[ each second is an hour, each beat of his heart feels as if it's pushing concrete through his body and out the wound in his chest and filling his mouth. his mind is fuzzy and there's nothing around them - it's almost as if they've been pulled from the alley and placed into a plane of existence that's only them. ...somewhere that mikado would have preferred living. somewhere that's close to what he was trying to create.
...there's part of him that's glad this happened. somewhere deep inside him, choked into silence and inaction by dark, inky tendrils is the idealistic young boy, the filling for the boring, normal, innocent shell that everyone else sees. someone who knew that in order for this to end right, he needed to be ended.
it's not hard to break the grip of a dying person, and as the warm metal of the gun is pressed against his face, the corners of mikado's mouth turn up as he slides his eyes closed. ]
no subject
...there's part of him that's glad this happened. somewhere deep inside him, choked into silence and inaction by dark, inky tendrils is the idealistic young boy, the filling for the boring, normal, innocent shell that everyone else sees. someone who knew that in order for this to end right, he needed to be ended.
it's not hard to break the grip of a dying person, and as the warm metal of the gun is pressed against his face, the corners of mikado's mouth turn up as he slides his eyes closed. ]