paper cranes | uc.

( 12; you deserve it all )

' paper scent.'

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

"wi-gen-!"

"if [name] doesn't wish to be a counter, then we cannot force her, mun..."

"are you seriously just going to abandon her like that-!?"

"it's her decision, mun..."

"...doesn't that just mean you're using her...?"

"mun, calm down-"

"you just used her to save our lives, and....now you're throwing her away?"

"...if she can't handle the position...then we hand it to someone else."

that was how the entire meeting went.

ha-ru was unable to part his lips and roll his tongue to say even a word, not because he wasn't in the position to do so, but because he knew about [name]'s feelings and wants the most. a yung spirit is connected to their respective hosts in a way that they could feel their feelings and everything and...

...[name]...was in pain.

ha-ru hadn't felt such a tightening feeling in his stomach in a very, very long time. his heart is still and perhaps it doesn't even beat in his chest anymore, so scientifically put, he should be feeling absolutely nothing.

but it hurts.

if he had to describe the feeling...he would. he had memorized every book written until his death after all. (he wasn't one to waste his IQ of three hundred and eighty five.)

he heard every single one of her thoughts, and he swore he even shed a tear from just an overflow of emotions and memories flashing in her eyes and his as well.

he describes it...as dying.

and it must be; a death of some kind.

he remembers death that had wrapped its feathers around his soul when he himself took his last breath, vultures of oblivion perched just out of his bright purple eyes. the slither of blood out of his stab wound; violent hands jutting past skin and staining them black. he closes his eyes and stops flicking his pen to focus a bit more, and he feels as if he's trapped in a tight and dark room with black hands wrapping around his figure from behind, whispering heartfelt and thorned words past his ears.

he feels his heartache, and he struggles to choke back a heartfelt teardrop fall from the corners of his eyes. it's crippling; i hate this. i want to die. i don't deserve to live. i don't want this. the dark thoughts go on and on, filling up old scrolls and long enough to challenge santa claus's (if he did exist but ha-ru knows he doesn't) list of bad children.

he's going to crash, burn out, wander beyond the chasing embers but have no roses to burn or prickle his finger with because his entire being feels like it's being stabbed by needles and sharp edges of paper. he feels as if he's literally dying.

he knows that feeling.

he's faced death once after all.

and he swore he could feel it again.

ha-ru's eyelids blink open to the sudden sound of someone opening his office door. he stops playing with his pencil and looks up from leaning on his hand, spotting the features of an angel with eyes as dark as dry scraps of wood he used to use for firewood when he went camping with his girlfriend. hair curly and reaching down his nape, and nothing but pure concern in his eyes.