Wheeling Gull Isle i am clawing at porcelain

Arturo! Arturo!!? There is no time for Witchdoctor to react, confused by the rush of pallid fur in his direction and the screaming of the voices in his head. He is horribly disoriented and the pallid young adult that rushes at him stops just short of crashing into him. There is no time for relief because the boy begins to cover his chin with licks and then snuggles into his chest. Witchdoctor freezes, every muscles in his svelte body pulling taunt as he takes a deep breath. And then another. And a third. Get off! Get off! Get off!!!! The voices scream like banshee’s in his head and his ears pin flat against the strong curve of his skull as he tries very hard not to tear a chunk out of the youth for touching him without permission. For calling him Arturo.

It comes back to him as he slides out of the boy’s embrace, putting space between them because he feels grossly suffocated having someone invade his personal space so enthusiastically. Fierce gaze of twin burning suns studies the pallid boy and recognition slides home. Him. The whiny boy. Just my luck. Witchdoctor mentally sighs. “Arturo is dead.” Witchdoctor deadpanned. There, he said it. Spoke it out loud. Validated it. It felt …well not exactly liberating ( because Witchdoctor was not, in any shape or form, pretending to be the gangster ) but it was good to finally hear the words leave his lips. “I’m Witchdoctor. Got that? Witchdoctor.” He repeats for good measure, still ignorant of Tapat’s memory condition and that he would forget soon enough.