there's a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly
Nate hasn’t slept in years now, but for the first time, he doesn’t miss it. Something about the silence of the house feels right. It’s an empty place. He’s an empty place.
An echo seems appropriate, so much so that Nate doesn’t think anything of it, not at first. Even if it isn’t his own voice, like every other thought has been. Even if it’s his own name.
It stops making sense when Haai perks up, where she sits at the foot of the bed. It stops making sense with the trembling, breaking, familiar voice that continues in his mind. He’s moving before his mind has a chance to really catch up, stepping out of the bedroom, taking the stairs three at a time, rushing to the door so quickly he can’t actually stop himself in time and he crashes into it, fumbling to open the latch.
The thought that this is some trick doesn’t cross his mind. The thought that this is some kind of spirit doesn’t cross his mind. The thought that this is a boggart does cross his mind, briefly, but the echo in his head dashes that thought before it has a chance to fully form.
The door is thrown open along with Nate’s arms, wrapping around the figure on the other side of the door so tight there’s no way he doesn’t press against bruises. Sunny! Nate’s own voice, once he finally finds it, is hollow, unused, and filled with a desperate hope. I thought you were dead. Fluid, now that he has it to spare, pricks at his eyes, his face pressing against his husbands collar. He steps back, pulling the attuned into the house, a hand moving automatically to lock the door again.
An echo seems appropriate, so much so that Nate doesn’t think anything of it, not at first. Even if it isn’t his own voice, like every other thought has been. Even if it’s his own name.
It stops making sense when Haai perks up, where she sits at the foot of the bed. It stops making sense with the trembling, breaking, familiar voice that continues in his mind. He’s moving before his mind has a chance to really catch up, stepping out of the bedroom, taking the stairs three at a time, rushing to the door so quickly he can’t actually stop himself in time and he crashes into it, fumbling to open the latch.
The thought that this is some trick doesn’t cross his mind. The thought that this is some kind of spirit doesn’t cross his mind. The thought that this is a boggart does cross his mind, briefly, but the echo in his head dashes that thought before it has a chance to fully form.
The door is thrown open along with Nate’s arms, wrapping around the figure on the other side of the door so tight there’s no way he doesn’t press against bruises. Sunny! Nate’s own voice, once he finally finds it, is hollow, unused, and filled with a desperate hope. I thought you were dead. Fluid, now that he has it to spare, pricks at his eyes, his face pressing against his husbands collar. He steps back, pulling the attuned into the house, a hand moving automatically to lock the door again.
NATE
