all i can do is stand on the curb and say sorry about the blood in your mouth
There's no fight, no anything from Nate as he's moved, except for a insistence to keep his eyes - eye - down, pressed against Sunjata's chest. This all feels so surreal, feels so far away, like there's a thick wall between the him wrapped up in blankets, in comfort and closeness, and the him that's sobbing, that's breaking down. Like they're somehow disconnected. Like they're not the same person. The only real connection is the feeling of warmth against his front, the arms around him, and the hot, fuzzy body of Haai at his back.
The quiet words pouring from the attuned anchor him, dragging him back into himself, sending his arms moving, wrapping tightly around the attuned, as if to make sure for himself there's nowhere he could go. Though, there's too much, the delicate ship of his mind dragged down into the depths by one anchor in particular, that twists in his gut like an acid guilt. Good God, now Sunjata has to love him like this. Now he's a burden. And if he can't be fixed, even doing everything right, even with divine intervention, what then?
It's the selfish part of him that keeps clinging, despite the thoughts, despite the hiccuping attempts at words, growing more and more frantic, more broken up, the patter of it constant though, easy to put together with the repeated scraps of words. 'I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.'
The quiet words pouring from the attuned anchor him, dragging him back into himself, sending his arms moving, wrapping tightly around the attuned, as if to make sure for himself there's nowhere he could go. Though, there's too much, the delicate ship of his mind dragged down into the depths by one anchor in particular, that twists in his gut like an acid guilt. Good God, now Sunjata has to love him like this. Now he's a burden. And if he can't be fixed, even doing everything right, even with divine intervention, what then?
It's the selfish part of him that keeps clinging, despite the thoughts, despite the hiccuping attempts at words, growing more and more frantic, more broken up, the patter of it constant though, easy to put together with the repeated scraps of words. 'I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.'
i wish it was mine
NATE
