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half Iago, half Fu Manchu, all bastard
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
[[Erik Laurin continued from Pull My Daisy, Tip My Cup))

Oxygen burned like fire in Erik's lungs as he crouched at the summit of the mountain. His breath came in great heaving gasps; whatever semblance of control he'd had over the slide of air in and out of his body long since stripped away by the climb. He braced his palms on his thighs and concentrated on the ground in front of him, dimly aware that he felt like vomiting, more occupied by the desperate need for air.

He'd been running for what felt like forever. Originally he had planned to search the island in grids, slow and methodical in his search for Brendan. He'd gotten fairly far as well - still dodging any action, but not before scoping it from the trees just in case that was where his quarry lay. But then there had come the escape and he'd hauled ass, running until his legs gave way and pitched him into the trees and even then he got up and staggered on because that was where Brendan was, he knew it, it had to be, it all made sense...

He'd been right, of course.

Not that it had helped. He arrived too late. Too slow. Far too slow. And now Brendan was dead. His firm grasp on the newfound feeling of serenity had slipped and fractured and now he clung to it with all he had, because if he stopped to think about Brendan dead he would start to think about blood and bodies and seabirds pecking open eyes and then, then he wouldn't be able to think anymore and this time he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from taking that long slow dive from the edge of the sweet-salt cliffs.

So instead, he ran.

Most of the time he kept it slow. He lost himself in the steady repeating rhythm of footfalls, of trying to predict the terrain below his battered sneakers. He settled into the floating ocean of calm (or tried and tried and tried) and made himself measure each length until he was like clockwork with his steady long-distance pace.

But sometimes it failed. It had failed at the base of the mountain and he punished himself with the fire in his calves and thighs, made himself run harder and faster and more because maybe this time he would be fast enough and there would be bright eyes and big hands waiting for him and he would be okay and he wouldn't have fucked up so bad if he just ran a little faster.

All it got him was agonizing cramps and black spots swimming in his vision, though. He remained bent over and gasping until the worst of the nausea had faded and it didn't feel quite as much like he was drowning on dry land. He didn't both looking up, still concentrating on the frantic beat of his pulse, trying to use it like a mantra; the steady drum-beat of not dead yet.

Not. Dead. Yet.

marc st. yves
light it up or burn it down we'll all die in fire
{food for thought}

phineas rosario
fall down seven times stand up eight

sebastian conway
can't see the forest for the trees
{book of sparrows}

(so you've got to keep in mind, when you try to change the world for the better not everybody's gonna be on your side)
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Burn On · The Mountain