all our ghosts 。°✩ flynn &. andal [95th, pre top-8]
Jan 2, 2024 20:38:36 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jan 2, 2024 20:38:36 GMT -5
ANDAL SEARLEYFlynn should, in theory, not be affected.
After all, Andal hasn’t changed, but rather the contrary: he has been restored to his former self of a strong jaw, square cheeks, and stubble as rough as fallow farmland. When he looked in the mirror, he saw himself once again, not a glorification.
Man becomes icon, becomes man once more.
Yeah, it was strange.
But what about him isn’t? He was born in the snarl of a thunderstorm, brought forth by rain, deluge, and his own mother’s resolve. He was not playful as the others, always in favor of trinkets and baubles over playmates and other trappings. He could spend hours, or days even, holed up in a musty garage, tinkering something dreamt out of wild ingenuity. Searleys had always been carved out of a unique substance.
Toss that in with the werewolf thing and, well.
The monstrous sum of it all was reflected jaggedly upon the hotel mirror.
Andal combed a frustrated hand through his locks with a huff. Can’t keep staring at his own reflection forever, can’t he? Begrudgingly, he trawled himself through the chores of the morning: dress up, breakfast, sponsor mails. Apparently handwritten letters were what opened the drawstrings these days.
Then with all that done, he couldn’t put it off any longer.
With a bouquet of crocuses in hand, as purple as an evening sky, he lingered before the door to Flynn’s suite. For the first time in months, his throat itched, strangely, to pray. Let him find me hideous if he so wishes, Ripred, but do not let him be afraid. He drew in a fortifying breath, waited for a few seconds for it to fully settle, then —
Knock knock.
“Special delivery for one Mr. Flynn Garner,” he said, lowering his tone as much as he could to a low, chesty bass so as to not alert the other that it’s him. Andal was still half-registering the potential repercussions of such a trick when the door swung open and his heart tripped down an invisible flight of stairs. He made a soft choked sound.
Then, as gently as the sag of his broad shoulders, he said, “Hey. You got an hour to spare?” His lips tried to curl into a smile. Tried. His eyes fell downcast on the flowers afterwards, to which he quickly exclaimed, “oh, almost forgot,” and handed them over to Flynn. Ungloved fingertips, each one stained an inky-black of gradient, furled and unfurled. “Thought I’d take you somewhere quiet. Only the two of us, no one else.”