Ethereal | Twilight |

001

Sora was abysmally and miserably sick—or, at least, that's what Leah would say about his state. His dark locks fell languidly over his throbbing temples, soaked with sweat and droplets, clinging to his hot and moist skin.

The shirt adhered to him like a second skin, damp and delicate, accentuating the transformation of his physique—every sinew, every muscle, now sore and taut, resembling threads pulled tightly across his entire structure, a manifestation of poignant strain.

Retrieving his phone from a drawer, his adhesive and fumbling hands grappled with each subtle motion, contending with the disagreeable sensation of his own skin.

3:43.

He groaned; of course, it was that early. He was sure he was dreadfully sick if his body had the audacity to wake him at this hour of the night. His head throbbed with an indignant intensity, a persistent rhythm of discomfort resonating through his mind as he stood, stretching, his sore body echoing the ache in unison.

He showered, washing away his distaste for his current state under the plentiful chills of the cool water, hoping to soothe his sore muscles—a ponder, a consideration for later. For now, all he wanted was to wash away his disgust of the heat clinging to his body and rest, sleep, or perhaps engage in his usual unhealthy activities.

A knock catches his attention, the towel slipping from his grasp as he hurries to wrap it over his waist, a groan tearing from his lips.
"Sora?" He flinches, lashes fluttering, "Yeah?" He cursed at himself mentally; maybe a shower too early in the morning was a mistake, a grave mistake.

His mother peers through the door, eyes closed, swollen and puffy features from the heaviness of sleep. He sighes, guilt seeping through, his own mouth parting and closing.
"Are you sick?" The question lingered heavily between them, disturbingly undoing his recent sentiments. He didn't know he was sick until now; it was clearly only an assumption based on how he had pulled himself from the weight of his weakened and harrowing limbs.

"What the hell do you even mean?" The raw impulsion in his voice seared through the fog of the bathroom, lunging with blistering hands towards his mother's frame. A seething inflammation surging, its fiery tendrils coursing through the tips of his fingers, sweeping across his chest and deftly scratching past his throat, hissing and ripe, leaving an unpleasant taste on his tongue as he blew a rough splutter. His mother's body withers, sways; her mouth trembling before she gasped, eyes suddenly breaking free, widening—a reflection of her brows convulsing through the empyrean. "I'm sorry."

She slammed the door hard, the fog within the bathroom escaping quickly. A smear of shame Instantaneously staining his face. "Oh, fuck!" His fist collides with the bathroom sink, the resonance reverberating through his bones, bitterness forcefully pounding against his skin. As though his night couldn't plunge any deeper.

Sora knew he didn't have a good relationship with his mother, nor with his father before his death. He nearly spoke with his mother, but like any other son, he still kept his respect, hiding his stash so she wouldn't be a victim of regret, shame for never being there while she lost herself in a sea of emotions, washed away and doused by grief without the only man she knew; a continuous worship of love before it was ripped away, dripping from her DNA like he was once a part of her.

Over the years, he got used to it, poring over the river before it became the river, when it was nothing more than his mother's tears, a kind of old hunger that kept itself alive in the little boy's chest as he hid behind doors, away from her presence, aching in a language so old his teeth dripped, and his eyes burned under the weight of a battlefield that was all just a game as he thought about it much older.

But his sudden disrespect, his abrupt, aberrant outburst, odd rage that poured like holy ignition only made him a coward. Knowing what was wrong with him was out of the question, and with the embers of his sickness kindling a bonfire within his body, he could only ignore it, swallow a pill, and relax under its magic, the colors and patterns over his line of sight comforting, faces turning and rolling into circles, creating a feeling of home.

School was a tumultuous realm as he navigated through every class immersed in enchanting episodes, the embrace of his euphoric state alleviating the intensity of his sickness, and the memories of his unwarranted disrespect towards a mother who deserved better fading into fleeting insignificance, irrelevant, as if she could possibly be nothing.

Life was simply easier; it was good, as long as he kept himself under a state away from her reach.

The bell rings, sparking gunfire into the frames of every individual as they hurry to grab their bags, women beginning the gossip, the screeching, the giggles, others grunting, groaning, their sighs audible and relatable.

Jared stood before him, bathed in the luminous glow filtering through the windows, his skin adorned with a russet hue that danced like liquid warmth. Paul stood feet away, his head turning, brows furrowing. "Let's go." Paul demands it; urgent, a furious, insistent look in his eyes that seemed to always be there, now only heightened.

Jared remains indifferent, casting a decision on the whims of the moment. He leans in, his commanding presence accentuated by the sinuous contours beneath his shirt, the flesh undulating and rippling with a captivating intensity.
"He's high as fuck though."

Paul groans audibly, irritation tracing every contour of his features. His glare at Jared deepens, a faint tremor adding emphasis to his piercing look.

Sora doesn't even react to the comment or insult, perhaps, but Jared couldn't be more right. Sora had taken more than his usual dose, and as he looked up, caught in the act, he glanced over to the other before sliding his arms over the desk, burying his head into his arms, his comfort enveloping him like the gentle wings of an angel, soothing, warm, beyond gone.
"Cool, he's high, now let's go." Paul does  not wait for an answer; he rushes out as Jared stays, his head bobbing to the side, observing the change in Sora's body. The first changes in a month.

"Sam was right."