JEANMARCO ANGST
I apologise in advance.
tw for sort of descriptive imagery of violence ( needles and blood. ) this is a jeanmarco wip,,, except there's no marco, it's just jean grieving.
please note that I purposely didn't use jean's name.
it was stupid, and he knew that.
he wasn't sure just how long he had been staring at the fire. perhaps it was a few minutes, perhaps it was hours. none of it mattered now.
he had barely taken notice of his own body when it crumbled; his torn and bitten hands grasped at the ground beneath him. the dirt beneath his nails went unnoticed, or maybe he did notice but refused to care.
he knew he looked foolish, writhing around on the floor like a dying man, but what else was there to do? he couldn't be a part of the herd; the herd that moved on overnight. how could they forget so quickly, did those moments mean nothing? his eyes stung.
he wished that he could cry, but he was empty before he had even begun. it was a cruel world, if only he had realised it sooner.
maybe if he had recognised the real dangers…
his movements came to a pause at the realisation, knees planted firmly against the earth, the scratching coming to a halt as dry heaves racked through his body. the hoarse whimpers grew louder, more desperate. it was painful to listen to. it hurt more to experience though; thousands of needles scratching the inside his throat, forcing their way through the membrane, trying to make their presence known.
a part of him wished that they would just puncture him already, that they would let him suffocate, that they would hit an artery and leave him to bleed out. that would be relaxing, the immediate relief after the monsters had done their job.
but, unfortunately for him, there were no needles, only the distinct feeling of suffocation. his body went slack against the dirt.
dirtied fingers fell limp, elbows gave in. his face consequently followed after; the ache was dull, or maybe he was too overwrought to care. the sobs died down, much like any other movement of his body. his eyes stilled, glazed over with tears that would not spill. too little to be too much.
the shake of his shoulders came to a standstill. he wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground, to join the ashes which embraced their former home. he couldn't do that though, he had to keep going. he'd be a lousy excuse of a human if he abandoned their cause.
his eyes ached as he moved them to stare at the dying flames of the fire. it was a cruel reminder that the time of mourning was coming to an end, for as soon as those embers died, there was nothing to grieve. he'd be alone. the tears, the long-awaited tears, spilt over, carving their path down the boy's cheeks. it was a slow sensation, they wouldn't come quick enough. he had to finish before the ashes left his sight, before they left him again.
he reached forward, enough to feel the tender burn of the fire. the heat circled his hand, creating a false sense of comfort, which just like his dear partner, would soon leave.
he pulled his hand back, pressing it against his cheek and stroking his tears away with a delicate hand. maybe if he kept pretending, it would soon begin to feel familiar.
he gave a faltered smile to the fire as he caressed his cheek; it didn't feel like them. his hand was too lean, too soft. theirs was coarser, larger but warm, inviting. they couldn't be more different.
yet, he'd take what he could get.
the universe had taken them, they couldn't take his comfort, not yet at least. he tried focusing on the phantom feeling of dried skin against his cheek. there wasn't much to focus on. his hands were too long, too willowy to delude himself any longer.
his hand dropped from his face. he wondered how stupid he must've looked. he scoffed, shaking his head. who cared?
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