Work Text:
It was that dream again .
The one with the bug. where he kills it, and watches the body rot. Exoskeleton peel in unsettling papery layers.
But this time it wasn't a bug.
It was a boy.
He knew this boy. Raven hair, cheery eyes. Those eyes were empty now.
He didn’t mean to do it.
But there he sat, tauntingly still.
Fugo can’t remember how long he’s been sitting there. It must have been a while. The maggots don’t want to stick around anymore.
He’d never wanted to hurt Narancia. no matter how many knives, forks, books hed throw. He didn’t mean the empty threats he hurled along with them.
So why wasn’t he crying?
Fugo sat there, eyes as dry as the bones starting to peek through his friend’s sallow skin. It was shock, maybe.
He didn’t want to think about it.
But he did, sitting there facing his friend.
Friend
Funny word, that one. You’d think friends wouldn’t be on opposite sides of a grave.
Well, there wasn’t a grave, at least.
Just Narancia.
Fugo.
And the guilt.