Work Text:
Innocence, at best, shows an incapacity to understand why one complies.
(Fortsy waits until the warm gun clatters next to him to sleep to the sound of the trigger clicking, when the tiles beneath him are as cold as they get.)
Faith doesn’t have to be stringent, does it? God isn’t omnibenevolent, nobody owes him anything. He’s capable of immorality, surely. (Friday almost feels bad for the commander.) Is the entity that they’re left with even worthy of the designation ‘God’ at all?
It will be hilarious when the president of Imperia falls and everyone finds out that his warm blood runs red. It’s a shame that Fortsy won’t be there to see it either.
Dead men don’t get to wish for anything though. Looking down at the golden sand- a moment of breathlessness- oh well, this is it, isn’t it? A sacrificial lamb there only to prove some weak-willed loyalty, dangling from the ledge of the Justice Building.
It’s not an immolation if the hurt isn’t there at the center, if the lamb doesn’t struggle. Let’s not acknowledge that.
Friday can’t seem to swallow the lump anymore.
The things he had were exhilarating themselves, dangerous thoughts and bitterness that he tries putting away for a better time come flooding back to him, overflowing, in that very moment.
(Dear Imperia, I had never forsaken my autonomy, not once. No one else was coming, and I had run out of reasons.)
He could not quell the tides forever. The day of wrath comes eventually but today doesn’t seem like the right day for it either, honestly.
“I get the feeling you’ll get yourself killed. Purge or not.”
Friday’s hair rustles, brushing against his cheek. He watches Roopbert put the swords away with a sort of alienation.
“This is more like a kid running away from home,” he scoffs in response, “I keep on not dying, actually.”
(The sun keeps rising, burying the things he thought he had figured out the day before.)
“That’s our guy.” Roopbert nudges him in the side, smiling crookedly. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
He’s worked hard at being the hero of his own life, but he’s never quite really felt like it.
He has tried making a home out of it- of hope, of the liberty beyond the horizon. The field of primroses and dandelions between who he is and who he will be.
Outsides and insides kept apart with an imaginary line because there is no separation. Heart beating to the rhythm of a fish out of water writhing beside a tank far too small for it.
Maybe that’s why he felt pity— is that the right word? Probably not. It’s more of a discomfort rising in his stomach at the sight of people in a situation far too eerily similar to his. Trapped, figuratively or not.
“Oh my god, dude, you’re a savior.” Kapitanox laughs. Salted can only nod in agreement as Friday slips them the armor.
There’s no new him, actually. No old him. Just the same him, the whole time. He’ll wear himself out.
“Oh, uhm, yeah,” he murmurs, blinking. “You’re welcome.” A small smile makes its way to his lips. “Stay safe.”
There’s no new him. It’s just that he realized that he can’t be the hero of his own life, at least. That wasn’t an option in the first place. He thinks he understands the commander’s perspective a little better now.
Others will bring their watering cans and water the flowers in his garden, braiding the blossoms into his hair. He’s trying to remember who this is all for, because surely he doesn’t deserve this and it’s not meant for him and he’s blinking away tears— but oh— they say it’s you. It’s all for you.
So, what’s the difference between the world and the Desert District? The world doesn’t know what to do with Friday’s love. He hopes that it’s love. He has tried really hard to make it so.
Scattered in the air are the dandelions that carry his love, and they’ll return to the sand beneath everyone, a million pieces of his heart seeping into the crevices of the grains.
“It’s like I’m here, but not. My loyalty doesn’t lie anywhere. I don’t think I lie anywhere.”
“Schrödinger’s peacekeeper, pfft.”
“Okay, I’m like, barely a peacekeeper. If we take that part out what we’re left with is—“
“Friday. The boy underneath it.”
“Why should that even matter? Now c’mon, keep playing. You’re messing up the strumming pattern with how hard you’re thinking.”
Reaching beyond old concerns from when Friday was seventeen, all the layers of his life glint in his flashing eyes simultaneously.
The rippling uncertainty in his bones is the only thing that is viscerally real. He probably should’ve apologized to Roopbert for not being able to keep his end of the promise, too.
What if it isn’t the crash that made him, but the debris?
When he dies, it will come in fast and low. He’ll stick the landing. No, there will be no confusion.
The Desert is now a burial site. Was he buried there with the others then? Will more be buried here– Imperia guts the district faster than the vultures swooping in.
The ghosts will make room for him. They will.
(Dear Desert District, you’re beautiful. I’ve lied about a lot of things, but no. Not like this. I can say you’re beautiful now because the sand scorching my lungs wasn’t soothing, but my harm, you belonged to no one else.
Kiss me goodbye in my sleep. This is going to be the last time. Your hands are still warmer than the ones of the angels leading me away, anyway. Take me home— take me out.)