'cause the bad's been slowly getting worse
and this fast lane living, it's a curse
There's some small amount of comfort that comes with the fact that they're both fumbling, both trying to feel their way through the dark of this and come out in the light on the other side. There is a much larger amount of panic that tries to rise up with the fact that they're both fumbling. God, what if he fucks this up? What if they get this second chance, just for Nate to miss something, to lose his beloved regardless? "We'll figure it out." Another sentence that comes out hollow, stripped of his confidence, of his surety. At least it almost feels like they're on the right track when Sunjata says it feels like a concussion, because of course, he knows.
That yawning chasm of worry and panic only grows wider, deeper, as the other man describes more, paints a more vivid picture that Nate doesn't want to see. The stupidest things stand out though, shreds of sensible thought in between everything else. He wonders what lightning glass looks like. Figures whatever lingering resentment he'd had aimed towards the smuggler can be forgiven. Wishes he'd been better, somehow, to Deimos, when they'd met. "You're lucky." It's a sentence that could be ended a dozen different ways, that he simply cuts off and let's stand on its own. And again, Nate feels the need to repeat himself, to hammer in a point so they can both cling to it. "You're home now."
Maybe the soup is a little undercooked, watery broth and barely soft vegetables, a too generous touch of ginger, ladled into a bowl and presented to Sunjata, but it's warm, and it should help ease any lingering nausea. Nate can't imagine the taste is going to matter too much right now anyway, but he still lingers over the other man, while trying to make it seem like that isn't what he's doing. He'd sit, but it won't be close enough, not by a long shot, not right now. "We'll get you a bath down here. It'll be easier than a shower." Talking out the steps of a plan is Nate's own coping mechanism, one that serves him handily here, when he has to keep the other man focused as well.
That yawning chasm of worry and panic only grows wider, deeper, as the other man describes more, paints a more vivid picture that Nate doesn't want to see. The stupidest things stand out though, shreds of sensible thought in between everything else. He wonders what lightning glass looks like. Figures whatever lingering resentment he'd had aimed towards the smuggler can be forgiven. Wishes he'd been better, somehow, to Deimos, when they'd met. "You're lucky." It's a sentence that could be ended a dozen different ways, that he simply cuts off and let's stand on its own. And again, Nate feels the need to repeat himself, to hammer in a point so they can both cling to it. "You're home now."
Maybe the soup is a little undercooked, watery broth and barely soft vegetables, a too generous touch of ginger, ladled into a bowl and presented to Sunjata, but it's warm, and it should help ease any lingering nausea. Nate can't imagine the taste is going to matter too much right now anyway, but he still lingers over the other man, while trying to make it seem like that isn't what he's doing. He'd sit, but it won't be close enough, not by a long shot, not right now. "We'll get you a bath down here. It'll be easier than a shower." Talking out the steps of a plan is Nate's own coping mechanism, one that serves him handily here, when he has to keep the other man focused as well.
better tell me what's your life worth
i think it's time for a change, 'cause the drugs don't work
