it's me. whatever it is, just spit it out.
@dawnpiercer
❝ no means no, don't it, dani? ❞ he sang. his brow ticked up, and wiggled. ❝ words mean things, and i don’t think i’ve been comatose long enough to forget that—have i? ❞
sunspot popped his collar, adjusted the lapels of his blazer. this time, the mirror check wasn’t about vanity. he needed to look correct. prim. proper. presentable. respectable, at the very least. acceptable, at minimum. he didn’t want to look like someone his father would’ve spat at—not that he could anymore.
the bastard was dead. body cold as ice in the prettiest casket of all of rio.
today was emmanuel da costa’s funeral, and the gravity of that was astronomical. for a week straight, bobby had been walking the streets in a dizzy haze, carrying the strange weight of surviving someone who'd never let him live. every atom in his body urged him to celebrate. to dance on that man’s grave. to buy champagne and set the corks loose in the sky like it was the fourth of july. he should've been clicking his heels like his name was dorothy and walked down a yellow, brick road with the prettiest boy on his arm. every bruise. every slight. every unsaid thing—and yet.
he was strangely not okay with that. he felt sick.
something ugly and red writhed under his ribs, and it wasn’t grief. it was grief’s snarling relative: rage. the kind that scorched from within. his pain was flaring hotter than his mutagenic gifts ever could.
he sighed through his nose, forced himself to meet her gaze through the reflection. ❝ anyway, how do i look? looking pretty fly, right? ❞