Sometimes, she hears the rain falling. Always at a distance, too far for her to run and chase after the storm, rest her face underneath to allow cool dress to kiss her cheeks. Too far for her to do much else other than watch the swirl of clouds overhead, heavy and gray, slung low and keeping the azure stretch of sky blanketed from view. It's circled around her these past few days, casting her gaze above, nothing but silence barring her from returning to the ground below. Far too aware, Tony's gaze winds around her like a fleeting brush, never landing, always slipping between her fingers, and that's how she knows- there'll come a day when he can't run anymore, and she needs to be ready to welcome him home
( ... )
"I need that," Tony replies, although he doesn't fight her, not right away, just watches the phone slip from his fingers. His tone switches from earnestly unsteady to casual and even in a blink, but there's enough confidence that the casual observer might actually believe he's all right until he opens his mouth again.
"I've got to ring Sid, we need spliff for the party," he continues, and holds his hand out. "The stupid tit never picks up his messages, it's no good leaving them."
Her hand only grips the phone more securely, skin stretching to a bone white, a tremor in her fingers. Temptation brushes by, numbing in its wake, encouraging her to break the phone entirely, as though the crack might pull Tony out of his reverie. Out of the chambers that he's so carefully built for himself, a world of his own creation, a world perfect for him and all those he'd let inside. Instead, she stuffs it roughly in the pocket of her jacket, loose around her shoulders, and reaches thin hands out to grip Tony's own. Brow furrowed, she's not sure what might bring him back to the surface, not sure her voice might reach him half as well as the people who have pushed him down the stairs in the first place.
He isn't fucking with her. That isn't his intent, anyway, although there is that perpetual part of him, separate and watching, transfixed by the motions of his own emotional breakdown. His mouth opens, framed around a protest that dies before he can speak, withered by the look in his sister's eyes. He draws a breath instead, shuddered in and held until he has to let it out all at once like a dam broken, everything else tumbling out with it
( ... )
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"I've got to ring Sid, we need spliff for the party," he continues, and holds his hand out. "The stupid tit never picks up his messages, it's no good leaving them."
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(Billy doesn't love him. She knew that ( ... )
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