#int.in threes

[terminalisms]

in threes erina and ajax @phvse

it's nothing new: a december 4pm reels in the same stretch of black sky as 9pm during the peak of july. the turn of the seasons doesn't matter much when the worst of it is spent all the same; shut away from the rest of the world, confined to the company of shadows and the straining blue glare of a computer screen.

on any given day, this doesn't bother her. (and why would it? grass is green, the earth is round, and grad students pay to be voluntarily shackled to the doomed rituals of academia. indisputably, these are known, universal truths since the beginning of mankind. indisputably, this is the norm.) but factor in a looming deadline right before the weekend from a tenured professor who more than half the department hates, and the night suddenly feels exceptionally endless.

she steps out eventually. according to her phone, the ordeal only took up two hours of her precious time. never mind that it felt like ten years, never mind how 9:08pm right now feels deliriously like three-something in the morning. what's done is done.

book bag in one hand, empty drink in the other, erina stops at the top of the stairs. gives her eyes a moment to adjust to the bottomless dark that engulfs everything all around before she begins making her way down. boots hit frosted asphalt, steps geared towards yellow hall. a ten minute trek if she gets her timing right.

click, click, click—

in the distance there's laughter, chillingly hyena-like. at first, she pays it no mind. but then that same laughter reverberates in doubles, then triples, multiplying and growing louder by the perilous second. and then, another set of footsteps, slow at first then quickening.

the hairs on the back of her neck start to stick up.

clickclickclickclick—

night vision could be so useful right now, except the only two things in her arsenal are flight-or-fight and a can of pokka coffee.

clickclickclickCLICKCLICK—

hastily, the can's crushed by the grip of her fingers. it's a harrowing split second decison of fuck it, it's fight when erina abruptly spins around on her heel, can aimed threateningly high to chuck it square in the face of—

"oh."

under a streetlamp (that seemingly, conveniently just remembered to do the one thing it's supposed to do and turn on), her eyes scrutinize the face framed by a pair of hideously oversized sunglasses. they trail over to the rowdy gaggle behind him. and then it's right back to the glasses.

the hand lowers. a breath escapes her, tone falling resolutely flat with disappointment. "it's you."