@rubinsteind || settling dust prompts || accepting!
“ hey, don’t you dare close your eyes, you hear me? you die in my arms, and i’m gonna stick the dry-cleaning bill for this shirt in your coffin, that’s a promise! “
The taste of blood. Smoke in the air ghosts over crimson splattered across his bottom lip and drips onto his chin. They’ve won today. Barely scraping by with what numbers they had as they diminished one painstaking scream of a battlecry after another. But, in the end, the numbers counted alone tells the story that good won over evil and that’s---that’s what was destined to happen this day. No matter of the ache in his bones and bruises dotting his flesh. The cuts and the wounds and all the battered and broken pieces would heal. Eventually. There’s such a temptation, however.
To close his eyes and drift off. One pulse of ache after another. One inhale of gray soot and the smell of victory bathed in blood spilled, in people who won’t be going home on both sides, after another whispers to him to let it carry him away. Only for a little rest. Only until the worst of it passes and he’s able to get on his feet again. And, yet, he’s being pulled into someone’s lap--against someone’s chest and he hears a voice that draws his attention back to the present. Back to reality. Back to her.
A curl of blood red lips into a wobbly, tired smile and he tries to puff out a chortle of laughter before it’s cut short with a set of cinched teeth and a sharp intake of air through them. He grimaces and cracks a blue eye up to her. Voice strained. Dry. Thor answers. “Anything but a coffin. Let alone, a coffin with a bill shoved inside..” Another slow breath. He’s trying to ease her nerves. Worry for him? He’s never been good at receiving it. “Here lies Thor. Son of Odin. Who owes twenty dollars for the shirt he ruined. Not quite the legacy I imagined..”
