#enruines

stevie, i’ve told you over and over again, don’t be scared to talk to me

「‘  ♘;;—       Each passing second is a constriction of a heart that has long since stopped beating, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides as he waits, listening to the holy wind that whispers the names of the dead so sickeningly sweetly in the ears of those that have already passed on. Dozens of titles he doesn't recognize hit his ears, listening to each one with the pit in his stomach widening and the taste of bile rising up his throat as anxiety grips non-existent bones, and it is, perhaps, something of luck that he cannot actually perform the action of vomiting, but that doesn't mean the feeling isn't there. He's waiting, hoping to God that the name he wishes for so painfully isn't among the fallen this time around, that he's been able to protect him well enough up here among the angels, and he seems lucky, again, and a breath of relief waits to be release, the vice on his chest loosening-- 

        Jean Kirschtein 

        --and it's for naught, a jolt of panic running up his spine and he can already feel tears pricking at his eyes. Thought is not given in particularly large quantities, feet hitting the solidified air beneath him as he sprints from his reverie, heading for the pearl gates of the Crossover. Terror has his vision blurred, hoping he's misheard, praying they're wrong as he pushes pats angels and souls alike, a single echo resounding within the confines of his mind, bouncing off the inner walls of his head and making a racket that travels through his whole body. Legs trembling and lips quivering he slows his pace, unsteady steps his tread as he gently shoves aside the newcomers--various emblems pass him and just what was the battle this time?--searching for a familiar face. A scowl and bi-colored locks that are soft to the touch, and eyes that reflect a standoffish attitude that is but a facade to mask something fragile.

        He can't find him, for a solid milisecond--ten minutes up here, if he recalls correctly--and Marco is unsure if that exists as a blessing, or a curse. Selfishly, he yearns to hold him, kiss him, again and again and make up for each lost grain of sand in their hourglass that's been ticking down, cracked down the middle yet still working by means of a red thread tied around the center. And yet, that's wrong, and the soul can't help but feel a pang of guilt for wishing such a thing.

        As much as he wants Jean back, he doesn't want him dead to do it.                                                 Waiting; He can wait. 

        ❝Then whose name...?❞ Marco murmurs to himself, motionless aside from the swiveling of eyes within his sockets, slow glances around the emptying outer-gates and had he breath left to catch, he'd be choking, suffocating on air and as it is, he can feel the tears he'd withheld earlier coming back into play, filling the bottom lid of watery optics. His aura, at least, is not white; It's grey, a passerby hanging by a thread but not yet ready for this realm and it's all he can do not to run into his arms and drag him through anyway. Better judgement says he should leave, that Jean will complete this transition better without running into him, without the temptation, but he's so selfish and Marco needs to hear his voice, needs to see the emotion in his eyes and the way his weight shifts from foot to foot when he's nervous just one more time.

        Deep breath, pained smile and he waits until the boy's eyes widen, taking full notice of Marco's presence, before giving a watery laugh and speaking the name of someone he's been missing so desperately.

「‘  ♘;;—       ❝...Don't. There isn't--He won't.❞ He knows it's idiotic, the idea that someone can avoid the grasp of the Reaper merely because someone else pleads or hopes enough, and yet, the rational part of his thought is discarded in this matter, refusing to believe that such an outcome is remotely possible. It's plausible, scarily so, and he knows with the event roughly four, five years ago there's a chance more walls will come crumbling down and they'll be called out of the Military Police for aid and--

        And Jean is self destructive.

        Rocketing through life on a string of cleverly masked self-hatred and an empty ego, just waiting for the relief of a crash. Truth be told, it terrifies Marco to no end, enough so that he has nightmares of stumbling upon the torn mess of a face he can't make out but recognizes from the fatigue that lingers empty eyes and just considering the thought again makes his stomach lurch, hand falling impulsively to his chest and curling in a fist above his heart.

        A swallow, harsh, tasting of bile. 

        ❝I--❞

        Can't lose him. Can't let him go and he'd rather spend every second of every day trying to piece together the scattered fragments of Jean Kirschtein, forgoing sleep if he must, than allow him to throw himself into an abyss of nothingness. Selfish, perhaps, but just once in his life he's going to be selfish and cling to the one thing that makes even the worst of days brighter and that holds the key to the deepest sector of his heart. 

