a very, very long hour spent waiting with a deflating football and the erratic tap of his boot's toe.
it's their designated time for play, sheltered away the housing block in an open sandpit by the church. it's a time jesse doesn't miss; hasn't ever missed (unless they missed it together). all work and no play was never a motto they could abide by. unlike many of the others, they're not people who can spend days on end poring over a whiny network—people have been dropping into storage like flies, and that's not a pleasant wake-up call.
really, he should have fucking known. but for all the time jesse's been here, after a year of waiting, hiruma was always under the impression that he himself would be the first to go. he didn't have a reason to think that. it was just a feeling he always had. maybe it was simply irrational worry keeping him awake at night. maybe he's outstayed his world-hopping welcomes.
maybe.
hiruma doesn't cry, when he can't find jesse's picture on his phone.
he doesn't do much of anything, at first, after the second scroll-through; the third; the sixth. it's only when he shuts the phone on the tenth, does something seem to grab him violently—the very cold hand of realism clamps down with a bitter force on the back of his neck, bringing an overwhelming nausea into his gut, and before long he clues into his shock.
the strong tremor in his hands forces him to drop the communicator, the football, and the façade.
no.
no, no, no.
wide eyes dart down, down, down to the scar on the back of his hand that looks like it's a mile away from his face. past the rapid rise and fall of his chest as the hysterics set in and the panic attack holds him in place like he's a rat caught on a glue board. the more he struggles to keep calm and think about this with a level head, the heavier his breathing gets.
Together or bust.
there's something to be said about bending until you snap back.
to strip himself clean of how hard his soul's been rattled (another one, god no, not this one, not jesse—it's not fair, he's worked so hard and seen so many people disappear or die, it's not fair his whole life has been just out of his reach), he reaches to slam his fist through the stained glass window of the church, knuckles splitting as colour rains down an absolute mockery of an ashy face. the other digs into asphalt and dust where his knee drops, nails scraping when there's nothing to throw, nothing to hit but brick wall and ground.
he wants to pick himself up and shake himself off, but the mantra comes out as a yell against unforgiving dirt, pressing gravel into his forehead.
You're a good reason to keep my shit together.
("i don't cry," hiruma's always replied to the ones who've believed to the contrary, trying to make his business theirs. "i never need to.")]
07/13, EVENING
a very, very long hour spent waiting with a deflating football and the erratic tap of his boot's toe.
it's their designated time for play, sheltered away the housing block in an open sandpit by the church. it's a time jesse doesn't miss; hasn't ever missed (unless they missed it together). all work and no play was never a motto they could abide by. unlike many of the others, they're not people who can spend days on end poring over a whiny network—people have been dropping into storage like flies, and that's not a pleasant wake-up call.
really, he should have fucking known. but for all the time jesse's been here, after a year of waiting, hiruma was always under the impression that he himself would be the first to go. he didn't have a reason to think that. it was just a feeling he always had. maybe it was simply irrational worry keeping him awake at night. maybe he's outstayed his world-hopping welcomes.
maybe.
hiruma doesn't cry, when he can't find jesse's picture on his phone.
he doesn't do much of anything, at first, after the second scroll-through; the third; the sixth. it's only when he shuts the phone on the tenth, does something seem to grab him violently—the very cold hand of realism clamps down with a bitter force on the back of his neck, bringing an overwhelming nausea into his gut, and before long he clues into his shock.
the strong tremor in his hands forces him to drop the communicator, the football, and the façade.
no.
no, no, no.
wide eyes dart down, down, down to the scar on the back of his hand that looks like it's a mile away from his face. past the rapid rise and fall of his chest as the hysterics set in and the panic attack holds him in place like he's a rat caught on a glue board. the more he struggles to keep calm and think about this with a level head, the heavier his breathing gets.
Together or bust.
there's something to be said about bending until you snap back.
to strip himself clean of how hard his soul's been rattled (another one, god no, not this one, not jesse—it's not fair, he's worked so hard and seen so many people disappear or die, it's not fair his whole life has been just out of his reach), he reaches to slam his fist through the stained glass window of the church, knuckles splitting as colour rains down an absolute mockery of an ashy face. the other digs into asphalt and dust where his knee drops, nails scraping when there's nothing to throw, nothing to hit but brick wall and ground.
he wants to pick himself up and shake himself off, but the mantra comes out as a yell against unforgiving dirt, pressing gravel into his forehead.
You're a good reason to keep my shit together.
("i don't cry," hiruma's always replied to the ones who've believed to the contrary, trying to make his business theirs. "i never need to.")]