( felix finds the little slip of paper late, after a long shower where he absolutely 100% uses all the hot water.
it's acknowledged but ignored at first. harding slips him stupid ass notes under his door sometimes, scrawled in pencil, usually detailing some terrible joke or requesting felix's presence in his room for a drink as if texting is a concept beyond him entirely. felix doesn't look at it again until after he's dressed and notices the smudge of ink in the corner. first red flag. harding doesn't write in pen.
he crouches on the floor, hooking the folded paper with his index finger and twisting it toward him. ephemera. again. left for him intentionally this time, and it takes felix all of two seconds to understand why.
ortez, his bulk and towering elegance sketched in sharp, stark lines, and felix leaning archly into his space, like the earth helplessly submitting to the sun's gravitational pull. a memory, drawn from the perspective of an outsider. before everything went to shit on chorus. before ortez left him. before felix lost everything.
the world goes a little fuzzy and cold at the edges. felix sways back on his heels. he can't breathe, like on the roof when he was a single gasp away from hyperventilating on top of a convulsing ephemera, glassily staring at his unfinished mural. panic attack. too much liquor fucking with his senses, overcompensating for all the shit he can't get his hands on to make the quiet that much quieter. he rocks forward again, splaying his hand flat on the floor, and exhales shakily. oh, fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. think about something else. not reach. not ortez. not chorus.
think about ephemera, then.
he launches to his feet and kills the lights, then eases the door open slowly and peers out into the empty hallway. then back into his room, plucking his knife and phone off the bedstand table on his way to the window. )
you know what ephemera
( he pops the window and silently hitches himself over the sill, landing feet-first on the fire escape. the street below is crowded, people moving shoulder-to-shoulder as one writhing mass illuminated by blinking neon lights and yellow-bulbed street lamps.
felix leans over the railing and scans the swarming sea of faces. fucking asshole's probably long gone. )
no subject
it's acknowledged but ignored at first. harding slips him stupid ass notes under his door sometimes, scrawled in pencil, usually detailing some terrible joke or requesting felix's presence in his room for a drink as if texting is a concept beyond him entirely. felix doesn't look at it again until after he's dressed and notices the smudge of ink in the corner. first red flag. harding doesn't write in pen.
he crouches on the floor, hooking the folded paper with his index finger and twisting it toward him. ephemera. again. left for him intentionally this time, and it takes felix all of two seconds to understand why.
ortez, his bulk and towering elegance sketched in sharp, stark lines, and felix leaning archly into his space, like the earth helplessly submitting to the sun's gravitational pull. a memory, drawn from the perspective of an outsider. before everything went to shit on chorus. before ortez left him. before felix lost everything.
the world goes a little fuzzy and cold at the edges. felix sways back on his heels. he can't breathe, like on the roof when he was a single gasp away from hyperventilating on top of a convulsing ephemera, glassily staring at his unfinished mural. panic attack. too much liquor fucking with his senses, overcompensating for all the shit he can't get his hands on to make the quiet that much quieter. he rocks forward again, splaying his hand flat on the floor, and exhales shakily. oh, fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. think about something else. not reach. not ortez. not chorus.
think about ephemera, then.
he launches to his feet and kills the lights, then eases the door open slowly and peers out into the empty hallway. then back into his room, plucking his knife and phone off the bedstand table on his way to the window. )
you know what ephemera
( he pops the window and silently hitches himself over the sill, landing feet-first on the fire escape. the street below is crowded, people moving shoulder-to-shoulder as one writhing mass illuminated by blinking neon lights and yellow-bulbed street lamps.
felix leans over the railing and scans the swarming sea of faces. fucking asshole's probably long gone. )
i think i get it now
why you kissed me back