[ it isn't that choi doesn't feel it—the hand reaching out for him through a shared tether, close, but always just out of reach. it becomes another part of the memories that flood his awareness. a friend, a brother, a lover. he watches one after another as each manages to slip just through his fingers, through their fingers, through our fingers, following the call of the red, red moon overhead. and still the fungal blooms creep ever closer. he can feel them under his feet, at the tips of his fingers, and in his very lungs. approaching. encroaching. engulfing.
until they aren't.
birds cut through the scene painted by the succumbence, tearing through the remembered fear as easily as if it were the papercraft here. they climb and they swoop, and when he turns his head to look, they look back, expectant. the sight of them brings a name to the tip of his tongue. something familiar. something important. but as he opens his mouth to speak it aloud, what comes out instead is a chest deep cough, as if some kind of mold itself is trying to climb out of his throat instead. ]
no subject
until they aren't.
birds cut through the scene painted by the succumbence, tearing through the remembered fear as easily as if it were the papercraft here. they climb and they swoop, and when he turns his head to look, they look back, expectant. the sight of them brings a name to the tip of his tongue. something familiar. something important. but as he opens his mouth to speak it aloud, what comes out instead is a chest deep cough, as if some kind of mold itself is trying to climb out of his throat instead. ]