[ He wants, more than anything, to find the right words to say that are both honest and reassuring. He wants to make promises he doesn't think he can keep, and he wants to believe them himself. It's an almost overwhelming urge all of a sudden to make Mace feel like he really... like this is more than just about surviving. More than just about here.
He wants to say I don't let anyone in and I never wanted to, I still don't want to, but I'm pretty sure you're already in and I want you to stay there even though that fucking terrifies me.
But he won't, and he can't, because the world reminds them rather abruptly that what they're worried about is fucking stupid.
They should've been building a fucking fire. They should've been sharpening some fucking stakes and setting them up at the mouth of the cave. They should've been doing literally anything other than sitting together talking about their fucking relationship and he hates himself for it.
For the wash of cold sliding through every bit of him.
He grips onto Mace too tightly, like they're reading one another's minds. Never again, please never let go again, please don't let them rip one of us away.
He passes his free hand along the back of Mace's clasped one, so he can feel where to put the matchbox.
He needn't have bothered; the blue glow starts up of its own volition in Ian's wrist. Radiating out from the veins, the bones, traveling up through his wrist and into his palm. illuminating the immediate area with dim light. ]
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He wants to say I don't let anyone in and I never wanted to, I still don't want to, but I'm pretty sure you're already in and I want you to stay there even though that fucking terrifies me.
But he won't, and he can't, because the world reminds them rather abruptly that what they're worried about is fucking stupid.
They should've been building a fucking fire. They should've been sharpening some fucking stakes and setting them up at the mouth of the cave. They should've been doing literally anything other than sitting together talking about their fucking relationship and he hates himself for it.
For the wash of cold sliding through every bit of him.
He grips onto Mace too tightly, like they're reading one another's minds. Never again, please never let go again, please don't let them rip one of us away.
He passes his free hand along the back of Mace's clasped one, so he can feel where to put the matchbox.
He needn't have bothered; the blue glow starts up of its own volition in Ian's wrist. Radiating out from the veins, the bones, traveling up through his wrist and into his palm. illuminating the immediate area with dim light. ]