[ There's a part of Ephemera - distant, twitchy, entirely too sober - that wants to ask what Locus looks like without his helmet. There's a person underneath the armor. Always is. That's the trouble. But that's not for him to know, is it? He didn't hate Locus but Ephemera didn't know him either. He was just there, a looming presence in the field. Like a force of nature with how often the others whispered about him.
Crazy, too. Apparently.
He exhales through his teeth, then tears a strip out of his shirt to bandage his hand before he gives into the impulse to dig into the wound and really make it scar. He doesn't ask. Felix might actually tell him the truth, and then what would they do?
And then, because there's something sharp and pulsing inside of his skull tonight: ]
no subject
Crazy, too. Apparently.
He exhales through his teeth, then tears a strip out of his shirt to bandage his hand before he gives into the impulse to dig into the wound and really make it scar. He doesn't ask. Felix might actually tell him the truth, and then what would they do?
And then, because there's something sharp and pulsing inside of his skull tonight: ]
get fucked
[ He really ought to let it lie. Move on.
Should.
Doesn't. ]