#((hiya.))

Yet here he stood. In all his glory the sun had come out again. I go to reach, to have myself sliced open by a trail long due.  He had come out of the weaving hallways like a spirit that wanted his mistreatments accounted for. I look at him and I see the mixtures in his demeanor. Hurt, rage, sadness, they all lay loud against his unmoving form. I was counted  out from bone to flesh, and they looked to want a resettling. 

I grab his arm, there are stories in it. Of a hand that wanted to belong , of a man changed and a gun held to a temple. And I shudder. I am so done I cannot sum the right functions of breathing, and so my heart goes down into beatings upon my chest. 

  " Hugo?  Is this really you?"

It wasn’t terribly often that Vincent had out his phone. He only really looked at the thing every few days unless he was expecting something relatively important, be it professional or personal. Yet there he was then, expression cold beyond a slight furrow of his brows and an ever so subtle hint of annoyance in his red eyes as he peered down at the device.

Death wasn't taking shit today. Not from him, not now, while she, at the same time, sat with his other half, trying to be a comfort to a human who had been told human comfort was weakness by the being in front of her.