God help the outcasts, the tattered, the torn
Seeking an answer to why they were born
Bastien didn't know if it had been moments or hours, but it didn't matter. He was stuck exactly where he was, holding Rexanna's body with the rest of the world cut out and put somewhere else, away from him. He was vaguely aware someone had moved him away from the door, but he'd hardly even looked up, feet sluggish and arms still wrapped around his love.
There were no plans, there was no future. He barely had enough thought to consider Azrael in the moment; after making sure they were alright with the babysitter he had left them in the care of, he had practically forgotten everything again in favour of wishing the world would turn out to be playing some sort of sick practical joke.
Many people would be used to the artist being bombastic and flamboyant, loud and ready to make a song and dance of everything ; after his intial reaction he had been silent, lips moving with inaudible whispers and sobs and nothing indicating he was even conscious except for the rocking of his body, the way he would sometimes hold Rex closer or stroke her hair.
There were no plans, there was no future. He barely had enough thought to consider Azrael in the moment; after making sure they were alright with the babysitter he had left them in the care of, he had practically forgotten everything again in favour of wishing the world would turn out to be playing some sort of sick practical joke.
Many people would be used to the artist being bombastic and flamboyant, loud and ready to make a song and dance of everything ; after his intial reaction he had been silent, lips moving with inaudible whispers and sobs and nothing indicating he was even conscious except for the rocking of his body, the way he would sometimes hold Rex closer or stroke her hair.
Winds of misfortune have blown them about
You made the outcasts, don't cast them out
BASTIEN
