[Death Post] Clip the phoenix’s wings and he rages with eyes alight.

[polishflare]

Feliks had always been a heavy sleeper, prided himself on it actually, but it seemed even he too had his rare moments. Because the instant he heard that weight hit the ground his eyes had snapped open. Failing to read the moment right off he just rubbed a hand across his face with a long yawn and tried to sit up with a show of over dramatic difficulty.

“Hippie, just go back to bed…” he mumbled around his sleep.

Feliks realized in that split second that the figure now over his bed wasn’t who he called to. His hippie was lying dead over there.

The game was over.

Feliks had lost.

There was a knife plunging at him. Feliks managed to jump back from it, just to be fully woken when it swiped through his arm instead of its intended strike for his back.

“Nie!” he cried, though it turned into more of a roar, pushing away as fast as he could, speaking as fast as he could, his back coming to a stop against the wall, “Pan półtoraręczny! Państwo będzie półtoraręczny! Ja już nie stracić, Pan ca mi to robić! B-bastard, you bastard! I won’t die!”

He grasped his arm then, gritting his teeth to hide the grimace of pain that followed, and glanced off to the side for an escape, seeing Sindre on the ground at the same time. The second of distraction gave Gilbert the chance to catch his ankle, hard. Feliks swore and twisted his head around in horror as the man slowly began to pull him back to him. There was that knife again, glinting up above him, and Feliks stared at it with eyes full of revulsion and hate. It was descending now and he shoved out with his other foot, sending it straight at Gilbert’s stomach.

It made him pause for a moment. The hold on Feliks’ ankle fell away and he flashed a wild grin, felt the surge of fire flood his veins. He somehow managed to rise and screamed as he put all he had behind his fist to send into the other’s head; holding that look of triumph and satisfaction.

Except, he didn’t make that hit. He only managed to throw his weight right into the knife itself. The impact silenced him, widened his eyes with surprise, surprise even then at his own failure, and he allowed himself the tiniest of whimpers. Gilbert held it into the center of his chest, pushing it more forward as he returned his own cocky grin. Feliks’ slowly shut his mouth and tried to mutter swears from between his teeth. He gave up those attempts and broke into a weak little laugh instead, each small force of breath bringing his body lower. The small realization of fear presented itself, his greatest fear being experienced.

And yet he held his resilient fist even as he collapsed.

-------------

Feliks never considered death.

Sure, he knew about it, he wasn’t stupid or anything. Really, he wasn’t. But, it always seemed like a step in life that was below him. He’d dealt with so many obstacles, people treating him as if he was worthless, trying to place that feeling within him. But, he was stubborn all the same and liked to remain that way. Never giving anyone the satisfaction and never, ever losing that will to his most favorite possession, his life.

He’d fight anything for that. He wouldn’t give up.

And he had! That fight was always in him, waiting for the strike that would light it into a raging inferno, fueling his actions, encouraging his survival, bathing him in life and strength. He would never give someone the satisfaction of taking that away from him. Even in… death.

It was his after all!

Did that make him selfish? Did it make him wrong…?

You know, wolves could be such disgusting creatures, totally gross with all their drool, and... fleas. They took the lives of others for their own survival and devoured them without a care. Feliks had never really connected to that image placed upon him.

He’d found guilt with every little kill. They were all for the sake of his own survival and the fear of them getting to him. They would, they would want to, he understood that. He feared that most of all… but he didn’t miss the hurt it sent through him. Hurt only turning to determination to live.

Feliks loved life.

He wanted everyone else to love it the same.

To him, they’d seemed to have lost that, the ones that he’d had a hand in harming…

Toris had been the hardest. How could anyone, but he’d looked so… his fire had already faded, he needed to find that again. He’d blamed everyone else, anyway. It was their faults after all. They’d made him strive harder for his life, for his survival, with fear of his own could be demise.

He… couldn’t be weak and he could never lose.

Except, he’d lost, hadn’t he?

No.

Not in the way he saw it. Feliks’ rule was in place; which, was always in place. Still was in place! He never went by anyone else’s rules after all.

He didn’t mind that feeling of weightlessness, the absence of his wings in death, the burn of his own flames, the crash into his ashes. He was positive all the same, because nothing grounded him!

Always the stubborn little phoenix.