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[ailerons]

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 hangman

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[haggle]

( a laugh chokes her throat, some wet clot of tears she's been holding in her lungs longer than any nicotine hit. a build-up without any place left to put it down, crowding the squeeze of her ribs, like if she breathes wrong now — if she tries to set it into his hands — it'll all pour out, too much for anyone to hold.

ani knuckles beneath one glassy eye, swiping at dry skin. crying without pay-off is a lot like fucking without coming: all of her body's effort for none of the relief. just the raw scrape of her insides, riding that over-sensitive ache. has to be why she's acting fucking stupid enough to hang herself on a word like ours, except — there's not a whole lot jake seresin does without intention. even if he'll have you believing it's homegrown talent, lady luck's kiss of breath on the dice roll when he was born. all happy accidents.

anything but the truth of what she sees on days he thumbs at his mouth, furrows his brows at her. patient. precise. like he's taking his time with words that won't get lost in translation, between his american accent and the butchered russian he hacks at. she stares at the shape of it, anyway, as if it's as foreign as any word. not hers. not his. ours. four letters with more space than vanya had cleared for her — just one half of a closet, one half of a bed, one half of a shelf. she never learned to live in a world like that — just how to decorate it, knowing her selling points: view comes with the property, perfect fixer-upper, family-ready. expensive asking price, but open to remodeling.

another stretch into silence, like her decision wasn't already sealed in skin and shine, worn metal pressed to his heartbeat. fear still curdles, anyway — the idea of letting him share space with the spirit she still whispers to in prayers half-remembered, setting a plate for babushka's empty chair at the table. bringing him home, in her own way, to her grandmother's ghost. how this might end: with him taking that memory no one ever gets to touch, making it his and hers but never ours again. leave her talking to more empty chairs like he's coming back. )

ours
?

( the question mark blinks back at him like she would. waiting, maybe, for her private tutoring lesson on jake seresin for dummies. if he'll correct her. if being new to this means she messed up the meaning in her head, somehow. did you mean it the way i think you meant it. )

jake
you know it's a whole fucking week right
and you can't clean for any of it
your odds of survival ain't looking sharp
that's "you're fucked" in statistics