DEVILS ♛ C. G. 〖 #wattys2018 〗

T W O / O N E

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P A R T   T W O :
A R D O R

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SOTC: O Green World — Gorillaz
• When no one needs the heart of me •

One word could describe the relief he felt in that moment, like a balloon letting out its air, like his lungs dispelling all the hate and dread and mistrust he'd been collecting over the days.

One word to fill his heart with hot air, to float it up to his head.

He was going to see his family. He was going to be home, and see Michonne's brilliant smile, and his dad's warm blue eyes, and hear Judith's twinkling laugh that seemed to mend universes within his chest.

Finally.

He was going home, finally.

He told himself not to believe it. Too weird and too random to be true. Yet April told him about the weapons, the maps, the keys. It felt as if she was dictating his ascent into heaven.

For the first time, it felt like they were aligned. A nervous pull to her grimace, that Carl matched exactly. Yet, an atom of hope splitting between them like a firecracker, like everything he ever needed.

Finally.

Everything was mending, and soon everyone would be back in their places, as if nothing had happened at all.

But there was something in April's expression that dragged his thoughts back.

As she detailed her plan, voice deep, low, almost a whisper, she seemed almost... wistful?

For what, it was unclear. Her eyes, illuminated in the wintry sunlight, wandering elsewhere. A ship, unanchored, drifting out to sea.

♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛

Dammit.

There it was again.

A flash of something. Red, distant, a glinting curvature of an ornate windowsill.

Twitching, parting, a lip she once claimed as her own.

Then, gone again, like streetlights illuminating a car, flickering to black.

Flickering... the face appeared again, lips parting, yelling. She could feel the vibrations on her skin, yet her ears stood in filthy silence.

The obscenities rose like fog around her ears, a cloud of hatred welling up from the crowds. Shouting, teeth bared at his atrocities—

He, Oliver, her confidant, cuffed to a chair. Surrounded by Negan, a writhing storm of people parading around with middle fingers and imprecations hurling from their lips—

And maybe it was some form of special hell. Surreal, like a nightmare, as her father lowered his match—

Like he lit her birthday candles when she turned eight—

And oh, his lips, grimacing as his skin curled black, as screams ripped from his chest, as he was chanting something in her direction—

Some form of special hell.

His lips, holding words between his teeth, heartbeat slamming against ribcage—

Everything was unclear, blurry, fog crusting across her skin—