seven.
running from bruises with @inkache, late inside inked parlor.
sol’s heart is lodged up somewhere near his throat. it’s a struggle to breathe. the soles of his shoes slap down hard on the pavement. hands grasping for bars or ledges. anything he can pull himself forward by, up. give himself the advantage. there’s someone behind him, and that’s the reason for it. all the fleeing. a fat wallet stuffed in his pocket that definitely doesn’t belong to him. bad luck in getting spotted before he’d managed to slip away. angry shouting. sol nearly stumbles once, skids enough to embed broken gravel into the palm he catches himself on. road burn. but he doesn’t feel it. not yet. too much adrenaline coursing through his veins.
he puts enough distance between them that, when sol figures out where he is, makes a quick dart left. has enough time to fling himself through a front door without being assuredly spotted in doing so. the bell jangled frantically to announce his arrival, along with a flail of limbs. the linoleum’s hard on his knees as he drops and rolls away behind a front desk. sol’s chest rises and falls with a heave. his ribs ache. his face aches. can taste blood on his upper lip. it’s running down from his nose, and he runs the back of his hand haphazardly across it. winces once and finally meets rin’s eyes when he looks up and catches sight of him.
he’s not with a client. for the best, probably. the steadiest hand in all of the city, but maybe that promise doesn’t pack the same punch when an on-the-run boy comes clattering inside. the door creaks open, and sol tenses. the familiar drag of an angry voice. it’s obvious, probably. rin knows him well enough by now, that sol’s usually up to no good. that the money sol pays him with for projects here or there isn’t necessarily clean and well-earned. not in the traditional sense of it all.
he meets rin’s eyes again as he holds his breathe. the taste of blood makes him feel nearly nauseous. like coins on his tongue. he wants to spit up copper. he thinks rin won’t sell him out. that’s what had him careening into the shop. they’re good enough friends, by now. but maybe sol doesn’t always have the best read on people, for all he thinks he does. so he waits, muscles held tight and rigid, for rin to answer a question on whether or not he saw a guy running through the area. more or less. definitely phrased a bit less politely.