It's a thought that doesn't quite form, a recognition that leaves his heart tangled in his throat, his lungs knotted, the air cutting and bright and the entire sky explodes in stars.
Like a river of light.
That's what the voice - the guy - said: a river of light. And the words move through Treavor like revelation and renewal. And he's gaping at the sky, as if the stars described were laid before him, and doesn't it feel that way? Didn't this guy just fill the sky with stars?
His head hurts a little. It's a lot, fuck, it's so much.
His voice is a little wavered when he speaks, a lot struck with awe— ]
We'll have to bring them back.
[ All from the other side of the world. Or go to them? Who put them there, or what do the stars know, and why can't he follow them?
Why hasn't he followed them.
It's a cold thought, or he's cold, or/and he's cold, there's a blanket around him still but something's gone, there was another warmth real recently, and Treavor doesn't know where the warmth went.
(Treavor moved away.)
(To look at the stars?)
(But he can look at the stars and be warm and close too. If he's allowed.)
(Well, allowed or not, he—)
He's shouldering up against the warmth again, the person the guy again (he knows this guy; he knows who this guy is; he's not gonna dwell on that now, just let this guy keep being near and close and calm, please), his eyes still on the sky as he settles his head toward what might be the guy's shoulder, a very solid shoulder, Treavor even remembers that!
He hums at the back of his throat, a soft sound, sound of settling in and comfort in resuming his place. And - chest still tangled, lungs burning a little - he crooks a half-smile. ]
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It's a thought that doesn't quite form, a recognition that leaves his heart tangled in his throat, his lungs knotted, the air cutting and bright and the entire sky explodes in stars.
Like a river of light.
That's what the voice - the guy - said: a river of light. And the words move through Treavor like revelation and renewal. And he's gaping at the sky, as if the stars described were laid before him, and doesn't it feel that way? Didn't this guy just fill the sky with stars?
His head hurts a little. It's a lot, fuck, it's so much.
His voice is a little wavered when he speaks, a lot struck with awe— ]
We'll have to bring them back.
[ All from the other side of the world. Or go to them? Who put them there, or what do the stars know, and why can't he follow them?
Why hasn't he followed them.
It's a cold thought, or he's cold, or/and he's cold, there's a blanket around him still but something's gone, there was another warmth real recently, and Treavor doesn't know where the warmth went.
(Treavor moved away.)
(To look at the stars?)
(But he can look at the stars and be warm and close too. If he's allowed.)
(Well, allowed or not, he—)
He's shouldering up against the warmth again, the person the guy again (he knows this guy; he knows who this guy is; he's not gonna dwell on that now, just let this guy keep being near and close and calm, please), his eyes still on the sky as he settles his head toward what might be the guy's shoulder, a very solid shoulder, Treavor even remembers that!
He hums at the back of his throat, a soft sound, sound of settling in and comfort in resuming his place. And - chest still tangled, lungs burning a little - he crooks a half-smile. ]
Hey, where'd my song go?