The halls of Ambrosia were never too quiet, some form of a fuck up walking up and down them often. In this case, it was a regular. Someone who couldn't sit still; couldn't stay in one place. Shiroyama Yuu, his empty eyes boring holes into the carpet as he walked, the irises currently fixated on the glowing flame that his antique, silver lighter produced every time he flicked it open.
flick. swoosh. flick. swoosh.
He didn't care that it was late. Dark out, even. He didn't sleep a lot; his frail, too thin body often hurt too much to sleep, and the nightmares of taunting were never too far behind the unlucky times when he could in fact fall into sleep's claws. God, what he would do for a cigarette now. Something to burn his lungs like the fire he held in his hand could burn the outside world. If only everything in this place wasn't non-flammable...
flick. swoosh. flick. swoosh. thud.The tall brunette looked up at the sound of rapping against the wall, spotting a figure not too far down the dark hallway.
( ... )
Still too quiet for his tastes even as he gagged up an empty stomach and acidic bile (waves of nausea receding as the scent passed), these ugly carpeted halls and he'd only just gotten here (the silence getting to him; thick and suffocating more than the sickness); nice blast of Sex Pistols would change that well enough and the resulting cacophony and shitfits would prove entertaining if he could find a nice perch. Find a way into the air vents in the building housed any. His fingers itched for any secret, hidden nook or cranny to hide his swarthy body. Itched for the nuisances to be made; each muted heartbeat whispering troubletroubletrouble.
He was a magician with a slight of hand trick, trigger hand merely a receptacle to palm a thin hand rolled cigarette from his thin pocket tin, to his lips; between his fingers if he thought there were reproving footsteps on the horizon. Merely another cunt to mess the halls and replaced the almost stale length back between his lips. Thank the gods for his mother. Poor bitch. But what was a
( ... )
"Prick~Recognition hit the elder straight in the head, beating at the broken memories. Bored eyes rolled upwards to glare at the voice's owner. It was the kid. The new one, like he'd said. But the Aster kid. Why was he in Ambrosia's halls? In the same moment he'd thought that, he'd decided he didn't give a fuck
( ... )
It was the last thing he had been expecting; therefore his balance (the purposeful slouch) wasn't enough to keep him on two feet, stumbling barely half a step before falling to bended knee; pitch and planes shifting as he overlapped, momentarily unravelled and struck by such fury (and fear)[waiting for laughter] his head spun [merely hearing incoming thunder]. Reita narrowed his eyes into thin slits; wove a dangerous gaze as he hauled himself up with sore bones that protested the movement.
“Watch where you spazz, retard, or you'll break a leg acting like that,” he hissed, tongue running against the corner of his mouth before he crossed the fabric bandage against it; half intending to spit in the skinny fuckers face. “I could stand the challenge. Looks like I came out at the right time. Gonna show me what you can do
( ... )
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The halls of Ambrosia were never too quiet, some form of a fuck up walking up and down them often. In this case, it was a regular. Someone who couldn't sit still; couldn't stay in one place. Shiroyama Yuu, his empty eyes boring holes into the carpet as he walked, the irises currently fixated on the glowing flame that his antique, silver lighter produced every time he flicked it open.
flick. swoosh. flick. swoosh.
He didn't care that it was late. Dark out, even. He didn't sleep a lot; his frail, too thin body often hurt too much to sleep, and the nightmares of taunting were never too far behind the unlucky times when he could in fact fall into sleep's claws. God, what he would do for a cigarette now. Something to burn his lungs like the fire he held in his hand could burn the outside world. If only everything in this place wasn't non-flammable...
flick. swoosh. flick. swoosh. thud.The tall brunette looked up at the sound of rapping against the wall, spotting a figure not too far down the dark hallway. ( ... )
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He was a magician with a slight of hand trick, trigger hand merely a receptacle to palm a thin hand rolled cigarette from his thin pocket tin, to his lips; between his fingers if he thought there were reproving footsteps on the horizon. Merely another cunt to mess the halls and replaced the almost stale length back between his lips. Thank the gods for his mother. Poor bitch. But what was a ( ... )
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“Watch where you spazz, retard, or you'll break a leg acting like that,” he hissed, tongue running against the corner of his mouth before he crossed the fabric bandage against it; half intending to spit in the skinny fuckers face. “I could stand the challenge. Looks like I came out at the right time. Gonna show me what you can do ( ... )
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