"You okay?" (for Ivan)
A question for the ages. Ivan hasn’t the foggiest fucking idea how to answer that without being rude. He looks at the dark ash coating his forearms, the burnt remains of his sleeves, the tremor in his hands that just won’t stop...
“N- no. No, I’m not fucking-- no.”
He drags his ashy hands through his hair, anxiously tugging at the roots as though the pain might somehow shake him out of his post-freakout stupor. His wings -- a multitude of brilliant reds and yellows -- sag against the concrete rooftop. He’s tired. So tired.
He’s not quite crying, but his eyes smolder like the embers of a dying fire and they sting like the dam’s about to burst any second. He grimaces. Pathetic. If only mom and dad could see him now.
“Do I-- do I look okay?”