        ❝--won't let him die. I don't need to think about what I'd do because I just... won't. Won't let that happen to him. It doesn't matter what we face, I'm not leaving him.❞ He's not leaving me. ❝I'll keep him alive. At any cost.❞ Even if that entails Marco's own body turning to ash and his skeleton crumbling to nothing, that's fine. He doesn't care, he's prepared to die to many things and Jean is one of them. Marco's already decided a long time ago that no matter how far they are from one another, Jean won't be alone.

    Deep breath--inhale, exhale, teetering on her heels in front of a closed barrack door and mentally questioning whatever beings may or may not exist why it is that she is the one denied slumber, and why she cannot merely bring another girl along with her. Orders are orders, she supposes, despite their idiocy and she can't argue that the boys are stronger... Still. Estelle wishes that at the least, she were allowed to ask ones she knew. But apparently the youngest trainees were too comfortable this time of night, not used to sudden tasks, and it's stupid but she can't argue with Shadis. A balled fist raises to the door and--

    --Knock. She listens intently to the sound of shuffling feet and muffled swearing, possibly arguing over who will be the one to leave their warm beds and answer the door and she feels her body shrink back, instinct driven by evolutionary need to make one's self smaller when confronted, when the door is thrown open and a rather irate looking male scowls down at her. Her throat is cleared, focusing on maintaining eye contact. 

☒-- A fact about the mun

    I'm a really boring person hold up um 

    I was the only student in my entire school to get a perfect on our Algebra midterm in tenth grade, and the only one to get 102% on a biology benchmark in that same grade.

    And then my classmates hated me :I thx guys

✗-- A ship I can't stand

    ...Does it have to be this fandom. ...I guess it probably should be. UM. TBH I really dislike Jean/Armin ( it has a name I just can never spell it right so fuck it )?? NOT FOR ANY REAL REASON I JUST... Was indifferent and then over time I got annoyed and it slowly has become one of those things that I just really want to get out of my face :'I Like those that ship it GOOD FOR YOU LIKE ENJOY YOUR THING just please tag it or something cuz I don't rly wanna see that sorry :'''I

☄☄☄☄☄☄☄☄☄☄☄☄☄☄☄-- My opinion(s) of you

[ x ]

        —「☼; Reticent huffs of air expelled in long, continuous breaths from within the confines of a lightly freckled nares, accompanied by dark villi against tanned cheeks that give subtle twitches every so often signal the distance his mind has taken from the waking world, a deeply-rooted slumber holding his consciousness captive. Like this, he would likely remain for several hours still, blissfully unaware of the chill seeping in through cracked wooden walls or the blanket that has begun to slip from the side of the bed and now hangs lazily over the edge of his mattress, stopped from falling only by the weight of his left leg pinning down the corner of the bare fabric.

        That is, had he been left undisturbed--something that is seldom found in the life of a soldier.

        It is far from a harsh awakening, the surprisingly soft and almost lulling voice that his weary mind cannot place quite yet acting as a gentle nudge to his subconscious. He catches speech that sounds as nothing more than a jumbled mess of sounds in his only partially wakened state, umber colored flesh that once laid comfortably over chocolate irises fluttering open at an almost lazy pace, as though they too do not wish to change from their still state of being. Blurry lines and colors slowly come into focus in a room that lays bereft of movement or solar illumination, chapped tiers parting to form a large 'o' as he yawns, a single bare extremity raising to rub at optics that are ever so slowly focusing the world around them into view.

        ❝Mmn... Jean...?❞ Another yawn follows and merely on fatigue-driven impulse he scoots closer to the short-tempered male, the arm that had been draped so loosely over the other tightening it's hold as he buries his face into the crook of Jean's neck. Dark optics close once more, slow breaths tickling the hair decorating the boy's nape and he makes no move to untangle their legs--Marco isn't fully aware of when they came to overlap in the first place, but he hardly minds it. Warmth and safety are the only thoughts to really cross his mind, already beginning to fall back into a comfortable slumber.

        ❝The sun isn't even up... Go to sleep...❞