#nini dont let the dream bugs bite

[plagiarizedx]

BIG-O TW for things like://blood//panic attacks//inability to breathe//???//it's 4am guys I cannot think of all the things. It's soft tho. A lil. Kinda creep. Anywho, enjoy, *finger wiggles* OH and ghosties too-ish.

The tube-shaped halogen light mounted into the bathroom ceiling above his head exploded, and with it, a burst of expeditious glass rained down upon him. Bare skinned and shower fresh, the loud pop from the bulb alone was enough to send Proko into fight of flight mode, gasping as the panic and the terror immediately settled deep into what the brunette could've only described as his soul, it left him chilled and nearly emobolized as he frantically reached for the door.

Something stung at the top of a crooked shoulder blade, a very similar sensation radiated throughout his left cheek and the pain had already managed to tunnel it's way into his ear canal, the light flickered. And it was in between those flickers of dark and light that the images took place, inaudible shouting from familiar voices, the lustrous shine of a chrome forty-four magnum, blood, so much blood that he could taste it. He was trying to breathe but he couldn't, unable to yell for K even though they were barely thirty feet apart, their only form of separation was a wooden door but it was still too much.

Someone was clutching his throat, stopping him completely from something as simple as breathing, reminded of his mortality. But there was no one else around, he was alone, and in that moment he didn't know what scared him worse. Something else in the bathroom shattered but he could barely see long enough to tell what it was, pupils failing to adapt to the strobe of the light, feeling stunned and dizzy and nauseated.

He ducked again and shards cut into the soles of his vulnerable feet and the reactivate twist of his ankle knocked him right on his ass, arms reaching out to grab at whatever he could, pulling the shower curtain down right along with him. It felt like he had been punched in the chest, it was instinct that had Prokopenko backing up until the warmth running down his shoulder was soothed by the cold porcelain of the tub, the commotion and clattering of metal must have been enough to wake K up because he was outside the bathroom door banging on it repeatedly but it was the sound of his voice that had managed to somewhat ground Proko down to earth again.

It didn't take him much long after to bust the door open, despite the fact that Proko never locked doors, they both knew this much from several awkward experiences. Never awkward for K, though, of course. And the light that was suddenly flipped on was bright and blinding and for a second Prokopenko thought he might've died right there from some sort of panic induced heart attack, cowered up in the corner of the bathroom in nothing but his sweatpants, but then K's face came in from a pixelated view to something more clear after he had rather stealthily tip toed around the chunks of glass despite Proko's breathless warnings, speaking soft and gentle words that the curly-haired boys brain failed to translate and compute. Nearly as laggy as the turbo on his car.

They didn't talk much after, and if Proko was being honest, he was pretty positive he had passed out a couple of times. Left feeling so exhausted that he couldn't even find it in himself to get up off the floor, to process what in the literal fuck had just happened, but that was okay because Kavinsky had just stayed. Tattoo and scar decorated hands cupping Proko's face, a thumb stroking unlacerated cheek, he wasn't even sure how long they had stayed like that but by now he was certain he had blacked out a few more times before he was being helped to his feet, his head had lulled back ever so slightly and a set of bloodshot glossy moss-like-green eyes had looked up at the light. Blast radius strong enough that the fixture itself now hung from the ceiling, leaving ugly wires exposed, but that wasn't the thing that unsettled Proko the most. He had managed to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror, or what was once a mirror, now all shattered and cracked up the center. The writing scribbled across the fogged up reflective surface, somehow unaffected by the damage, was almost mortifyingly similar to his own mediocre handwriting. He noticed the purple bruising quickly gathering up contrast around his throat.

And the words read:

You're dead as dead can be.