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Summary
A masterpiece, really. His fingers are the brush, conjuring the nightly horizon into something unobtainable. The world is his canvas, and the people are the paint.
They smudge, they protest, they smear on the textile. They're nothing more than embroidery, they're nothing more than patterns used recreationally. They move in circles, and expect to find an exit.
They're sickening. How wonderful!
Encloaked by dread and dimness, the day is far still, the day where all confidence is drained from their body, aortic exhaustion.
The day is way too far, way, way, way too far, agonisingly too far, it's something Spoke is reminded of as bile scrapes his throat again.
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While you might be able to hide a couple of exploits from your teammate, hiding sickness is not as easy.
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Bookmark Notes:
genuinely beautifully written fanfic i love it
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ANGSTTT
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