[ He tells himself not to look away. She's telling him something, quiet and sure, and she deserves to be heard. Yes he feels his focus pulling toward the floor, toward anything downward and away, but he doesn't want to drift, not here. So he looks at her, into her eyes and yes she's here with him, always here with him, and then she's up against him close and she hasn't left him, that's good, she hasn't left him alone.
He's still keenly aware of the bottle in his hand. As aware as he is of the smooth soft of her skin, the light trace of those fingers. The warmth of her voice known and welcome in his ears.
What she's saying...
There's a coil of hope and a sudden precipice, or awareness of a precipice that existed all along (is it, though, is it a steep drop, or just a downhill growing ever sharper?). She's gone to war for him before; he doesn't doubt he'd do it again. Is heartened by the thought of Katrina slicing through the crowd of all his terrors. Of her beside him, every step of the way...
Through what, and why? Why should he give up anything that works for him, keeps him floating even if it, maybe yes it, slowly drowns him down? (Because this isn't sustainable. Because even with her close and comforting, every morning's an agony of ache. Because with her, from time to time the future doesn't look so wretched, and wouldn't he like more of that?)
What would it be to start over. To really, actually move after those daydreams he's shared for so long with Wallace and now with Katrina? To live less afraid of the fangs borne by both past and present. ]
I look forward to things. Time with you. Shit with Wallace.
It's not that I don't want...
[ There aren't words to manage what he wants, or what he wants diverges in itself, is two-fold and contradictory in ways. Something regarding what she's said about freefall. Something about having few lifelines, three forces that get him through each day, and what would he do without one-third of that?
(He's got her now, doesn't he? It used to be alcohol and Wallace. So maybe. So maybe.)
But it's so much. ]
It's not.
[ He's trying. Trying for words, but his head aches and it's all... it's all bigger than he can capture, not right now.
He's listening to her. She's listening to him. But he can't just. But would it be so bad to. ]
What if.
What if we take it in. I take it in. And just keep it close, and I'll try to leave it for later.
no subject
He's still keenly aware of the bottle in his hand. As aware as he is of the smooth soft of her skin, the light trace of those fingers. The warmth of her voice known and welcome in his ears.
What she's saying...
There's a coil of hope and a sudden precipice, or awareness of a precipice that existed all along (is it, though, is it a steep drop, or just a downhill growing ever sharper?). She's gone to war for him before; he doesn't doubt he'd do it again. Is heartened by the thought of Katrina slicing through the crowd of all his terrors. Of her beside him, every step of the way...
Through what, and why? Why should he give up anything that works for him, keeps him floating even if it, maybe yes it, slowly drowns him down? (Because this isn't sustainable. Because even with her close and comforting, every morning's an agony of ache. Because with her, from time to time the future doesn't look so wretched, and wouldn't he like more of that?)
What would it be to start over. To really, actually move after those daydreams he's shared for so long with Wallace and now with Katrina? To live less afraid of the fangs borne by both past and present. ]
I look forward to things. Time with you. Shit with Wallace.
It's not that I don't want...
[ There aren't words to manage what he wants, or what he wants diverges in itself, is two-fold and contradictory in ways. Something regarding what she's said about freefall. Something about having few lifelines, three forces that get him through each day, and what would he do without one-third of that?
(He's got her now, doesn't he? It used to be alcohol and Wallace. So maybe. So maybe.)
But it's so much. ]
It's not.
[ He's trying. Trying for words, but his head aches and it's all... it's all bigger than he can capture, not right now.
He's listening to her. She's listening to him. But he can't just. But would it be so bad to. ]
What if.
What if we take it in. I take it in. And just keep it close, and I'll try to leave it for later.