[As distractions go, the question has more in common with a detonation than a sleight of hand. Paul flinches, his fingers curling reflexively in the soft fabric of Lazarus' shirt, the flickering drop of his gaze barely visible behind the throbbing flare of light that accompanies it.]
It's not like that.
[It's not trust. (In the Waking World, Paul curls up tighter under the weight of piled blankets, his fingers caught in the soft ends of borrowed sleeves.) It's a thing Paul doesn't have a name for, yet.]
I am back. He found me.
[The distortion in his voice is worsening. It catches the thunder like his eyes caught the lightning, refracts the low rumbling into a rasping grind.]
I was wrong, Lazarus. I was wrong about- [everything] so much.
no subject
It's not like that.
[It's not trust. (In the Waking World, Paul curls up tighter under the weight of piled blankets, his fingers caught in the soft ends of borrowed sleeves.) It's a thing Paul doesn't have a name for, yet.]
I am back. He found me.
[The distortion in his voice is worsening. It catches the thunder like his eyes caught the lightning, refracts the low rumbling into a rasping grind.]
I was wrong, Lazarus. I was wrong about- [everything] so much.