Ethereal | Twilight |

005

It's Sunday morning, Sora wishes he'd slept longer. A 2 Am kind of eyes croaking with smoke, vermilion and dilated. He reluctantly sips the bitter, black coffee, contorting his face at its taste, while his skin prickles uncomfortably, seared by the scorching heat.

With a book firmly grasped in his hand, he pursues its pages ardently, wholly engrossed by its contents until his cup is emptied. Only then does he relinquish the book, startled by Emily's ingress as she enters the kitchen. Her gentle gaze descends upon him, her smile radiating warmth throughout the room, yet he fails to reciprocate with the same ardor, as he often refrained from doing so.

"You read?"
She makes her way to the fridge, her small frame dropping at the sight of the emptiness as soon as she opens it. He shrugs, choosing not to partake in her small talk as she grabs the milk, and pours it over a cup, only to miss it, somehow knocking the cup over, and wasting a good bit over her clothes and the mess she's left on the floor.

She sighs, loud, blowing out the essence of her turmoil over his ears. She turns, her luscious, chocolate eyes coming to gather his nonchalant form, observing her from his position with an air of detachment.

"I'm going to shower and leave this here like that, don't bother cleaning it up for me. If I give you money can I trust that you can buy the food that I need?" She pleads with her eyes, and he feels the urge to rebuff her, to exit the room simply because her presence incites a visceral revolt in his stomach. The very essence of her being seems to trigger a dissonance of repugnance within him, as though every fiber of his existence recoils at the mere thought of her presence. Nevertheless, he remains impervious to his own revulsion, indifferent to the tumult of emotions swirling within his pores.

"Sure."

Her eyes widen imperceptibly, her dark brows arching in tandem with her subtle motion, as if a flicker of amusement dances behind her gaze. She attempts to conceal the faint smile tugging at the corners of her tainted lips. Retrieving her wallet with graceful precision, she returns, sliding what appears to be forty bills across the surface of a table.

Sora doesn't spend another minute there. He quickly takes the money and puts on a shirt, not wanting to look bare in public; it would only bring the kind of attention that made his skin prick.

He slips the shirt on, dusk settling at his heart like a drenched shirt of oil, and his hands wither by the time they trail down through the paths of his dark hair, tracing the contours of his cheeks, his tensed jaw. As his calloused fingertips brush against his skin, once soft and tender, now bearing the residue of filth, he recoils at the rough contrast, the coarse texture of his hands against the sweat on his face, emanating from his newfound body heat.

Meadows and clouds of contempt sway over his chest and come in bile at his throat; he sits on a bed cold enough to bring a collapse of what feels like yesterday, mush and flesh in his throat, drunken eyes that pleaded in regret, hands full of filth, no longer what his mother birthed, soft and tender.

"Sora?"

Emily stands at the door, her brows furrowing in question. His jaw snaps towards her in seconds, suppressing an anger he cannot place, a sensation igniting beneath his skin, tearing at the fabric of his sanity, as if his body shook in emotion he could not control.

With measured steps, he navigates through the space created by the open door, each movement laden with an unspoken tension. He catches the faint sound of disappointment in her soft exhales, akin to a mourned widow at a graveside, familiar to what tastes like home.

By the time his hands are full of groceries he thought Emily would prefer, he walks back. Emiy probably thought he had a car, or a ride, or maybe she thought Paul or Jared would give him one. Though he adamantly refrains from entangling himself with the pair, or indeed anyone else, he remains resolutely devoted to his exhaustion, as if it were a mantle conferred upon him in his infancy, perhaps his inaugural gift, beguilingly perfect yet illusory.