A drop of ink: black against the blue. Or maybe a bullet — a weapon for which Seiji has no name. It glides in periphery until he turns: black lines reflected in dark eyes. Close; closer; close. Seiji knows three things: its name is Waker; it might kill him; he cannot move. Every muscle freezes under black skin, under the false (trembling) wing. Salt a rime on Seiji's flanks; mud a cast on his long, slim legs. He looks — Waker turns (over and over and over) and it's a burst of movement like fireworks going off, like the clench moment of a heart beat. Many heart beats. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. Seiji's thin mane lifts and flutters along his neck. And he breathes. |
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