NATE
Their steady boat begins to rock, all the preparation in the world unable to actually stop the storm from crashing over them. Nate can feel every response he wants to make, can feel himself tensing, a paranoid shiver racing up his spine, as the deep voice begins to claw into his own head, as its met by an echo, a breath, a suggestion of a ghost that he refuses to face himself. So he focuses instead on beating down Sunjata's ghosts, on saving them from this twisting whirlpool of darkness.
There are concrete things to focus on, instead of the deep, familiar dark that echoes between them. A blanket, warm, still soft from a lack of use, from a newness they haven't been home enough to wear down. Haai, heavy and soft and present, in the same way Pemota and her starlight is. And their hands, still tightly entwined, no matter how Nate moves them.
Steel eyes, blown wide by fear and drugs and gods only know what else find his, and suddenly Nate is stuck, still, distracted utterly by this silent connection. He leans in, pressing their foreheads together, but his gaze doesn't waver. He doesn't even blink, unwilling to sever this in any way. I do. And just like that, the dam is broken, light flowing between them again, soft memories passed out, more bubbling up, now that they're on his mind. A sharp whipcrack of a voice, in a language he only barely remembers, shouting through trees; and the warm smell of baking, drifting through a window above the bleeding hearts bush.
It's nice, having these things come up. It's nicer to share them.
Going with the flow means leaning in when Sunjata speaks, the path to the words utterly inscrutable, but the warmth in them promising enough that Nate all but leaps on them. That sounds nice. All the beaches around where I lived were... well, gross. He laughs again, easier now that they're past the crisis. Past that crisis. I still loved it. We went every year. He leans back finally, lips brushing against Sunjata's nose while he shifts them into a more horizontal position. What were the beaches there like?
There are concrete things to focus on, instead of the deep, familiar dark that echoes between them. A blanket, warm, still soft from a lack of use, from a newness they haven't been home enough to wear down. Haai, heavy and soft and present, in the same way Pemota and her starlight is. And their hands, still tightly entwined, no matter how Nate moves them.
Steel eyes, blown wide by fear and drugs and gods only know what else find his, and suddenly Nate is stuck, still, distracted utterly by this silent connection. He leans in, pressing their foreheads together, but his gaze doesn't waver. He doesn't even blink, unwilling to sever this in any way. I do. And just like that, the dam is broken, light flowing between them again, soft memories passed out, more bubbling up, now that they're on his mind. A sharp whipcrack of a voice, in a language he only barely remembers, shouting through trees; and the warm smell of baking, drifting through a window above the bleeding hearts bush.
It's nice, having these things come up. It's nicer to share them.
Going with the flow means leaning in when Sunjata speaks, the path to the words utterly inscrutable, but the warmth in them promising enough that Nate all but leaps on them. That sounds nice. All the beaches around where I lived were... well, gross. He laughs again, easier now that they're past the crisis. Past that crisis. I still loved it. We went every year. He leans back finally, lips brushing against Sunjata's nose while he shifts them into a more horizontal position. What were the beaches there like?
Deep down, it hurts to know
How bad I wanna call it quits
How bad I wanna call it quits
