#|| starter.

[sixth-destroyer]

@kaioshin-kai

He spun the fork in his hand, unenthusiastically staring down at his plate. Cheek resting in he palm of his other hand, he made no movement to start eating what was set before him.

It had been a week since that stupid Tournament of Power, and the only thing that had changed was his appetite. Not that the new change in his diet was any help. Something about what had happened, how he was erased with everything and then... here again... It hadn't set right. Not in his work, not in his sleep, and not in his desire to eat.

With a resigned sigh, Champa pushed the plate away.

".... I don't want it. I'm going to bed."

[pipesbomb-blog]

flick a cigarette a metre and it’ll always hit a runaway.  though his runaway seems intent on staying in one place, these days.  fool for andrew, he’d mistakenly believed neil josten’s home was the foxhole court.  the process of graduation -- of pro-leagues while a certain blue-eyed conundrum stayed put elsewhere -- certainly proved him otherwise.  it had only been five days since they’d last seen one another, since the forced move back into fox tower at the start of a new semester leaving andrew’s apartment stripped empty and outlandish.  five days to hear it on the grapevine that neil had instigated several pissing contests with the new freshmen line-up hopefuls.

typical neil.

    ❛ i’m beginning to think your death wish is a full-blown psychosis. ❜     the incessant prattling of his humourless boyfriend on the other end of the line wears him thin and thinner, phone switching ears as if it could even out the nerve damage neil’s voice gave him.      ❛ making new enemies already? really neil, i thought we were above this now that you’ve graduated to the upperclassmen leagues. ❜

sarcasm drips from his voice.  andrew knows better than to think his nuisance has grown.

    ❛ i can’t have your back from here. stop it. ❜

@pipesdream

[pipesbomb-blog]

eight months of static.  eight months of nothing.  a fool of unparalleled measure, andrew is not, though the pariah of hopelessness?  perhaps.  for no hope is held for the return of a boy labelled idiot, trouble, disdain,  and as the months continue to fly on by, it seems the abilities of kenneth vareck waxed poetic are questionable at best.  this stone-cold silence is sobering -- is anger-inducing and mind-numbingly boring, licking at his heels like some kind of untethered animal itching for release.

he learns to hate the name; hate sunshine; hate apollo, and all things golden.  you took him away, see -- that one person capable of providing enough distraction amidst this menial life.  heaven and hell both know this life is an undignified one;  of warring gods pitting children against monsters and telling them to die heroically.

as far as he’s concerned?  camp jupiter can suck a fuck.

or at least, that’s the general consensus until he overhears the news.

vareck is back.  vareck is alive.

hell hath no fury like a psychopath scorned.  god help the people that get between him and his destination, they’re likely to meet the cool end of a blade, kissed before it cuts.  it certainly won’t be kissed before it’s buried in ken’s chest.

- ̗̀ @sunbruise ̖́ -

[pipesbomb-blog]

SHE’S ENCROACHING ON HIS PERSONAL SPACE, ten miles far too close.  it’s their court – their rules – their home.  and the very presence of her squad uniform only adds insult to injury.

unfortunate, to meet this way.  in this mood.

( though far from rare )

   ❛ please, god, don’t tell me aaron gave another one of his brain-dead cheer freaks the pin code for the court. ❜     // * @mysterysolved.

[pipesbomb-blog]

IT’S 9AM, AND HE IS SNAPPED ELASTIC,  oversleeping rarely garnering positive results.  today is no exception, the blank black fog of his mind dispersing as he wakes jump-started like a battery -- dispersing to reveal a nightmare relived in perfect clarity.  his hands flail, hitting empty, cold bed-space and exhaling a shaky, pin-needled breath.

drake is dead.   you are in your apartment.   you live with an idiot.

you live with neil josten.

a trembling hand smoothing down sweat-soaked face, andrew falls into reality like a skydiver.  but would he really be andrew minyard if he remembered to bring a parachute?

     ❛ ...fuck. ❜

you are still not okay, but you are better than you were.      // * @pipesdream.

[pipesbomb-blog]

WHAT A FUNNY LOOKING BIRD,  its wings all clipped and feather-bared, scars a litany etched upon bodice hidden.  no longer does this one fly; though perhaps it never did.  after all, boys of towering height can still amount to nothing -- no threat to five feet knife-wielding fanaticism, grin a kiss to blade.  always surrounded by giants in spirit, jean moreau may just be the least intimidating of them all.

how bodes the sunshine state, trojan horse?  do you still feel hive-minded, or replaced a shipwrecked outcast?

  ❛ well, if it isn’t dear jean of fairness island. jean, jean, have you come out to play in the meadow? ❜     // * @irestruck​ ♡’d.

[pipesbomb-blog]

HE’S ENIGMATIC --  A MYSTERY TO BE SOLVED;  a puzzle box ripe for contemplation, mind a rubik’s cube of possibilities.  and andrew hates him on sight.  with the stride of a man war-torn, he manifests midnight on a doorstep with the broken bird clutched beneath shoulder, he and kevin a package deal.  the problem is, though kevin’s wings are thoroughly clipped, feathers so damaged they’re scarcely recognisable, neil’s... well, perhaps they never even existed in the first place, because he’s got his movements down to a fine art -- careful and precise -- prisoner plotting prison break for years.

full circle: neil’s a mystery, and andrew hasn’t survived this long ignoring that niggling paranoia tarring a mind long blackened.  watch out, number four.  he’s going to unravel you, knot by knot. 

     ❛ kevin is boring and predictable. a mouse in freud's trap. but you... ❜     narrowed eyes, andrew contemplates, calculates like a navigator mid-sea.     ❛ you’re something else. ❜      // * @pipesdream ♡’d.