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The Essence of Being Scared Shitless

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Pretending not to give a shit isn’t always easy, and Jet knows that.
He’s a good listener - always has been. Even when there’s nothing to say.

And Jet’s got nothing to say, either. Words in any form would be just about useless right now, as experience has taught them both. The situation’s anything but unfamiliar, after all.

It’s not long now before the ink stain blanket of night will fold itself away and the sun will make another grand entrance; before the sand will scorch their fingertips again and the shadows of cacti will reappear, dark reflections distorted over uneven ground.

Being out right now feels like lingering between heartbeats, curling up in the space between one exhale and the next inhale, carving a crack in time itself and resting right there. It carries the sensation of forever, though it’s nowhere close. And maybe that’s why it’s a time for reflection - just enough of that to feel excessive.

“Tell me when you want to go in,” Jet says eventually. It’s barely more than a murmur, yet the sound of his own voice startles him. It’s a bullet fired through the very centre of the silence.

Poison nods, clearing his throat and pulling in a slow, shuddery breath.
Jet’s hand still rests lightly on top of his, thumb skimming back and forth over Poison’s curled forefinger.

Poison’s not the leader of the Killjoys, or of the revolution. He’s not the focal point of a few thousand eyes, filled with fear, admiration or loathing, or a sickening mixture of all three, he’s not the voice of the zones, he’s not the match that sparked the fire set to torch BLI down to its vile foundations.

But as soon as the sun comes up, he’ll be every one of those things once again. Every one of them and more.

“And it fuckin’ terrifies me, sometimes,” He picks at a scab on his knee as he speaks, “But what can I do? This is what I set out for, and hell couldn’t take that from me. From all of us,”

“Of course not,” Jet replies, “But there’s no shame in being scared shitless. After all, we’re nothing more than human.”

“You’re right,” Poison swallows heavily and tips his head back, eyes resting on the sky as the weight of his best friend’s words settles on his shoulders like a lazy old cat. The sun’s liquid gold and candy fusion is seeping over, and the tear stains on his cheeks are already long forgotten.
“But that can be easy to forget.”