#pareox

RETROSPECTIVELY :  he warned them.  was very specific, actually.  felix remembers what he said, word-for-word.  but considering his tendency to monologue it was better summarised as ‘don’t ask any more questions’.  don’t ask any more questions because it makes locus uneasy; the vague stiffness of his shoulders reiterates itself, and the white-knuckled tenseness of his hands comes back, too.  it doesn’t ever occur to felix that by creating REASONS to react exclusively on impulse, he ends up pulling off with the same effect.

it doesn’t matter.  it doesn’t matter, since as soon as he hears the where-what-when-why-how he’s standing up.  all ready; baseball player’s poise legs tense with anticipation, hands moving so fast and matter-of-factly from his waist that it’s difficult to figure out what happened until that grotesque TCHINK is heard.  muffled by what you can assume is a knife moving through a skull and brain matter and it’s all the rest; felix doesn’t know the details, didn’t particularly care about physiology classes and all that.  their former questioner was the best option for providing information, he knows.  but there’s a point where there’s TIME CONSTRAINTS; where his patience runs thin and his control runs even thinner.

              HE’S DROWNING

            metaphorically, maybe.  but drowning, nonetheless    ;    he’d noted the warning signs of overdose before this   (though that had been the plan in the first place)   probably should have tried to go to bed and sleep everything off in a last-minute decision of CONVENIENCE for his partner.  there would be the dry mouth and the shaky legs and the constant tremble of his hands would be amplified, too  -----  as every neurotic problem is  -----  but the back of the head impulse of maybe this time, i’ll get a dose of euphoria again comes to the front, and this doesn’t happen. effects are gradual.  he’d taken twenty pills, he thinks.  but fuck, maybe more. maybe thirty?  who knew and who really cared?  the warning signs catch him in a flurry of side-eyed awareness.  the merc knows what’s coming, but the ten minute span that takes for everything to REALLY kick in knocks him off his feet.  a try-hard step is blurry; the room is spinning, impulse tells him to try to do the heel-to-foot walk step. the one where you told whether you were drunk or not, and he really TRIES but can’t manage to get a single part of it right. 

                      minimalist thoughts. step-by-step, see how fucking ruined you are.                       can he read?     for a little bit.    the words get blurry quick though.

        in hindsight there is no reason to fall into a panic over these entirely expected symptoms.  but felix doesn’t have a fucking hindsight now, no retrospect and no nostalgia to normal feeling and casual sensation.  his throat is dry and his neck is tightening and the room is full of dark figures and blind spots and fuzzy vision   ;    his pupils are blown apart.  tries to squint but just can’t get the appearance of a normal, non-tripping person.  conveniently he’s QUIET, and maybe locus might not have even noticed that there was anything wrong with him until the heavy breathing starts and he moves    -------   stumbles   ------   to sit down again.  voice soft and panicked, though still unsure about what to be entirely panicked about.  

                    ❛ oh shit, locus ------- ❜

         “Goodness! L-locus, are you hurt?!”

{  x  }

{    His first instinct is to shoot off      some snide remark. Some      witty one liner that’s designed      to take a stab at whatever’s      weakest. Of course it is. He’s      Felix. The smart ass. The player.      Blowing off comments like this?      Easy. Or, it used to be. He’s      noticed a bit of a change in      himself after the trial to see if      he’s a true warrior, which was      absolute bullshit at the time.      But now? Now it’s gotten harder      to be so flippant, so confident,      his thoughts ultimately returning      to what he’d seen. He’s grown      more aggravated, more frustrated.      It was harder to let comments like      this slide.

     Maybe that’s why he stopped, why      he turned and looked at his partner,      suspicion and something that was      definitely not dread making his      stomach drop. Was that a threat?      He trusts Locus, sure, but lately it’s      felt like he can only trust him as far      as he can throw him. Which is,      ultimately, ridiculous. Locus hasn’t      done anything to indicate betrayal.      But then again, neither does Felix.

      It’s fine. You’re just being paranoid.

      So he finished up what he was doing,       sliding his knife into its holster at his       back and double checking that his       guns and clips were on him too. He       grinned under his helmet, slapping       on that old hot shot mask and tilting       his head, all confidence and bravado.    }

“        You think so? I’ll make sure           to remember that when I’m           enjoying a mile long hot tub.           Now are you coming or what? “