The alarms blared overhead, artificial light streaming from battered bulbs on the ceiling.
It was loud.
Lance groaned, blinking rapidly as he woke from his sleep wearily.
Dazed, it took a heartbeat for the recent stream of memories to creep up on him, his nerves and body catching up seconds after.
The boy doubled over in pain, velvet liquid smearing from gashes and cuts annd stab wounds –and bloodied bruises scattered on his complexion as he clutched them.
He forced his muscles to relax, in an attempt to ignore the blood.He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of his dark chocolate colored lashes against his skin, and the sounds.
Quiet, then the pounding of boots against floor.
Quiet, then the loud, intrusive, familiar sound of a gun going off –a sound he had grown to fear.More gun sounds. A thunk of something falling to the floor. More thunks. More shooting.
Then, quiet. For a heartbeat too long nothing seemed to happen.
The pounding of boots got louder.—
sorry babes, writing the meeting point of Lance and Keith is actually really hard. I have made several drafts for this, most of which I loathe.
Yippie.
I'll probably merge the next chapter w/ this, so read on and enjoy.
—Lance's breath was shaky as he attempted to keep it under control, holding hid eyes shut as listening as the pounding of boots grew lounder, —and louder yet, as it seemed to pound into his skull, taunting him.
He heard the door open, the killer's pace slowed.Lance waited for the hit of pain that would seal his fate, gifting him the privilege of death, something he had both craved and feared since the moment he realized he didn't know his past.
Nothing happened."Lance?" A voice said, the tone almost a whisper of hope.
He's looking for someone else, Lance thought, not yet sure if he should be dismayed or relieved.But, the killer, a male with black hair and han-purple eyes, was walking to him.
He has the wrong person, He thought in a flurry of panic, I'm not Lance! I'm- I'm not..Who am I?
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Only The Sea >>KLANCE/LANGST
Fanfictionmemories float onwards, taken for granted. Small things are missed, like the sentence in a novel that changed the story. Responsibility without relief tugs at him, and he is tired, so tired of this. A house isn't always a home, and the castle can al...