all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth
His hand is grabbed, a pressure so outside of himself it almost seems fake, a memory of a memory of touch. And Nate latches on, squeezing hard enough to keep his hand from trembling, hard enough that it shakes anyway from the pressure. It doesn't quite register to him that it might hurt, that his buoy comes at the expense of someone else's pain.
A touch of awareness creeps back into him, with the touch, the way he's being moved, against his will, though he couldn't fight it even if he wanted to. He can hear the voice, without really understanding it, can see the fuzzy figure before him, without realising who it is, not at first. It's the Korofian that breaks through, that finally unlocks meaning, the extra step of translation forcing his mind to work.
He tries, desperately, automatically, to say something, anything back, but the only sound he can force out intentionally is a ragged huff, iridescence on his lips, though it's impossible to tell from the open wounds on his face, or the way he's shredded his throat with the screams, the choking. The effort though, becomes something to focus on, something to try to throw himself into, as if it would help him to move away from the burning.
Despite the bandage, the shaking hands that apply it — when had their hands come apart? — the palm hovering protectively over Nate's eye does not move, some deep part of him insisting on the cover, on nothing actually touching it. He doesn't know why, when it doesn't even register the fuzzy figures around, though there is still something. If it was black, nothing, then perhaps he might be less concerned for it, perhaps the loss of it would be easier to accept, but it's not. Flashes of white, like raindrops, like fireworks, still flash, only adding to the disorientation, only giving him a sickly hope.
Like everything else, it takes him a moment to move, to realise he's being moved, a voice dragging him to his feet as surely as a pair of arms do. He wants to help, to stand on his own, though nothing is working, nothing is responding. The hand not covering his face flails, latching to the first thing it touches, a shoulder, or chest, maybe an arm? He can't just do nothing, can't just let himself feel useless, as he's carried or dragged or Gods only know's what.
Another huff leaves him, the fluid on his lips more pronounced, though thats a wound he can't feel, pain not stopping him until Nate manages a ragged response to the repeated words, the most insistent lifeline he has. "Hhhnny...?" A gasp, barely sensible, and an attempt, beyond himself, to offer some kind of comfort.
A touch of awareness creeps back into him, with the touch, the way he's being moved, against his will, though he couldn't fight it even if he wanted to. He can hear the voice, without really understanding it, can see the fuzzy figure before him, without realising who it is, not at first. It's the Korofian that breaks through, that finally unlocks meaning, the extra step of translation forcing his mind to work.
He tries, desperately, automatically, to say something, anything back, but the only sound he can force out intentionally is a ragged huff, iridescence on his lips, though it's impossible to tell from the open wounds on his face, or the way he's shredded his throat with the screams, the choking. The effort though, becomes something to focus on, something to try to throw himself into, as if it would help him to move away from the burning.
Despite the bandage, the shaking hands that apply it — when had their hands come apart? — the palm hovering protectively over Nate's eye does not move, some deep part of him insisting on the cover, on nothing actually touching it. He doesn't know why, when it doesn't even register the fuzzy figures around, though there is still something. If it was black, nothing, then perhaps he might be less concerned for it, perhaps the loss of it would be easier to accept, but it's not. Flashes of white, like raindrops, like fireworks, still flash, only adding to the disorientation, only giving him a sickly hope.
Like everything else, it takes him a moment to move, to realise he's being moved, a voice dragging him to his feet as surely as a pair of arms do. He wants to help, to stand on his own, though nothing is working, nothing is responding. The hand not covering his face flails, latching to the first thing it touches, a shoulder, or chest, maybe an arm? He can't just do nothing, can't just let himself feel useless, as he's carried or dragged or Gods only know's what.
Another huff leaves him, the fluid on his lips more pronounced, though thats a wound he can't feel, pain not stopping him until Nate manages a ragged response to the repeated words, the most insistent lifeline he has. "Hhhnny...?" A gasp, barely sensible, and an attempt, beyond himself, to offer some kind of comfort.
i wish it was mine
NATE
