Mar 8, 2019 10:40:38 GMT -5
When they were behind the rock and away from the action, Exover collapsed to the ground and cradled both hands around his misshapen nose. For the last few years, his olfactory sense was his main mode of understanding and processing the world in the dark. Without the scents and the smells and the aromas that pored out of the things around him, he never would have made it to the district square the first time, or known when to toss out the waste bucket, or figured out how to tell people apart in all their many perfumed intricacies. How to tell when a familiar someone was nearby. Earlier he smelled the bristles of wildflowers and knew Francisco was alive, somewhere in the arena, somewhere with Nico, his preferred. His chosen. The prime rib of meat shield. He cursed his name, then wished him well, that he found peace in what remained of his meager existence and was content with the absolution of everything he’d ever known. Exover sure wasn’t.
And anyway, fuck Francis. The boy’d paid him attention once, a single encounter that never went further and shouldn’t have cemented itself in his mind, shouldn’t have hardened like a tumor that lumped in his temple, repeating the words and the feelings the tulip boy inspired when he should’ve dropped them before Nico dropped him off the elevator on the wrong floor. He wanted to remember Saturn, to imagine his body pressing down against him, to smell his sweat and his spunk, but he couldn’t. It was easier to dwell in the familiar, in the misery of his life than explore new, exciting avenues, when every time he let himself explore he was met with a face covered in bruises and a heart crumbled to dust.
His hands dropped to the ground and he tried to take a deep breath to relax. Instantly hands were back cupped, the stabbing pain in his nose and the space in his face behind it - what even was back there, his brain? Did his fucking brain hurt? - reminding him of the crunching of bone and splattering of matter that now replayed in his thick skull. There was a summer his mom was away when he was a boy, away for at least a few weeks, and during that time he was left to fend for himself, really. His dad didn’t bother trying to cook, mostly took care of his own self, but the Endor pantry was stocked with enough potato chips to feed, well, the Endors in a two week period without the matriarch there to guarantee survival. He remembered the crunch of the chips between his teeth, loud and dry and like the sound of being punched in the face; he heard himself chewing there, and what was he chewing on besides his tongue, and shit he was chewing his tongue, and he stopped and opened his mouth to breathe. He closed it for a moment, but lowered his jaw soon after so he didn’t stop breathing again.
He had to get away.
There was nothing he could do for his friends - oh fuck they were his friends now. How had they so quickly wormed their way inside him, coiled their slithering tendrons around his skeleton and squeezed tight, pushing his organs into each other, claiming a place on him and in him and with him - could they hear the potato chips, did they know he sometimes saw exploding red in the space between his lids where his right eye should be, were they as afraid as he was? For he was afraid, and he hated it, hated that minutes before he was confident and ready and excited to be alive for the first damned time, but that was a delusion, his livelihood was a delusion, and it was all made up in his head. Storytime. He couldn’t be happy. Why would the world wait till his final days to grant him that luxury?
Exover pushed himself up and breathed loudly out his mouth. “I gotta….” He swallowed and the crunching stopped. “I’m bad.” Hands waved around him, craving to settle around his face but trying not to touch, to not hide away from those he should trust, those he had to protect, had to leave. A burning kissed his lids and his face was wet with more than blood, and he shook his hands in front of him, because he did want to hide all the same. “I’m bad,” he choked out before flinging himself to the wall of rock to guide and balance while he hopped away from the group. His helmet refused to allow him a graceful goodbye, as with every shaky bounce the headgear whacked together, an almost humorous bong bong bong in tune with his foot meeting the ground. Twenty feet away, he fell to the ground again and no longer withheld his tears.
ex rolls for a muhfuckin pup
6rRrIV9JNA1-2
Success!
Other maint in maint thread ok
[/presto]
