Work Text:
A boy lies on the roof of an apartment building. A broken sword is cast aside, just out of his reach. A pair of sunglasses reflect the sky above, streaked with heavy slate gray clouds. Sun filters through the gaps in rays, piercing through the smog that hangs over Houston.
The boy is bleeding. His forehead is slick with sweat, the long red sleeves of his shirt stained deeper near where they’ve been torn. He’s been lying there long enough for the blood to start to clot, the wet cotton of his sleeves growing stiff. The shirt was new, still crisp and a bit itchy against his skin. If he waits much longer, the stains will be impossible to get out, the seams where he sews the sleeves back together forever a slightly darker red than the surrounding fabric.
He has lots of other shirts, identical in every way save for where they’re stitched back together. If he layered the rips and tears and cuts over each other, the shirt would be torn to shreds, nothing but strips of fabric. The boy wonders if the same thing would happen to him. He imagines the raised pink lines that cover his body like netting unstitching themselves, letting him come undone, falling apart at the seams.
The air is muggy, the dark clouds are drifting closer with the breeze. A few tiny droplets of water patter against the concrete, lingering for just a second before evaporating to rejoin the roiling storm above. Thunder rumbles, low and loud, the sound buzzing in his clenched teeth. The rain comes faster now, blown in on the breeze and painting the asphalt gray. Steam rises in billowing clouds, fogging up the boys’ shades. A few drops land on his face, running down his cheeks like tears. He is not crying.
He is not crying.
The boy sits up, gathers the broken remains of his sword, and looks up at the sky. The streaks of sunlight seem almost tangible, piercing the rising clouds of steam and smog. God rays, he thinks they’re called. He almost wishes he had his camera.
He turns his back as the rain starts to come down in sheets, retreating into the dry apartment. He will bandage his wounds, throw his shirt onto the shower floor and let the spray of water beat the bloody stains out of the sleeves, and retrieve an unbroken, but equally shitty sword from the refrigerator. He’ll stand in front of the mirror and examine the lattice of healed scars that cover his body, each one a reminder of when he was too slow or too clumsy or too off-balance, and vow to himself that he won’t let his guard down next time.