LEAVE US HERE.

  the slip from hallway to library is easy — or so it used to be, before a curious soul began to seek her out. it’s been rough, yeah, a lot worse yet... somehow better in ways, if her pride would ever let her admit  (  won’t, not right now, not in here  ) .  too many things have followed behind, and not just footsteps.  where’s the light at the end of the tunnel ?  oh, right.  just a few more days.

yellow-green matches changing leaves, previously mottled constellation on her arm :  busted capillaries beneath, vaguely resembling someone else’s fingerprints.  the colour of a faded bruise.  it’s nothing new, been weeks — and weeks between hell is something very, very new.  leon has reminded her a few times that that little bug-eyed guy, he’s tried to help and he’s right, sure, but independence is a virtue out here in the jungle and she’s a lionheart that won’t let go of it.

perhaps one day she’ll be able to thank him, despite everything.  for now ?  she'll pass by her shadow in between aisles, dragging one hand along book spines without much thought. picks by gut, after all.

                ❝ was my damsel in distress call really that loud ? ❞

  she huffs, brow raised, when she meets his gaze — lets herself melt slow like ice in sunlight beneath it, though, just a little bit. he’s annoying sometimes, but not malicious. 

                                                                                        is he ?

    fucking creep.    three venom-coated syllables settled on the tip of a tongue firmly pressed into teeth used for biting back words, biting back blood, biting lover’s necks. it’s not easy to keep to herself, this much is known :  the contrast of siblings intertwined is that she’s the loudmouth  (  to an extent  ) ,  the one whose fluid rage is always deep red, deep rooted — elliot might say, in all the dramatic glory that would make even shakespeare cringe, that this is her host file.  her daemon.  

the comment never slips past pouted lips, to her own surprise — maybe something below tightly latched surface knows it’s better that way, too, at least for now in a world where they’re stuck in a way they’ve never been before, barely above water  (  and their lungs won’t be emptying anytime soon  ) .  

however, her stature stays unwelcoming to this bright-eyed addition  ;  arms crossed, brow raised, frigid wolf in wait.  

  ‘ no, like this ’   a perfectionist’s curse mumbled twice into the air between them, quiet save for the soft beat from one of the tv’s fifteen music channel choices. dainty fingers carefully grip the other’s wrist, pulling it back in place before knuckles meet his  ;  the next gesture is a quick pull away, shayla throwing in a half-assed explosion noise that quickly falls into soft laughter.

         ❝ you don’t look so good.  have you been sleeping ? ❞

  a simple yet locked  &  loaded question, seconds stretching between pursed lips that wait for the bang. perhaps it should have been thought over not to pry, knows from brief interaction that her fellow neighbour isn’t one for that, but she’s never been able to let go of something interesting when it comes by.  could be a fault — no, definitely is — who can blame her ?  

shayla’s stopped the hoodie-clad enigma on the steps she hovers near, their shared home a chipped paint monument towering above, and wonders if she really should have asked that. it’s an off day for her after all, something feeling simply not right.  

a loneliness she won’t voice ?  you bet.

  you've gotta find out the future you're fighting for.   sometimes you've gotta close your eyes and really envision that shit.  if you like it, then it's beautiful.  if you don't ?   then you might as well fade the fuck out right now.

PATRICK BATEMAN STOOD BEFORE HIM, alive and — — SEEMINGLY,  in his own flesh. josh peers down at him, eyes wide with hope of new information to fill annoying gaps in his brain. one eyebrow is cocked, a sign of both dominance and confusion, and? possibly slight agitation, already. there was something uncomfortable about him, something that made the hairs on the back of josh’s neck stand up. maybe it was the way he was looking at him.

                no one but himself looked at him like that.

“well, it is. but i’m not who you were expecting. which, by the way, should have been fairly obvious by my stature, but i’ll let it slide.”

his tongue rolls along teeth through shut lips, visibly looking slightly taken aback by the last words. he shouldn’t be surprised. elliot typically tried to keep josh a secret. specifically from…. slightly dangerous people.

                                                            “i could say the same for you.”

a half lie. god have mercy on his soul. you know, more than he already does. 

  should be impossible for him to light up even further but somehow does, quiet chuckle settling the friendly smile in place. how unusual to be in the presence of a face already so enamored with, yet just now meeting another person behind it — two way street turns into three, it seems.  however, this one has its own body.  funnier are the expected differences and contrasting personalities. wants to know more, craves it - there it is !  that HUNGER which will beg for answers until satiated. 

even then, it may not stop. never has been one to stay behind the line, always teetering its razor edge. 

              ❝ no, you weren’t. ❞

is all a soft, trailing tone can muster for a brief moment, dreamy-sick perfection always desperate for validation, finding purpose beneath that gaze. it’s a factor he often finds himself angry for needing, but cannot truly hate.

                                       ❝ sorry.  tyrell wellick, delighted to finally meet you. ❞

breaks the almost juvenile reaction, back straight, as he finally offers a hand in greeting. 

 fascinating.  a god's breath, downright cinematic.  excitement settling in the tips of each finger, pinned right down to their bone, buzzing to life. his heart a thrumming collection of belated emotion, ones spent tucked away for so long  (  seems as if they never existed before him )  and a time spent feeling robotic, rolling with each punch when not on the giving end — inhuman, after all.  what was it like, before then ?  perhaps it was like this.

swears that if he moves even an inch, he'll slip.

                              ❝ oh, it's... not you. ❞

something's seized aching chest, heaven blues bright with wonder. typical, this dazed look.