paper cages . naomi & zeke . clue
Aug 24, 2020 1:49:11 GMT -5
Post by arx on Aug 24, 2020 1:49:11 GMT -5
zeke provence.
The sky fades from speckled black to dark blue to deep purples and soft yellows like the week old bruises upon his knuckles. He walks with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets and swim bag slung over his shoulder as a cool evening breeze dries the droplets of lake rolling down his neck. It's beautiful, peaceful, easy to forget that the longer the shadows get the more likely they are to come to life and tear someone to pieces. Again.
It's that intrusive thought that quickens his heartbeat and slows his steps as he rounds the corner of the cafeteria. Get a grip, he shakes his head, rolls his eyes, forces the feelings back into their cage where they rattle the bars with all the rest. This is hardly the fucking time. He ignores the ringing in his ears, chalks it up to water having found its way in.
Instead he focuses on the crunch of loose asphalt beneath his boots and the smell of fresh cut grass drifting from the football field. Familiar. Just the same as it always was at Salvatore.
Like nothing had changed.
The illusion stays at the forefront of his mind as he shakes out his curls and walks the vacant hallways toward the kitchen—a place that he went to be alone, a place that was usually empty—with not a single thought about what he'd do if he found someone curled up and crying upon the cold ceramic floor.
The heels of his boots click upon the tile as the door slowly shuts behind him and for a moment the room is silent. It was almost as if he'd imagined the sound altogether. But then it's there again—gentler and stifled—this time appearing in frilled edges and a pastel palette that looked dreadfully out of place among the polished industrial appliances.
His first motion is back toward the door, an uncomfortable, stinted half-twist that he knows only draws more attention to the fact that he'd rather not be here. He reminds himself not to grumble or roll his eyes as turns back toward her, resolving to finish his original task without hindrance—even if this one did have a smile sweeter than buttercream icing.
"I just wanted a sandwich."
He thought it would be easy to ignore the tears drying upon her flushed cheeks and the letter within her grasp. That his mind wouldn't drift from the 'who cares' to the 'what ifs'. That the bars of his caged heart were made of steel, not paper ribbons. Fuck. Curse his bleeding heart.
"I can serve a mean 'knuckle'," he says, trying to crack a smile at his own terrible joke as he pulls his busted fist from his pocket. "Y'know, to whoever-"
He gestures at her with fidgety hands, unsure of what to do with them now that he was done talking.
"Knuckle sandwich- Yeah, sorry. Not helping," he shook his head, but kept the gentle smile.
All that passion he felt for his peers and his mind couldn't come up with a better solution to tears than a 'there, there' and a pat on the head.
"surrounded & up against a wall, i'll shred 'em all & go with you."
