Re: log; misha and adrian
He felt every ugly, shameful feeling he had no right to blow up like a thunderstorm. In regular life, the image in front of him made him want to scrub his skin raw when it came to him, unbidden. In this place, given ghostly flesh, it made him want to crawl out of his skin altogether.
It was harder to let go of the Obscurus than it was to whip it into a frenzy, and as he clasped a hand across his eyes, he felt how much effort it took to keep it quiet for the first time in a very long time. It had been below his level of consciousness for so long that he had grown used to it, an always-open wound.
Darkness began overflowing him at the edges, misting away from his fingertips, steaming off of him like he had just stepped, rain-soaked, into a warm room. It streamed away from him in tendrils, knitting around itself into a swiftly growing knot of black and grey. It spit fragments in sprays of black.
Suddenly, the dam broke. It poured out of his chest in a flood, and the mass in the air swelled until it covered the ceiling over their heads, until it was too big for the room, until it was rolling out the windows and up, into the imagined sky outside. Even in a place where nothing was real, it weighted the air, and it carried a scent of ashes. The sound it made when it swept out into the air, when it swung back and clotted across the roof overhead, was like a slow, deep scream.