isn't it delicate? ✺ flynn &. andal [post-94th]
Sept 1, 2023 19:00:09 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Sept 1, 2023 19:00:09 GMT -5
The news of Krueger's death was a bend in the path, a fallen tree on the road, a brick wall where Andal expected a way.
He had charted out an escape route for the other to come through after nine grueling days, broken yet alive- and instead, smack he crashed against an invisible barrier, all of his hopes dashed like jagged glass, and Krueger swallowed whole by the wildflowers.
The anger came first. It was akin to an oil-lamp being kissed by flame, a kerosene outburst so bright and searing he almost thought his nails would rip into claws again by then, but the guilt doused it all in waves a second after. Ripred, he was angry that a fourteen year old boy had won. He was angry and emptied out and had wished death upon a kid, only so that someone else may have lived in his stead.
As they declared Torian’s win, Andal stared off at the room around him. All the faces of the people recruited to represent Krueger, to spearhead countless publicity campaigns, hung low.
Money lost, hopes shattered - was this how it felt to nearly win something, only to have it ripped away at the last second?
He took off the cap he wore, monogrammed ‘K.G.’, and placed it upon a table overfull of bright, lovely circus merchandise. He made a mental note to cancel the rest of the orders.
The next few days passed by in a funeral procession, black and grief-slick. He sent one wreath after another to the circus Krueger was from, offered his best condolences, but he could not let go of the thought that he had foundered their hopes and dreams by letting Krueger die. Krueger’s death was out of his control, yes, but he could not let his heart abandon that weight like a ship would a rust-eaten anchor.
Instead, Andal felt himself sinking.
And he could not return home, not when the thought of a second collar around his throat made all the hairs on his neck stand on end, and not when his mother rarely came home these days, seeking solace behind the walls of an unholy church, and not when he felt unworthy of ever stepping foot once again in Ten after Krueger.
He loved to accomplish things, to invent hope and spread it to others, but now all the bits and pieces laid broken at his feet, each and every part of it as faraway from irreparable as the gaps between the stars. Now, only the dark held.
The call to Flynn was not meant to happen.
They forbade themselves from it a while ago, afraid of the wires betraying their secrets, but Andal had never been too good at impulse control.
Propped up against a wall with the receiver between his ear and shoulder, he dialed the number of the other's studio that his fingers had been itching to punch in for days.
Static crackled for a few moments, then a gentle click.
A breath escaped him. “Flynn?” he asked. Adjusted the handset. Andal was suddenly and overtly aware of the fact that they had never spoken on the phone before. It twisted knots in his stomach.
“Howdy’,” he greeted, chuckling low. “Is this a good time?”
Andal chewed on his inner cheek a few seconds more.
“I know I've been ... distant and awful at reaching out the past few days, what with Krueger’s passing and all, but,” he wound up the black cord of the phone around a fingertip, “what would you say to dinner tonight? As long as it isn’t a recipe that’s more than ten steps, I reckon I can whip it up.” His head tilted back in a stupid effort to hide a smile at the thought of Flynn tasting his cooking.
“And if it’s good, you can, uh, what’s the saying ...” A chuckle left him, tinged with the smallest of mischief, “Kiss the cook?”
He had charted out an escape route for the other to come through after nine grueling days, broken yet alive- and instead, smack he crashed against an invisible barrier, all of his hopes dashed like jagged glass, and Krueger swallowed whole by the wildflowers.
The anger came first. It was akin to an oil-lamp being kissed by flame, a kerosene outburst so bright and searing he almost thought his nails would rip into claws again by then, but the guilt doused it all in waves a second after. Ripred, he was angry that a fourteen year old boy had won. He was angry and emptied out and had wished death upon a kid, only so that someone else may have lived in his stead.
As they declared Torian’s win, Andal stared off at the room around him. All the faces of the people recruited to represent Krueger, to spearhead countless publicity campaigns, hung low.
Money lost, hopes shattered - was this how it felt to nearly win something, only to have it ripped away at the last second?
He took off the cap he wore, monogrammed ‘K.G.’, and placed it upon a table overfull of bright, lovely circus merchandise. He made a mental note to cancel the rest of the orders.
The next few days passed by in a funeral procession, black and grief-slick. He sent one wreath after another to the circus Krueger was from, offered his best condolences, but he could not let go of the thought that he had foundered their hopes and dreams by letting Krueger die. Krueger’s death was out of his control, yes, but he could not let his heart abandon that weight like a ship would a rust-eaten anchor.
Instead, Andal felt himself sinking.
And he could not return home, not when the thought of a second collar around his throat made all the hairs on his neck stand on end, and not when his mother rarely came home these days, seeking solace behind the walls of an unholy church, and not when he felt unworthy of ever stepping foot once again in Ten after Krueger.
He loved to accomplish things, to invent hope and spread it to others, but now all the bits and pieces laid broken at his feet, each and every part of it as faraway from irreparable as the gaps between the stars. Now, only the dark held.
The call to Flynn was not meant to happen.
They forbade themselves from it a while ago, afraid of the wires betraying their secrets, but Andal had never been too good at impulse control.
Propped up against a wall with the receiver between his ear and shoulder, he dialed the number of the other's studio that his fingers had been itching to punch in for days.
Static crackled for a few moments, then a gentle click.
A breath escaped him. “Flynn?” he asked. Adjusted the handset. Andal was suddenly and overtly aware of the fact that they had never spoken on the phone before. It twisted knots in his stomach.
“Howdy’,” he greeted, chuckling low. “Is this a good time?”
Andal chewed on his inner cheek a few seconds more.
“I know I've been ... distant and awful at reaching out the past few days, what with Krueger’s passing and all, but,” he wound up the black cord of the phone around a fingertip, “what would you say to dinner tonight? As long as it isn’t a recipe that’s more than ten steps, I reckon I can whip it up.” His head tilted back in a stupid effort to hide a smile at the thought of Flynn tasting his cooking.
“And if it’s good, you can, uh, what’s the saying ...” A chuckle left him, tinged with the smallest of mischief, “Kiss the cook?”
