[ it felt like the storm was right outside. pelting the windows, roaring with winds while the interior of the bar drowned it out the best it could. but it was right there. ]
Maybe . . . A week or so? [ the words slip from him in this capricious dawdling in his head, so they come out in a tripping, informal way. it doesn't matter. it's easier for the moment, anyway. ] My bones ache. The, [ "organs" . . . ??? he forgot. ] softer parts are, um— starting to feel like headaches. They don't go away.
[ he can handle it now just like he can a headache. he could ignore it until the gentle pulsing becomes hardly anything new to the body. the body adjusts.
but no matter how much he's accepted it, he still brings his hand to his eyes to rub into them. he still cries. he still wants to live so much and it breaks his heart that he can't. the crack in his voice comes harsh with his gasp to say: ]
( A storm is an accurate representation for how it feels, Falco's words coming through like thick, relentless rain drops. Or maybe like hail because the words feel like they hurt, pelting, sharp, lodging themselves in shrapnel-like. The hazy dreaminess of the drink and merriment feels nightmarish now, everything droopy and blurred around the edges.
maybe a week or so
my bones ache
He's breaking down, Peter thinks, the realisation making him whimper softly under his own breath. And in the next beat Falco's breaking open a little bit, a crack that splits, and there's a hand pressed to his eye and he's crying.
Peter moves, slow and fumbling, sloshy in himself against the static buzz in his head. It isn't all because of the alcohol, though. It's that same feeling he's known, like shock, maybe. A sort of thrumming thing, overwhelmed. He's moving into the side of the booth where Falco is and he feels far away from himself, until his arms are sliding around the other, holding on so tight. The body against his own is bigger, wider, stronger, than he remembers. But it's still Falco. It'll always be Falco. )
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Maybe . . . A week or so? [ the words slip from him in this capricious dawdling in his head, so they come out in a tripping, informal way. it doesn't matter. it's easier for the moment, anyway. ] My bones ache. The, [ "organs" . . . ??? he forgot. ] softer parts are, um— starting to feel like headaches. They don't go away.
[ he can handle it now just like he can a headache. he could ignore it until the gentle pulsing becomes hardly anything new to the body. the body adjusts.
but no matter how much he's accepted it, he still brings his hand to his eyes to rub into them. he still cries. he still wants to live so much and it breaks his heart that he can't. the crack in his voice comes harsh with his gasp to say: ]
Sorry—
no subject
maybe
a week or so
my bones ache
He's breaking down, Peter thinks, the realisation making him whimper softly under his own breath. And in the next beat Falco's breaking open a little bit, a crack that splits, and there's a hand pressed to his eye and he's crying.
Peter moves, slow and fumbling, sloshy in himself against the static buzz in his head. It isn't all because of the alcohol, though. It's that same feeling he's known, like shock, maybe. A sort of thrumming thing, overwhelmed. He's moving into the side of the booth where Falco is and he feels far away from himself, until his arms are sliding around the other, holding on so tight. The body against his own is bigger, wider, stronger, than he remembers. But it's still Falco. It'll always be Falco. )
I've got you. Come— come here. I'm with you.