[ his blood pressure has dropped, and falco looks no less clammy or ill. still paper white against the now smudging green stains, some absorbed by the fabric, he feels his stomach protest enough that it feels like he'll lose his lunch. he won't, he knows he won't— but the feeling doesn't lessen. his breathing is heavy, and while he's listening to peter with his head still tipped back, he hopes the chill of a breeze could bring some balm to his sweating temples.
falco is still quiet, still reluctant to catch peter's watchful gaze with his own battered one, stinging red with tears that have yet to show, lest he opened them wide. ]
. . . Regularly, if I've been using my ability. [ 'peter,' catches in his throat, and instead of words, there's only a hitch of air in what would've been, a part of his lips that close up again. ] It's— expected.
no subject
falco is still quiet, still reluctant to catch peter's watchful gaze with his own battered one, stinging red with tears that have yet to show, lest he opened them wide. ]
. . . Regularly, if I've been using my ability. [ 'peter,' catches in his throat, and instead of words, there's only a hitch of air in what would've been, a part of his lips that close up again. ] It's— expected.