asanctuary: (∫ find traps)
Moritz ([personal profile] asanctuary) wrote in [community profile] herbgarden 2015-11-06 12:22 am (UTC)

Moritz doesn't hear the bird, not over the roaring silence in his own ears. The chilling reassurance of his decision is ice by now, burning into his skin and his mind and eclipsing everything else. Moritz is large enough that shifting nervously is loud and obvious, and he's never been good at hiding it. He breathes out with purpose and can nearly see stars. He wishes he'd brought more alcohol with him.

He thinks of his dorm room, a suite with a solo room and a common area. Moritz has a trophy from his middle school years in there, a tiny gold statue of a kid kicking a soccer ball. His mother has his football paraphernalia at the house still (don't think, don't think about them, they'd be so disappointed, just not as much as they already are) but she'd insisted he take that one with him, as a 'reminder'. Moritz looks at it in his mind's eye and is reminded of why he dropped off the varsity team his freshman year of high school and never played soccer again.

'It's like watching a fucking bowling ball knocking down pins...'

'Aren't you a bit fat to be running around so much?'

And so on; although Moritz always insisted it was because he just 'clicked' really well with football after his growth spurt into freshman year. No one had ever pressured him with questions about it. Right now, being overweight is some of the least of his worries, but the memory of that trophy staring at him makes him suddenly want to do this outside. Where he can't possibly let that be the last thing he sees--

He jumps at the hand on his arm. Jumps and grabs at his backpack strap, lets it go, fiddles with his short dense hair. "Do I--" Moritz looks at the boy - man - who's stopped him, takes in too many layers of clothing, dark clothes, dark hair, and comes back up reminded a little bit of home down south, for reasons he can't quite express. Where he'd normally notice the slight accent, he's too distracted to read much off of this stranger.

Moritz feels panic but knows this man can't possibly know what's going on (no one else has any idea, after all). He pats his pockets down as if he's not sure. "U-uh, no, no I don't have anything, sorry." His own drawl is pitchy and strong, Kentucky all the way.

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