zephyr
Well. There's a smell and a sound and a shadow you didn't really expect and don't know what to do with. While every other interloper has been greeted with snarled warnings, somehow you can't seem to muster the same level of easy anger for Vai. How the fuck did she find you, anyway? And why in the names of all the gods does she have to see you like this?
Probably better, you think grimly, staring over the lip of the bottle at the brooding sunset. Better for her to see your rotten core now, instead of after any inconvenient attachments form.
You don't look up. You know your eyes are bloodshot and swollen, that your scar is angry and raw from rubbing, that you look like the kind of drunken disaster you'd never allow on your docks. You want to tell her there isn't room, that there hasn't been room for anyone else since Ray stopped living in the real world and started living in your chest. Even El couldn't find a space for herself in the end, and driven by her loneliness took the long swim.
Another of your ghosts.
"Do what'cha wan'." Your voice is both hard and slurred, gravel rattling around in a blender. You desperately, painfully, achingly do not want her to leave, and you hate yourself for that.
Whatever she chooses you set down the whiskey beside you, an offering and a barrier at the same time. She'll have to either move it or sit on the other side, and either way it takes things out of your hands.
You cowardly, selfish prick.
Probably better, you think grimly, staring over the lip of the bottle at the brooding sunset. Better for her to see your rotten core now, instead of after any inconvenient attachments form.
You don't look up. You know your eyes are bloodshot and swollen, that your scar is angry and raw from rubbing, that you look like the kind of drunken disaster you'd never allow on your docks. You want to tell her there isn't room, that there hasn't been room for anyone else since Ray stopped living in the real world and started living in your chest. Even El couldn't find a space for herself in the end, and driven by her loneliness took the long swim.
Another of your ghosts.
"Do what'cha wan'." Your voice is both hard and slurred, gravel rattling around in a blender. You desperately, painfully, achingly do not want her to leave, and you hate yourself for that.
Whatever she chooses you set down the whiskey beside you, an offering and a barrier at the same time. She'll have to either move it or sit on the other side, and either way it takes things out of your hands.
You cowardly, selfish prick.
burn all the things you have to burn
save all the people you're supposed to save
save all the people you're supposed to save
