Note/s—just trying to bring my ffnet account back to life, or something like that.
They alluded him to a jet.
And as much as he wanted to (and hell, he really wanted to), Kazu could never, fully, believe them.
Heart, nerves, bones, lungs, kidney, vertebra — all his viscera felt like brittle champagne flute stems, and his joints reeked of vulnerability. His ankles were begging to be fractured, and his lungs were already punctured. Useless, decrepit pretty boy. That was his name.
But sometimes — when his ATs were laced up, and when the motors spun — Kazu felt like he could actually be that jet. Like he could be something. He could be something. He hesitated, really considered it. He could be something. It sounded pretty, like the stuff out of storybooks, and no one was watching anyways, so he bent his knees, took a breath. His pulse surged, his fingers trembled, and, and—
He took off.
The wind roared in his ears and rumpled his clothes askew. It roared, but even so, it didn't even really feel like he was pushing against the wind. The miles multiplied under him, but it wasn't the distance that mattered. He could practically taste the adrenaline soaked through his shirt, could practically feel his pulse underneath surging. Everything else just melted away.
And damn, did that feel good.
Maybe it was because he heard it too many times, but he felt like — maybe, just maybe, you know? — he could be that jet. Maybe he had the turbine and strength to go faster. The slight hope glittered, so Kazu metered. Farther. Quicker. Faster.
The city landmarks melted together. The trees blurred. And Kazu - Kazu constantly burned for just one more inch. Just one more - His muscles screamed.
He was going so fast, it felt like nothing could stop him.
Untouchable.
Everything bled together.
And then it all stopped.
"Fuck."
Heart, nerves, bones, lungs, kidney, vertebra — all his viscera felt like brittle champagne flute stems, and his joints reeked of vulnerability. His ankles were begging to be fractured, and his lungs were already punctured. Useless, decrepit pretty boy. That was his name.
And all Kazu wanted to do was to fly. He wanted wings like... like Ikki's. Wings jet-strong. Wings that would get him somewhere. Anywhere.
But Kazu felt so weak. No, that wasn't right — he was weak. So fucking weak. All he had were tinsel wings, cheaply seamed together with broken thread, and cheaply glued to the back of his hoodie.
And now he didn't even have that anymore.
Kazu studied his reflection through the thick glass.
Bruises swelled purple. Gashes tore in too many shades of red and brown. Kazu didn't even have that many bandages. He always dreaded this (always anticipated it), but he never really thought it'd come. It hurt and ached so much fucking more than he made believe.
It was like all he could do was fall.
"Kazu..."
Kazu turned the other way. He didn't want to hear it. Oh, hell, he really didn't want to hear it. He tugged his beanie down.
A sharp intake of breath; a curse. Footsteps pounded. Kazu sighed.
Ointments, gels, band-aid boxes, a bag of ice, sodium hyaluronate, gauze, cloths, antiseptic — they all fell and littered the carpet. Kazu stared at the first aid kit his sister left readily on the kitchen shelves — "Just in case," she had said. "'Cause you never know." Well. He never knew.
He numbly watched Ikki sterilize the infections, eschew the gloves, and squeezed the gel on his bare finger. Watched Ikki press the cool, alien plasma on his flesh. Felt his finger breathing some sort of poetry on his skin with a warmth and intimacy Kazu never knew Ikki had. It was so...so unlike Ikki. But this was Ikki; all he did was shock the world anew.
Kazu could barely breathe.
But: slowly, surely, Kazu felt himself being patched up. Felt his parts steel and lock together. His wounds were hidden; his insecurities, secured. Ikki's touch long left, but the imprint was still there for Kazu. It was like a tattoo, he figured. It'd never go away.
And maybe Kazu wasn't ready to be flying just yet, but pretty boy had his tinsel wings on his back and flames over his pulse, and this was probably what flying must've felt like to begin with anyway.