all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth
Really, this would have been easier if he could bite down whatever stubborn pride he had and just let himself be carried. He's slow, and leaning on Sunjata more than not, each step somehow a struggle, somehow needing as much of his focus as he can muster for it. Maybe though, that's a blessing, a handful of moments where he can't think about what's happened. It's not normal, not by a long shot, but it's something else.
The sanctuary of effort doesn't last nearly as long as he needs it to, as he's deposited on the bed, sitting on the edge of it without complaint. Nate isn't sure what the other man is doing, except moving away. He isn't really sure what he's doing either, to be completely fair, isn't sure what he should be doing, if anything. There's no pain anymore, and the wound has been taken care of as best as it can be, for the moment. He tries to shift, to get his back against the headboard, against something, and presses up against Haai instead, the griffin somehow more comforting than what he'd been attempting anyway.
Sunjata returns, though he doesn't draw Nate's gaze, barely gets an acknowledgement at all, except for hands that reach out to grab at his hips. Because the attuned's instinct is absolutely correct, though there's enough shame in the ascended that he can't quite bring himself to the hiding under the blankets level of withdrawal, not yet.
There's no gentleness in Nate's motions when he grabs at the hem of his shirt and tears it off over his head, no concern for the bandaging or injury. It's not like he can feel it, but that is an entirely different breakdown, just another spiral that it feels like he'll never get out of. How could he? And as that thought comes to him, he doubles over, forehead pressed almost to his knees, hands balling into shaking fists where they're wrapped in Sunjata's clothes. Everything tenses, like he's trying to keep together, keep it within, and the effort only makes the sob that comes sound more painful, ripping out of Nate despite every attempt to hold it in, to stop it.
The sanctuary of effort doesn't last nearly as long as he needs it to, as he's deposited on the bed, sitting on the edge of it without complaint. Nate isn't sure what the other man is doing, except moving away. He isn't really sure what he's doing either, to be completely fair, isn't sure what he should be doing, if anything. There's no pain anymore, and the wound has been taken care of as best as it can be, for the moment. He tries to shift, to get his back against the headboard, against something, and presses up against Haai instead, the griffin somehow more comforting than what he'd been attempting anyway.
Sunjata returns, though he doesn't draw Nate's gaze, barely gets an acknowledgement at all, except for hands that reach out to grab at his hips. Because the attuned's instinct is absolutely correct, though there's enough shame in the ascended that he can't quite bring himself to the hiding under the blankets level of withdrawal, not yet.
There's no gentleness in Nate's motions when he grabs at the hem of his shirt and tears it off over his head, no concern for the bandaging or injury. It's not like he can feel it, but that is an entirely different breakdown, just another spiral that it feels like he'll never get out of. How could he? And as that thought comes to him, he doubles over, forehead pressed almost to his knees, hands balling into shaking fists where they're wrapped in Sunjata's clothes. Everything tenses, like he's trying to keep together, keep it within, and the effort only makes the sob that comes sound more painful, ripping out of Nate despite every attempt to hold it in, to stop it.
i wish it was mine
NATE
