To say the world shudders or snaps or obliterates would be an understatement.
There were words on his tongue a second ago. There was a goal in his head. There were careful, precise rules somewhere under them. Trigger-wire specific about what not to do, again, labeling half of half everything. There was even some semblance of caustic frustations-patience-want and a whole new card hand of belligerence distracting him as much as it was distracting Danny.
Before Danny's hand. Before every inch of his skin -- already screaming at a pitch he had marked down for ignoring, like it was thing he'd seen and left and maybe even locked away behind Door 1 while he was standing over in 4 or 5, with the more important things happening -- seemed to spasm like a single large living organism cracking, crashing, giving birth to wave of overwhelming fire that slammed with as unexpected a force as being punched in the face in in the middle of being dead asleep.
There is no stopping that sound being torn from the bottom of stomach, or his feet, or peeled off his spine, when his body shoves into Danny, Danny's hand with, there, the undeniable response not too unalike to being electrocuted. Which. Which is all in good. All of it. If any of it hurt. If what was crumpling his thoughts, his very want to breathe or remember, whatever he was supposed to be remember that was empty, blowing away, blown out, if it hurt. He could handle that.
But it doesn't hurt.
Nothing hurts.
Nothing.
There's fire crackling in his vocal cords, behind his eyes, filling up his nose and his mouth, every vertebrae in his spine with a burst of blinding light, rolling fog, the sensation that feels so good, so complete and indestructible, unassailable, it nearly might as well be pain. Nothing that overwhelming ever isn't, is it? Tearing him apart. Shoving into every atom of space, laughing in the wake of destruction like every wall and door and plan and thought had been made of plaster and well-drawn on parchment paper.
When he can't tell if he's shoving into Danny, or dragging him closer, can't control for a moment the speed or depth or grip of his hand, because every other fingers in that hand is presently busy. Grafting his fingertips, fingers, palm, into the mound of muscle under it when he's shaking. Thrusting back, muscle control a memory. When the world is only laughably beginning to give him windows that imply he had eyes, or the capability for vision from them, a second ago.
no subject
There were words on his tongue a second ago. There was a goal in his head. There were careful, precise rules somewhere under them. Trigger-wire specific about what not to do, again, labeling half of half everything. There was even some semblance of caustic frustations-patience-want and a whole new card hand of belligerence distracting him as much as it was distracting Danny.
Before Danny's hand. Before every inch of his skin -- already screaming at a pitch he had marked down for ignoring, like it was thing he'd seen and left and maybe even locked away behind Door 1 while he was standing over in 4 or 5, with the more important things happening -- seemed to spasm like a single large living organism cracking, crashing, giving birth to wave of overwhelming fire that slammed with as unexpected a force as being punched in the face in in the middle of being dead asleep.
There is no stopping that sound being torn from the bottom of stomach, or his feet, or peeled off his spine, when his body shoves into Danny, Danny's hand with, there, the undeniable response not too unalike to being electrocuted. Which. Which is all in good. All of it. If any of it hurt. If what was crumpling his thoughts, his very want to breathe or remember, whatever he was supposed to be remember that was empty, blowing away, blown out, if it hurt. He could handle that.
But it doesn't hurt.
Nothing hurts.
Nothing.
There's fire crackling in his vocal cords, behind his eyes, filling up his nose and his mouth, every vertebrae in his spine with a burst of blinding light, rolling fog, the sensation that feels so good, so complete and indestructible, unassailable, it nearly might as well be pain. Nothing that overwhelming ever isn't, is it? Tearing him apart. Shoving into every atom of space, laughing in the wake of destruction like every wall and door and plan and thought had been made of plaster and well-drawn on parchment paper.
When he can't tell if he's shoving into Danny, or dragging him closer, can't control for a moment the speed or depth or grip of his hand, because every other fingers in that hand is presently busy. Grafting his fingertips, fingers, palm, into the mound of muscle under it when he's shaking. Thrusting back, muscle control a memory. When the world is only laughably beginning to give him windows that imply he had eyes, or the capability for vision from them, a second ago.