Everest
Everest’s shoulders loosen a fraction at Isla's smile, the familiar warmth of it cutting through the spike of alarm far more effectively than logic ever could. When she says she will be alright, he believes her without reservation, nodding once even as his brow furrows with quiet confusion at the suggestion that he ought to be sitting down. Isla is careful with her words, and that alone is enough to tell him this matters, though the reason why does not yet arrange itself into anything coherent in his mind.
As she moves past him, he steps aside automatically, giving her space and then falling into step behind her. His thoughts begin to scatter despite his best efforts, flicking through possibilities with an unhelpful efficiency that offers no satisfying conclusions. Sitting is usually for dizziness, or shock, or news that alters the shape of a day so abruptly that the body needs somewhere stable to land, and he feels a faint, creeping tension settle between his shoulders as he tries to catalogue which of those might apply.
He sits where she indicates, careful not to jostle the mattress, posture upright and attentive as he turns to face her fully. For a moment he only blinks at her, expression open and expectant, the waiting itself a kind of restraint. Then, as if remembering something important he might otherwise forget, he reaches out and takes her hand in his, fingers curling gently around hers. The contact is steady and deliberate, equal parts comfort and practicality, because if he is about to feel faint for reasons he cannot yet predict, this way she will notice immediately.
"I'm listening," he says softly.
As she moves past him, he steps aside automatically, giving her space and then falling into step behind her. His thoughts begin to scatter despite his best efforts, flicking through possibilities with an unhelpful efficiency that offers no satisfying conclusions. Sitting is usually for dizziness, or shock, or news that alters the shape of a day so abruptly that the body needs somewhere stable to land, and he feels a faint, creeping tension settle between his shoulders as he tries to catalogue which of those might apply.
He sits where she indicates, careful not to jostle the mattress, posture upright and attentive as he turns to face her fully. For a moment he only blinks at her, expression open and expectant, the waiting itself a kind of restraint. Then, as if remembering something important he might otherwise forget, he reaches out and takes her hand in his, fingers curling gently around hers. The contact is steady and deliberate, equal parts comfort and practicality, because if he is about to feel faint for reasons he cannot yet predict, this way she will notice immediately.
"I'm listening," he says softly.
I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.
