#scriptspoke

[scalxwag]

@nocquiem @scriptspoke

Between Abel and Sascha — fane isn’t going to have any clothes left smh

[nocquiem]

❛ Is there something going on that you need to tell me? ❜

‘i drank the last of the coffee...’

and he doesnt know how to brew a new pot with the kind that Sascha has. The one he and his dad used was ages old and didnt work half the time, but neither of them used it enough to warrent replacement. So Abel usually went to the coffee shop or...

...or he went to Sascha.

[nocquiem]

"Please come back in once piece."

There’s a pause at the door frame, and the redhead looks back for a moment to gaze back at the brunet. He was donned in black, and a few minor weapons concealed on his person. He knows Fane is waiting outside with their mode of transport and the rest of their weapons. It was a serious lead they were following with the potential of either forsaken or a demon.

The chances of them coming back in one piece were slim, but with Fane and Abel’s combined ability, there was a high chance of it working out. Hopefully.

He doesnt really want to make any promises he cant keep, and so he hesitates. Would Sascha believe him if he did lie? It didn’t seem fair to do such a thing to him. So instead he gives the other a small smile, and a brief wave, before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

[nocquiem]

“POOR UNFORTUNATE SOULS--” Here he comes, sliding across the wood floor in his socks.... And there he goes, misjudging and sliding into the wall, falling onto his back after impact. “... Shit.”

There’s a split second where he’s quite conflicted. He wants to laugh, because... well it was kind of funny. Not that pain was funny -- just the fact he misjudged and wiped out. But there was also that rising concern of; did Sascha just hurt himself? 

Swallowing the silent laughter, the redhead picked his way over to Sascha, making sure not to slip in his own socks. There wasn’t any real need to sign as he crouched over the other and offered his hand to help him up. The motion and look in his eyes both spoke the same message to the brunet.

‘ you okay? ‘

[scalxwag]

@scriptspoke in reply to THIS.

   Fane drank often. It worked, it helped, it relaxed him. When he drank like this -- he couldn’t think. His brain was so quiet, so very quiet. It was so peaceful. The raging storm was defeated but the poison he put into his body. He couldn’t stop -- the feeling was NUMBING. Fane fought to feel numb, most would run from it but he welcomed it with open arms. He needed it.

     He needed it so desperately that he would get it from whatever source he could get it from. Liquor? It was the easiest and quickest route. 

    Fane glanced up at Sascha as he planted his legs on either side of him. “Do you think the angels cry for men like me?” He closes his eyes as the other beings to fool with his hair. “Or, do you think they have turned their backs on me?” The question was a simple one but it held so much dept. It held a cry for help. “Would they welcome me?”

   “Just kidding. Who believes in angels, yeah?” Fane welcomes the close contact with the other, burying his face deeper in the other’s chest as he wrapped his arms around Sascha. It was warm. The warmth was comforting -- it was just as intoxicating as the liquor he had consumed. Fane recognized the song almost right away.

    He hums the rest of the tune before giving his own two cents; 

              “-- LOVE is NOT a victory march. It’s a COLD and it’s a broken Hallelujah.”

[nocquiem]

All he could remember was the faint far off sounds of his mother’s singing. So very far off that he couldn’t even make out the words of the old lullaby he scarcely remembers from the days of his early childhood. But despite his longing to see her, Abel does not move. He watches as the faces of people around him become clear as if a light slowly dawn on them. Each face he recognizes one by one.

His father, Fane, Sascha, Amedeo, Bennett, Allie, and a few others he recognized, though they dwelled further from the light that softly illuminated around him. Each looked at him without quite seeing him, each simply stared in the direction of where he was, but not at him. Abel instinctively parted his lips as if to call out. But with each name that came to mind, never to be spoken, their colors began to fade. The distance between him and them began to grow. The warmth of their presence receded and ice began to creep in on him. He began to tremble and shiver.

In response to the change at the draw away from his friends he chased after them. His legs were sluggish and his pace slow. The weight of his burdens and sins, his anxieties and fears seeming to tangle him up and pull him further away despite his best efforts. Abel reached out desperately, mouth agape in a silent cry, calling for those familiar to him without ever uttering a sound. The silence consumed him, as did the shadows as the soft light that had once illuminated his friends and loved ones began to flicker out, and he was left alone in his singular, faint, spotlight.

The feeling of being alone was so overpowering an overwhelming that Abel crossed his arms over himself. He doubled over and squeezed his eyes tight. It was so terribly, terribly cold. As if his limbs were slowly turning to ice and he’d soon become nothing more than a decorative piece of frost to melt away in the coming spring, left as nothing but a puddle of what he once was. 

He was all alone. So alone. So distant and desperate from someone -- anyone-!

Then, behind him, he heard a sound. A soft, familiar sound. He heard it every night in his nightmares. Eyes snapped open and slowly, ever so slowly, he turned to focus his attention behind him.

There in his own small spotlight stood a smaller version of himself. His hair was shorter, and a mess. Twigs and leaves clung to his appearance along with a plethora of scrapes and the occasional cut. His clothes were dirty and disheveled. His head was bowed and both hands were raised to his face, hiding away the tears and smothering the hiccups.

This wasn’t the loud crying of a child trying to snare the attention of those around him. It was the soft, quiet sobs of a child in despair, knowing there were no adults or persons who could help him. 

The feeling that seized Abel in that moment could hardly be described in words. It was a knife, a twist, a pain. But it was also a fear and an endless sorrow. Yet, at the same time, none of that was a proper fit. 

A few soft steps drew the grown hunter forward towards the child rendition of himself. He knew how this part of the dream went and every time he always did the same thing. Soon enough the older was standing before the crying younger, and the sobs slowly died away. Hands pulled from the crying child’s face, and the eyes that looked up at Abel were not even his own. They were an empty void. The blackness that haunted his dreams and tried to pry its way into his heart and swallow him whole.

‘ y o u  d i d  t h i s  t o  u s ‘

He snaps awake in bed. No longer with the same startled gasp of his youth when this version of himself began to appear in his nightmares. There was a familiarity about it. What did linger every time was the weight and the sorrow and the distant cold feeling in his heart that made Abel linger. The covers were warm, but it seemed so distant as he stared up at the ceiling overhead. 

It was most mornings that went like this where Abel contemplated if it was even worth forcing himself up. 

But he always did. He had to try, he told himself. He always had to try.

Slow steps bring him out of the guest room. Never once does he bother to fix the mess of his hair, nor does he make the attempt to change his clothes right away. For a moment, he doesnt even remember if he’s fallen asleep at home or not. Though the answer is quick to come to him.

“Abby! I’m making pancakes, c’mon!”

The cheerful shout seems to snap him out of his morning stupor, and brown eyes lift to spot a cheerful brunet dancing about the kitchen in some rather punny pajamas. Time seems to slow down for those few heartbeats it takes for Abel to take in the scene, the smile, the energy. And then, that cold weight on his heart seems to lift just ever so slightly. 

Just enough to assure him that today would just be another day, and tomorrow would always come. 

‘ chocolate chip pancakes? ‘

@scriptspoke // xx