[It's felt unbearable, this distance. The cold and loneliness even when he isn't really alone, or really cold — near a campfire drunk on some caravanner's spiced wine. Chain smoking cigarettes, standing off to the side, watching time wear on. Seeing glimpses of a lean silhouette he knows too well. Sometimes on its own, sometimes with other people. Yazat's name floats around a lot. The ritual goes until sunrise and picks up the next night, all over again, one continuous party in a blur of intoxication.
Cain should stop being a coward, but he doesn't know which way will hurt more.]
un: reliant
Cain should stop being a coward, but he doesn't know which way will hurt more.]
hey
busy?