every new year, the manor hosts a very large (and frankly, drawn out) firework show. and while most of the survivors absolutely adore the fluttering colors and sparks, there’s one that doesn’t.

the sounds burrow into his mind as his time as a mercenary. they remind him all too well of that familiar cold metal in his hands, the grueling months— no, years he lived through.

“this is stupid.” he’d mumble, those long brown locks currently between your fingers.