O' DEATH.

xma warren : punk ass motherfucker, probably has piercings + is covered in (apoc’s) tattoos, smells like sweat and cheap booze, lives out of a ratty dufflebag that he stole, also steals food and clothes and squats in abandoned buildings, mentally ill af, they call him 7 knives, wears studded leather and ripped jeans and combat boots, is that ignorant fucker to blast music at full volume and ruin everyone else’s peaceful day, overly aggressive and will fight anything that moves, not a very nice person at all, probably makes some ppl uncomfortable

          HEATED ARGUMENT. || accepting.

                    ❝ don’t talk to me like i’m some kind of a fucking idiot, lehnsherr. i know. ❞

     he doesn’t know erik. he doesn’t know what he’s been through, what he’s done to get to where he is, what keeps him awake in the middle of the night. all he knows is just what everybody else knows; that he’s a man with a dangerous past and an even more dangerous pulse-point. but warren does know is that there’s something swirling behind those glassy eyes —- what warren does know is that those hands aren’t rough out of coincidence, that erik’s sharp and ragged shoulders weren’t borne out of pearl and glass, that his aged spine and faded scars aren’t to be mistaken as a common thing.

     he knows that because he sees it behind that furious gaze. he recognizes it like it’s his own. 

     the fire. the burning.

     it’s not the same. he doesn’t know it. and yet, he does.

consider : the xmen getting into a scuffle around where warren’s currently squatting n he peeks out thru this dusty ass cracked window and sees a handful of them, gathered around in the street, involved in some kind of Scene that he doesn’t care to think too hard about

and he squints and stares for a really long time and his wings twitch with the urge to run run run if they see you that’s it you’re done for but he watches more. and sees what they do. and watches how they try to talk rather than fight, how they strive for peace rather than war, and he’s puzzled and perplexed and Morally Confused by it

and so when he sees smth shady going on, he straightens up and squints harder, leans a little closer to the window, lets the light hit one side of his face as he watches

           ❝ i don’t want trouble. ❞

     warren hates how it comes out like a plea; warren hates how he can feel his voice nearing the edge of a tired crack. he hates it. he hates it. but it’s all he can do --- his voice is all he has that’s his own, these days. the wings that he soars on are no longer his, his skin, marred silver and blue in ancient script, is no longer his, and his life is no longer his. 

     his voice is all he has. and warren must learn to use it wisely.