#pertinaciity

           ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ sɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴛᴀsᴋ of setting up tree, something seemingly simple with which to occupy himself while meister takes care of buying more ornaments ( last years lay shattered within boxes, neither of them aware of what caused such though both believe a certain assassin may have been involved ), weapon has found that he hates setting up Christmas trees. The pine needles are a hassle, hair catching and tugging, green pieces of foliage sticking in odd places and thus far only half the lights are situated upon it. At the rate it's going, he has no doubt that by the time Maka returns home it will appear as though he first attempted to have a wrestling match with it -- something he'd quite like to do at given time, if only to take out some frustration.

           It's too big, not in height but in girth, boy having to continuously circle around it, poked and scratched and judged by stupid feline ' sleeping ' several feet away on nearby couch. He has half a mind to simply give up, wait for Maka to return and plead her help, but no, he can handle a stupid tree on his own.

           What kind of kid can save the world but not put lights on a shrub? Certainly not him. 

           ❝ Jeez... How uncool. ❞ A step taken back reveals it isn't particularly neatly done either, something he'll no doubt be scolded for if he doesn't fix it. If not by partner then by a certain child Shinigami, and with a sigh he moves to correct it -- and finds ankle tangled in a cord. Without thinking does he yank foot back, an attempt to get foot loose -- which works, something he would like to note first if anyone asks. However, consequence is the loss of balance of both himself and idiot tree, both falling the same direction and it would be his luck to hear meister walk in at the exact moment that he hits ground -- tree landing solidly atop his person.

           ' I just wanted some water ' ʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇs ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ, but lips part to expel only the same silence that befell him when brims still lay pushed together, and he cannot find the strength to turn so that he may face her, so that she may speak to something that is not his bare shoulder blades and sagging sweatpants, and the tremble of his shoulders that spread all the way down to his fingertips. Is it worth lying, he wonders, knowing she can read through his words before he even speaks them and is it so hard to admit he had a nightmare, that sometimes he thinks about the ebony case that covers the moon, and the events that transpired beforehand and he breaks down? Christ, it shouldn't be, but he cannot seem to choke out what is eating at him and wills his partner to find the ability to peek into the crevices of his mind, to pull out into the open what he cannot, on his own, seem to convey in response to an innocent, worried query from a girl he knows would never mock him.

           Still, he is unable, he is a child who has seen war and fought monsters and done things he was never truly prepared for, never really ready for, and he would do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping everyone safe, but that does not mean there are not scars. 

           ❝ ...I got thirsty. ❞ It's a whisper, empty glass clutched in hand upon counter straining not to shatter beneath the force of clenching dactyls, and he realizes too late that he's squeezing far too hard, fragile object cracking -- breaking, shards bursting to embed into flesh. Reaction is standard, at least, his responses to every day pain not diminished simply because he has had worse, body reeling back, stumbling on heels to smack against counter and undamaged hand clutches wrist, swears quick to reach two sets of eardrums as crimson orbs stare hatefully down at the blood and glass clinging to extremity. 

                                                                                                 ----    He's not okay. 

[ gO THE FUCK TO SLEEP STEVIE ]

            Depths of the darkness that lies in mystery, hiding from the reality that is this world, glazes about sight’s appearance and soldier is sent to another dimension in escape of emotions that would attempt to surface from the well in which she stores within heart’s glass. Sturdy and beautiful, yet fragile and even pathetic. She remembers such influential instances as if they were to pass in chronological order, a summoning of unpleasant ill-desire, they are reflected upon that pathetic glass, creeping their way into her life as many times as possible. Lips, bitten with the dryness of thin air, part, if only slightly. Smells of death, bones, ash, sweat, iron— they all creep through the paths in which she breathes; she will not forget the lingering smell of death as it continues to haunt her every nightmare, her every reality. 

            Through moments of utmost despair she cannot help but recall the light that shines, so alone, within the pit of never-ending black— light that provides life, teaches her to live, to survive. Never will she dispose of the debt that she owes, not only to her own, but to the one now in her next life; she keeps her promise, and would risk her life to ensure that light’s safety. This luminosity that compares to no other is the freedom that exists within all of the chains, in all of the trials and all of the cages. Such power, such fuel, she wishes that she, herself could possess, and perhaps she admires this, yet forever knows she comes not ever close enough to even reach such motivation to touch it with the tips of calloused fingers. For her, the only motivation is survival. She is black and white— nothing else. Color cannot touch her, it cannot taint her as perhaps she fears it, perhaps it holds no importance, and she would rather avoid such painted world that stings with so much more thrill.

            She knows now, if she does not survive, she dies. If she dies, she loses. So powerful, so strong, the black hole that she is cannot afford death, as she now has so much more to live for; so many duties left unfulfilled, so many lives held in her palm. This is the price of freedom, undeniably. One who carries such dark, ghostly past as she should understand the ‘price of freedom’, and this she has come to realize.

                  "Get back!"

                            Words are shouted at the girl who has { presumably } been                             trapped inside this barrier; sword raises to block the attack                             of the witch.  God, it's strong ---- but so is she!  So is --

                Well, there went any and all chances of her ability to continue her                 studies in peace. There was always the option to ignore all sounds                 that were coming from the other room, but in the whole and absolute                 truth, they both knew that she couldn’t. After all, letting their living                 quarters burn down wasn’t exactly something that she could allow.

                                "Soul——————"

                Voice raised just high enough that he could hear her clearly,                 her pencil was set down gently beside her books and paper,                 desk chair pushed back, scraping gently across the floor.                 Slight strides carried her across her room easily, a fluid tilt                 of her hips and a twist of her wrist opened the door and she                 poked her head out, hopeful that she wasn’t about to actually                 walk into something best kept from her.

                                        "———What’s wrong?"

           sᴇɴsᴇs ᴀʀᴇ ғɪɴᴇ ᴛᴜɴᴇᴅ to what he has assigned the title of            ' warning sound ', any vocalization of his name called from the            interior of a room in which he does not currently reside should            such arrangement of letters fall from meister's lips and instant            reaction is to sit straight up -- forgetting the table situated            directly above ivory crown. He hears a query of some sort slip            from betwixt the pale brims belonging to partner yet fails to            process them right away, distracted with the sudden pain to            envelope cranium. 

                  ❝ --Aghck--! ❞ Eloquent as always in his discomfort, body rolls                   out from underneath table with palm pressed flat against head                   and visible unhappiness splayed across visage. Tempted is he,                   to flip the useless hunk of wood over in way of reprimand but                    weapon refrains, wincing lightly as attention shifts to girl staring                   at his floored person. Scowl becomes more of a pout, slowly                    raising body to sit cross-legged upon carpet and it is now that                   he takes in what was earlier asked. 

           ❝ ...Can't find my shoes. ❞           also, an ice pack might be nice.