(no subject)

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

Uncertain if relative peace in the infirmary is comforting or not, Angeal at least appreciates it. The soft beeps of machines, the clatter of instruments being sanitized or organized. It’s settling after a busy day, after a haze of pain and worry—

[very soon now he’d never escape it, would do all he can to avoid it aside upon the promise of death— He stares it in the face every day but no more than he will in the mirror, every time he looks in Genesis’ eyes]

“So you have one broken rib,” Genesis hums from the bed beside him. Angeal barely turns his head to look at him, but he can tell without looking that the other is smug. Pride radiates from the tip of his red locks to the dozy, pain-med-induced grin on his face.

Angeal merely nods. He wonders where this is going, he wonders if someone threw out the blood-soaked copy of Loveless his friend clutched to his side.

“And I have three,” the redhead crows, and his eyes shine with more than the drugs, with more than pride—[it’s obsession, one he hadn’t seen since they were small boys just trying to make friends in this huge world]

“So that means I’m stronger than you!” Genesis crows, twisting too fast, his grin stretched too-wide, too fast, pointing an accusing finger at his boyhood friend. “I’m better, and I bet that stuffy brat Sephiroth couldn’t take—”

The redhead promptly tumbles off the bed in a heap of long limbs and bandages. Angeal merely sighs and presses the call button on the side of his bed, then rolls back over once he confirms the other is breathing.

“If anything it means we have to learn to dodge better.”