[ it’s clear now, what he has to do. he takes a limp imp to get to gaze in under five minutes, then takes another few to trek toward the residence. the whole time, falco’s mind was silent and simultaneously not. imagery would flash, of that video. peter’s voice or lack thereof was what hurt him the most. charlie’s suffering, the accident. it hurt more than what he saw. bodies mangled and blown apart by bombshells in every way imaginable was something he would time and time again block out, but still remember like ghosts. he could feel it— the empathy swells at the back of his throat until it forms a burning knot. he’s already reached their doorstep, let’s himself in, and climbs up the stairs.
the door to peter’s room slowly croaks open, and out pokes a head of sandy blond hair. ]
no subject
the door to peter’s room slowly croaks open, and out pokes a head of sandy blond hair. ]