[Log] It's only a little bit of fun
Who: Hatake Kakashi (ura_no_ura ), Umino Iruka (smiling_umino
Status: Closed
Style: Action
Where: Kakashi Household
When: The same day as this; a little later though.
Rating: PG for now
Warnings: To be edited.
[It repeats itself, words and questions and mocking laughter. Over and over again, like a broken record, until there is only smoke and the ghost like numbness that tastes a little too much like fear and a bit of failure and self loathing. It's like a very loud play performance, where the scenery is so loud and one is immersed in it, too absorbed and captured by the dialogue, unable to speak where words turn to ash and sticks to the roof of one's mouth.
Oh c'mon, don't do that. It's no fun if you hide, un.
Eyes close, because this play, it will not end. It will just start over, even as the globe of light over the trees fades to smaller specks, fireflies stuck on velvet.
Come on, you're no fun, un.
Fun.
Why is he here? Why did he come here?!
It's all just a little fun, isn't it? Plays are meant to be fun, after all.
(But you're too afraid of what's going to happen when it all ends; when one tires of the game and casts their toys aside because it isn't fun anymore, ends the play, drops everything; you know well where it would leave you.)
He's laughing again, loud and child like, scratchy. Mocking. Jeering and fuck, shut the hell up and go away!
(It would leave you nowhere. With all that inky black.)
Iruka closes his eyes and tightens the grip of his fingers on his forearms, arms that did not go anywhere, are right there, from where he remains sitting under the sycamore tree of his home, back rigid, like he's expecting some formal tea ceremony to take place. His fingers, they just won't let go.]
Status: Closed
Style: Action
Where: Kakashi Household
When: The same day as this; a little later though.
Rating: PG for now
Warnings: To be edited.
[It repeats itself, words and questions and mocking laughter. Over and over again, like a broken record, until there is only smoke and the ghost like numbness that tastes a little too much like fear and a bit of failure and self loathing. It's like a very loud play performance, where the scenery is so loud and one is immersed in it, too absorbed and captured by the dialogue, unable to speak where words turn to ash and sticks to the roof of one's mouth.
Oh c'mon, don't do that. It's no fun if you hide, un.
Eyes close, because this play, it will not end. It will just start over, even as the globe of light over the trees fades to smaller specks, fireflies stuck on velvet.
Come on, you're no fun, un.
Fun.
Why is he here? Why did he come here?!
It's all just a little fun, isn't it? Plays are meant to be fun, after all.
(But you're too afraid of what's going to happen when it all ends; when one tires of the game and casts their toys aside because it isn't fun anymore, ends the play, drops everything; you know well where it would leave you.)
He's laughing again, loud and child like, scratchy. Mocking. Jeering and fuck, shut the hell up and go away!
(It would leave you nowhere. With all that inky black.)
Iruka closes his eyes and tightens the grip of his fingers on his forearms, arms that did not go anywhere, are right there, from where he remains sitting under the sycamore tree of his home, back rigid, like he's expecting some formal tea ceremony to take place. His fingers, they just won't let go.]