slow burning to the ground

if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?

is it safer if we just say that we tried?

“Yeah.” He huffs, but then there’s a shot of whiskey in his hand and he downs it instinctively, inhaling sharp against the burn, following her instruction to lay. The powder is placed under his tongue and he slides back into place, Haai slipping around from the other side to hop up on the foot of the bed with him, curling up right at the end with wings tucked in, eyes focused on Vai and Zeph.

Sunjata, meanwhile, does whatever he can to stop the nausea roaring back and the thundering of his veins. “Wasn't supposed to hand it to me.” He rumbles in protest. Deimos was supposed to throw the thing, not hand it to him right as he’s calling down the storm. But as for him being alive? Well, that’s a good fucking question.

“Unicorn.” He manages, shutting his eyes right as another wave of nausea splits over him. Internally, he’s kind of a mess, electricity still bounding through his veins, thundering his heart, making his head throb and vision spotty. And then there’s the side of him, somewhat healed gashes that tear through the skin to his side, that dip along his hip bone.

are we laughing at the danger?

are we dancing after death, you and I?