i. iris ; i'm only doing the minimum to get me through
[It turns out that dying in a cave from a magical illness will take a lot out of you.]
[Not that Jet's been dragged back by that all that much. He's refused to allow it to get to him - or attempted as much. Mostly he does this by neglecting to dwell on it for very long and simply not thinking about it should it every come up. Since he sleeps in empty houses and doesn't have a place to live to call his own for the most part, Jet wakes up to a patch of yellow-and-brown flowers that immediately set off a rash of painful burning across his skin. He grits his teeth, immediately backs up from the offending blooms, but it's too late. It's worse than getting caught out in a sandstorm with no facial protection. No amount of scratching or scrubbing makes it halt. It only causes the affliction to spread.]
[So anyone who approaches Jet for the next few hours is going to see him practicing Good Social Distancing and steering clear. He has no idea if this stuff is contagious, but he's had enough of contagions to last him a lifetime, thanks.]
ii. asphodel ; we are the ones without even a basic plan
[He didn't plan on letting any flowers get under his skin again, but he also didn't realize that those white, tufty plants counted as flowers and not merely weeds. In retrospect, he should have considered that they could probably be both.]
[Jet's hand on his emotions is generally sturdy. Even when he was dying in a cave surrounded by strangers, he didn't so much as crack. Even if you do manage to find him hunkered down in a street corner or hunched behind a building somewhere, his expression remains largely locked. It might not be immediately apparent that something's up with him, unless you glimpse the mask in his hands and the way he's gripping it just a bit too tight.]
[That, and his already somber demeanor seems to be dialed up a few notches. He won't quite look like somebody just shot his dog, but there's definitely something wrong with him.]
iii. edelweiss ; i can't be bothered to give a damn about anything
[That regret's only compounded the urge to do something reckless, do something loud, do something deserving of the title of Fabulous Killjoy. It's like a splinter under his fingernail. It's like a shot of adrenaline to his heart. Wants to burn down the world. Wants to fuck something up.]
[That burning emotional high propels him out of the city, into the surrounding woods like he's looking for a fight. Which, in a sense, he is. If he can't find something to fight, he'll be plenty happy to fight you, whoever you are, just to get this feeling out of his system.]
[Just to make that regret coursing through his veins shut up for a second. He'll take anything.]
jet star | ota | will match whatever format
[Not that Jet's been dragged back by that all that much. He's refused to allow it to get to him - or attempted as much. Mostly he does this by neglecting to dwell on it for very long and simply not thinking about it should it every come up. Since he sleeps in empty houses and doesn't have a place to live to call his own for the most part, Jet wakes up to a patch of yellow-and-brown flowers that immediately set off a rash of painful burning across his skin. He grits his teeth, immediately backs up from the offending blooms, but it's too late. It's worse than getting caught out in a sandstorm with no facial protection. No amount of scratching or scrubbing makes it halt. It only causes the affliction to spread.]
[So anyone who approaches Jet for the next few hours is going to see him practicing Good Social Distancing and steering clear. He has no idea if this stuff is contagious, but he's had enough of contagions to last him a lifetime, thanks.]
[He didn't plan on letting any flowers get under his skin again, but he also didn't realize that those white, tufty plants counted as flowers and not merely weeds. In retrospect, he should have considered that they could probably be both.]
[Jet's hand on his emotions is generally sturdy. Even when he was dying in a cave surrounded by strangers, he didn't so much as crack. Even if you do manage to find him hunkered down in a street corner or hunched behind a building somewhere, his expression remains largely locked. It might not be immediately apparent that something's up with him, unless you glimpse the mask in his hands and the way he's gripping it just a bit too tight.]
[That, and his already somber demeanor seems to be dialed up a few notches. He won't quite look like somebody just shot his dog, but there's definitely something wrong with him.]
[That regret's only compounded the urge to do something reckless, do something loud, do something deserving of the title of Fabulous Killjoy. It's like a splinter under his fingernail. It's like a shot of adrenaline to his heart. Wants to burn down the world. Wants to fuck something up.]
[That burning emotional high propels him out of the city, into the surrounding woods like he's looking for a fight. Which, in a sense, he is. If he can't find something to fight, he'll be plenty happy to fight you, whoever you are, just to get this feeling out of his system.]
[Just to make that regret coursing through his veins shut up for a second. He'll take anything.]