Koa
You keep telling me to live right
It's unclear how long he sits like that, staring blankly at the ground. Somehow, though, the musical voice of his friend permeates the Dragoon's fog. Koa looks up with a frown at the incomprehensible words, familiar enough with Mateo's second language to know it's not gibberish, at least. Firmly grasping his useless left arm, Koa grits his teeth together, aware of what's to come. "Vaffanculo," he snarls back unnecessarily, the harsh oath masking the tell-tale click as his humerus pops painfully into place. Agony blooms in his mind like a firework, screwing up his face into a twisted mask. "Vaffanculo," Koa repeats, this time as a raspy hiss. It's one of the only words in Remi's language that he'd ever retained, dredged out from memories of schoolboy days, when cursing was the funniest thing in the world.
It doesn't feel funny, now.
Letting his now located arm dangle, the Dragoon reaches for the outstretched hand. The glowing fingers, while still decidedly creepy, provide Koa with a blessed relief. He sighs, his breathing growing steadily easier as his nose and ribs re-discover their alignment, the ligaments of his rotator cuff knitting into place. "Thanks," he murmurs, passing back the fossilized necklace, his eyes already falling shut as his his head begins to throb. Wellness means sobriety, or something looking like it, and the rush of emotions he's tried so hard to bury now slink on claws back toward his thoughts. "Not my finest night," he mutters, leaning his head against the wall. It isn't the first time Mateo has had to patch him up after a fight, but rarely, if ever, has the young soldier come out looking and feeling quite so much like shit.
It doesn't feel funny, now.
Letting his now located arm dangle, the Dragoon reaches for the outstretched hand. The glowing fingers, while still decidedly creepy, provide Koa with a blessed relief. He sighs, his breathing growing steadily easier as his nose and ribs re-discover their alignment, the ligaments of his rotator cuff knitting into place. "Thanks," he murmurs, passing back the fossilized necklace, his eyes already falling shut as his his head begins to throb. Wellness means sobriety, or something looking like it, and the rush of emotions he's tried so hard to bury now slink on claws back toward his thoughts. "Not my finest night," he mutters, leaning his head against the wall. It isn't the first time Mateo has had to patch him up after a fight, but rarely, if ever, has the young soldier come out looking and feeling quite so much like shit.
You don't gotta pretend, baby, now and then
