starter for @goodliest
_________ Fyter is crouched in the middle of Glindaâs floor. Their floor? That was it now, right? They were wed, man and wife. Tin Man and Wife. Tin Soldier and Wife. The Dashing Captain and the Pretty Girl.Â
It was their floor now in a way that Fyter was reminded of how her old dorm room had become his own, back when he fled his own room and slept curled against her every night. He remembered talking with her about baby names and dreams for his unborn childâs life.Â
How Glinda, Galinda then, was the first to address him as a man, when he drunkenly confessed his identity to her in the girlâs bathroom at Shiz.
And then he should have listened when she told him not to go searching for Boq. He should have listened.
And instead...instead...instead...
Another sob emitted from his metal lips like the sound of metal scraping against metal. Inhuman. He emptied the can on him at that interval. Choking on it, despite not breathing to begin with, as if he were held underwater. Gaping as the thick, dark substance ran down his face. The slickness poured down his shoulders and cavernous chest, down his knees, pooling around him against the carpet. He didnât notice any stains. He had to be oiled. He had to be oiled. Oiled. Slick.
More sobs. Choking. Sob. Oil. Slick.Â
He heard steps. Distantly. He could barely hear to begin with these days.
The oil ran down in front of his eyes, blurring his vision, but it was better than eyes being stuck open.
âPretty girl? Is that you?â
