Iskra
Shot through the heart and the soul
Some feelings never will go
The fire, lightning, black and blue, but I'm fighting
Some feelings never will go
The fire, lightning, black and blue, but I'm fighting
A chuckle slips free when she admits to admiring what he considers the worst parts of the beasts. "I dunno," he offers back, just as equally surprised as she had been to find himself championing (albeit int he opposite way) an animal today. "I feel like they lie. They act like the don't care, but they're always conveniently around when you're going room to room or doing work that doesn't include them. It's all a front." He doesn't hate them, but in comparison, he'll take a dog any day. "I just kinda want a buddy with me who isn't afraid to be himself, and is dependable." Goose had saved him in so many ways.
Distracted from the debate that had somehow manifested off a side comment, and truly he has no skin in the game, he proudly applies a sticker to his board after his find. It's around this time he notices the furtive way she's hunched over her board, and an accusing gasp rings out immediately. "You're close!" It's thrown out like an insult, his eyes wide and disbelieving that she's pulled ahead. His still feels like a smattering, like you could possibly turn it into a constellation if you crookedly drew a few lines.
"You're going down," he informs, hiding his own board from her with a sudden need to maintain an edge he doesn't even have. He keeps it's face pressed to his chest, head on a swivel as they continue to walk, the unusual creatures containing far less of his focus now as he instead surveys and prods through the crowd with the demand for someone to do something fucked up.
Distracted from the debate that had somehow manifested off a side comment, and truly he has no skin in the game, he proudly applies a sticker to his board after his find. It's around this time he notices the furtive way she's hunched over her board, and an accusing gasp rings out immediately. "You're close!" It's thrown out like an insult, his eyes wide and disbelieving that she's pulled ahead. His still feels like a smattering, like you could possibly turn it into a constellation if you crookedly drew a few lines.
"You're going down," he informs, hiding his own board from her with a sudden need to maintain an edge he doesn't even have. He keeps it's face pressed to his chest, head on a swivel as they continue to walk, the unusual creatures containing far less of his focus now as he instead surveys and prods through the crowd with the demand for someone to do something fucked up.
Some doors will always be closed
You got to kick 'em on through
Gotta get used to the splinter in your boot
You got to kick 'em on through
Gotta get used to the splinter in your boot
