[ That sound, he knows it's his fault he knows it's pain, he knows he caused it - he doesn't have enough processing power to devote to it right now. He'll apologize, he'll feel bad later, when his mind isn't blaring alarms of panic. When he isn't operating on sheer instinct, adrenaline, two steps too fast, living in exactly the present moment as it happens sharply and too aware of reality.
Too aware of everything, too alert, absolutely fucking terrified.
For both of them.
Protective, in the way his body's covering Mace beneath him. In the way his hand stays clamped down tight, refusing to budge. In the way that he's curled just a little over Mace's head with his shoulders, tucked in, shielding.
His chest rises and falls so rapidly it's a wonder he's not hyperventilating to the point of passing out.
He listens, sharp, like a fucking watchdog.
Soft rustling in the trees, could be the wind. He knows it isn't.
Mace's voice beneath him, real. ]
Don't look, don't open your eyes.
[ Urgent, whispered low and fast.
Then, from the quiet, the voices start up. Both of them can hear it now, probably - the whispers. Familiar voices, almost perfect. He can hear his own calling out for Mace. He can hear his own screaming. Begging. Why won't you look at me.
He can hear their version of Mace start up, threaded in between his own tones. His fingers tighten up on instinct, one of them twisting in the robe Mace is haphazardly wrapped in.
It must not understand, must not get why they aren't looking when they're stacked on top of one another like this.
And then he hears his mother, the way she sounded at the end. Hoarse. Barely able to carry a word out because her lungs were dying. Because she couldn't catch her breath even with an oxygen tank pumping air into her.
Look at me, Baby. I don't have a lot of time. I need you to look at me. I need to tell you. I'll tell you who he is. Please let me see your eyes.
He ducks down to press his forehead into the hand over Mace's, frustration lacing everything about it. ]
no subject
Too aware of everything, too alert, absolutely fucking terrified.
For both of them.
Protective, in the way his body's covering Mace beneath him. In the way his hand stays clamped down tight, refusing to budge. In the way that he's curled just a little over Mace's head with his shoulders, tucked in, shielding.
His chest rises and falls so rapidly it's a wonder he's not hyperventilating to the point of passing out.
He listens, sharp, like a fucking watchdog.
Soft rustling in the trees, could be the wind. He knows it isn't.
Mace's voice beneath him, real. ]
Don't look, don't open your eyes.
[ Urgent, whispered low and fast.
Then, from the quiet, the voices start up. Both of them can hear it now, probably - the whispers. Familiar voices, almost perfect. He can hear his own calling out for Mace. He can hear his own screaming. Begging. Why won't you look at me.
He can hear their version of Mace start up, threaded in between his own tones. His fingers tighten up on instinct, one of them twisting in the robe Mace is haphazardly wrapped in.
It must not understand, must not get why they aren't looking when they're stacked on top of one another like this.
And then he hears his mother, the way she sounded at the end. Hoarse. Barely able to carry a word out because her lungs were dying. Because she couldn't catch her breath even with an oxygen tank pumping air into her.
Look at me, Baby. I don't have a lot of time. I need you to look at me. I need to tell you. I'll tell you who he is. Please let me see your eyes.
He ducks down to press his forehead into the hand over Mace's, frustration lacing everything about it. ]
Fucking bitch.