Every Day I Live In Fear Of Ruin Building Off The Ggy Bullshit

every day I live in fear of ruin building off the ggy bullshit

❛  i  did  a  lot  wrong  that  i  can’t  make  right .  ❜

𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯 𝑶𝑭 𝑨𝑵 𝑶𝑷𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑰𝑺𝑻 .    (   lyric starters  originating  from  the  works  of  grandson .   mature  &  dark  themes  are  present ,   tread  with  caution .   ) 

★ — "You — you ——."

Everything Gregory could possibly say feels as if it's caught in his throat, slowly constricting until it's cutting off his ability to catch a breath. He wants to scream, wants to yell, throw a fit until his lungs hurt, lash out until Michael is far, far away from him — but he feels frozen to the spot, ice running through his veins as he stares at the man who has becomes the closest thing he's ever known to family in abject horror.

Don't lie to me. It hadn't been a request ; it had been a demand, an insistence to hear the truth he already knew deep down in his chest from Michael, who had done nothing but lie every time Gregory had pushed. He had known, instinctively, from the moment he woke up outside the hospital. He had the confirmation now, in the form of a tape recorder. He just needed to hear it from Michael. And now that's been laid out plainly ( no more lies between them ), he feels sick.

His life would have meant something. His life was supposed to mean something. The people who had died when he survived would have meant something. He shouldn't be here — not when people were still suffering, not when everything was still in ruin, not when the only hope anyone had was so quickly snuffed out.

( yet, the thought leaves a pinprick of fear panging through his heart ; he can see a cruel smile, feel a grip tighten on his wrist, just below the bite wound, keeping him in his grasp ).

He shakes the image away — something violent in the motion, his hair falling in his eyes as he pulls his arms in towards his chest, cradling the bitten arm. It shakes him out of his trance, something akin to a wail slipping past his lips. What had Michael done?

"The fireflies — they were going to fix things! We traveled all that way to fix things!"

There are tears welling in his eyes, an occasional lone teardrop slipping down his cheek. Despite his usual hesitance to cry in front of anyone, Gregory doesn't try to stop it this time. There's far too much to try and hold back.

"I had s-so many questions for them."

Words fall more towards a whisper, speaking to himself despite the way his eyes stay trained on Michael with the harshest glare he can manage. He thinks he might be trembling ; his breath coming in choppy, short bursts.

( he can see the fire surrounding them, hear a rage - filled voice telling him to come out of hiding, that his death would be far more valuable to the world than any life he could live. the ends justify the means ).

"We said — we said we'd see it through to the end. I wanted to see it through to the end."

The last of his resolved breaks, as his words tapper off from a shout into an ugly sob. Gregory wavers on his feet for a second, the tears flowing freely before he simply collapses into a crouch, curling in on himself as if trying to be as small as possible. His head buries into his knees, arms wrapping around to pull his limbs in even closer. The cries shake his body, though they fall silent, instead leaving the occasional whimper and gasp for breath to fill the air. It's as if he's trying to make himself disappear.

When you’re lost in the darkness, Look for the light

if ash can have their purely indulgent ballpit au written entirely in their head I can have my gregory can see the ghosts of the eight children who disappeared au

just wanted to give a little heads up since I got a sudden influx of followers out of nowhere — my activity may be pretty wonky for the next month or two! I'm currently preparing for my graduate candidacy review and it's hectic! to say the very least!

that being said, please feel free to send asks or reach out if you wanna plot something as I definitely want to write and plot, just keep in mind I might be a little slow

you have lost and found again the hot wire of your blood

— Alice Paalen Rahon, from "[Tu as donné ton herbe / You have given your grass]," Shapeshifter, tr. Mary Ann Caws

original:

tu as perdu et retrouvé le fil chaud de ton sang