#*mashstyx

a roll of his eyes. “what? for leaving? what am i gonna do, blame you for wanting to get the hell away from the psycho clown?” steve shrugs, brushing dust from his sweater. the blood caked into the fabric from the swipes of a butterfly knife?--another story.  

“it isn’t fair,” he whispers, eyes lost somewhere on the dance of flames and tinder. “we shouldn’t be here.” these words are useless, and he wishes more than ever he had anything like kaz’s backbone to protect him from the spiraling dread of them. words soft and repeated until they turn to dust around his teeth and he’s silent.

graham’s shoulders shake, but he’s been crying too long for anything else to happen now, so he just anchors himself on kaz’s hand, trying to be mindful of how hard he squeezes--verifying she’s still there. eyes burn, throat stings where voice has broken, dirt and blood decay windbreaker as he looks at nothing--spaced out in a slowly ebbing panic attack.

sleepiness builds a comfortable haze around tired eyes left unfocused on the campfire; he feels like he’s earned it, this time, clawed and thrashed and teeth-grit their way through harrowing trial. ribs ache, stitched wounds sting and twinge, where boot had landed on back and blade embedded in shoulder. why don’t you stay down, loverboy? he was getting used to this. thud, against the concrete. generators ring in the distance, he can see silver cat slipping in and out of the shadows nearby; crack, against the concrete–better me than them, better me than them, come on, harrington. hurts like hell. get up. useless down here. get up. 

sound slips in and out, but he’s left alone. bleary gaze searches for anchor as several feet land across the pavement surrounding him, hands clasping at arms and hauling him onto shoulders. sight, like a threatening curtain-fall, had slipped in and out from there. we’re okay, we’re fine. they’d made it back safe, counted three heads, three pairs of hands at the exit gates as they dragged his crumpled form past the treeline.

nea has slotted herself, as she sometimes did, across his lap. the others had piled on some time ago–he had neither the heart nor energy to move any single one of them. hand smoothes ash out of artist’s hair, exhausted sigh from roughened lungs. the campfire chatter has settled to a quiet murmur, guards let down, finally.  

he doesn’t even register it–the crack of a weapon, his blood landing across the wall of the barn behind him. crows scatter in the field and he watches them for a long moment. in delay, he glances down as dark red pools in his sweater. and all he can feel–numb and horrified and annoyed. insanely, he yells back at the figure watching from the distance, weapon lowered after it had made its shot. “that’s not– that’s not fair.” pointless thought; none of this was fair. palm covers the wound–a perfect shot to pierce the shoulder. a warning shot–could have been his head. “you can’t just–are you–are you kidding me, a gun?” he feels himself staggering toward the figure looming in the field, approaching as she approaches him. like he had anything else to lose right now.

“are you serious, it’s a dead end--”

scattered, hushed arguments pass between survivors as they traverse the lower level of the school--it would all be very fun banter were it not for the monster stalking their trail.

she has her hand in his sleeve, dragging him after her through the twists and turns of the building’s guts. they duck down behind the boiler room pipes (barely doesn’t knock himself out on the metal) and against rough brick, and steve doesn’t breathe once as the footsteps grow louder. louder. and then they pass, shuffling, ashy breathing through gnarled teeth and chipped mask. two pairs of eyes watch between the cracks in the brick, and eventually--eventually-- the figure passes. 

steve blinks for a long, dumbfounded moment, before the line of his spine untwists--lungs exhale a laugh, as he slumps against nea’s shoulder.