a rose and its thorns,
@arcsora
the walls seem to further stretch skyward. he's small, insignificant; even when he, too, reaches for the sky and finds himself empty-handed but for steel. and for once, there's silence. he welcomes it.
sweat beads at his forehead and he wipes it away, follows that with a shaky sip of water. he douses his fingertips with water, tends to the aging wounds where curving claws of bone once protruded. the then pain of knife-like shards slicing through his skin trumped the fear of death by stomp of the spider from before. ( like a mallet slamming down on each individual finger ) but all there was to do was bear it for now, even as he lost feeling in two fingers. he was so close.
every time he reaches for the air, it's stolen away. should he dig into his flesh and pull apart his ribcage for closer examination of his lungs, he believes them to be shriveled - burned at the ends from the fire he swallows with every run. yet, in the wake of fire, he smiles. it's one of triumph, that he's a reckless youth with a god’s power in his veins. and he can't be stopped.
and the struggle to stretch his lungs leaves him with starry vision and vertigo that causes the sky-reaching walls to swirl and close in on him until he closes his eyes and looks away.
he's had enough of bullshit and partnering with the others for one day, but -
ah. sora.
now there's someone who relieves him. she never failed to meet his standards of, well, acceptability. it meant she wouldn't hold him back, wouldn't be the dead weight dragging him six feet under. a pendulum’s swinging in his ears, counting down to the very seconds until the final phase commences. he feels it.
“well, well, look who it is.” he clicks his tongue, sizes her up, and nods, pleased, “did you answer my call for a good partner or is it luck?”