[ it's strange how much more sleep she's gotten since welford branson's illusion came crashing down around them all. logically, she would have more worries to keep her up, and yet almost every night since then she's found herself slipping easier, deeper. maybe it's the cold, forcing her mind to shut down to conserve energy. maybe it's the extra heartbeat lulling her to sleep.
(maybe it's just him.)
she doesn't wake when he does, but the second after, practically dragged out of her own slumber by his shudder, his shout. by the time her eyes fly open he's there, sitting up and looking down at her like he's just seen a ghost.
or is it that he thinks he's looking at one now? ]
Tak. I'm okay. [ she remembers the nickname that he'd told her, though she takes care to use it sparingly, like it's some delicate, precious secret he's entrusted to her, even though she knows that's hardly true. still, it's moments like these that feel necessary to use it, and use it she does with the soft, raspiness of a voice still thick with sleep.
she sits up, reaches out with a hand left chilled by the unforgiving desert night, but it burns when she rests it against his cheek, slick with sweat. ] You're okay, [ she reminds him steadily. her other hand comes up, framing his face. ] Just breathe.
[ when she says tak, he's almost frightened he's in the dream suddenly again, but when her hands reach him, unlike in the world where he hadn't been able to make the connection, he feels the cool of her palms soothing him, shifting into a shared warmth between her skin and his. he listens to her voice, letting it ground him, bringing him back into the world of this tiny mattress, into their little corner, their private world they've made into a safe haven for themselves.
with her aid, his breath begins to slowly steady, albeit still deep with quiet sighs, and he brings up his own hands to slide against her wrists, slim and soft to the touch. with closed eyes, his fingers rise against her knuckles, feeling out the curve of the bones, pressing gently to brings her palms further against his cheeks.
he breathes. once and then again. inhale. exhale. she's here. she's alive.
even as he calms, he doesn't open his eyes, simply feeling her, letting him soak up her presence through touch. he doesn't trust his sight, relying on her heat to tell him what's real. ]
You were right. [ he says quietly through the silent air, the room empty save for the space they take up together in this corner. ] I — I see it. The ash. I see it everywhere.
[ her hands still under his exploring touch, letting him find what he needs to ground himself. when she feels the desperate pull of his hands, she presses her palms all the more against his clammy skin, like it would somehow let the heat from their joined bodies permeate through to the calm the storm in his mind.
at his confession, her heart aches, thumbs sweeping across the high points of his cheeks, wiping away those phantom tears. ]
There's no ash here, Takeshi.
[ her voice is quiet, sincere. tipping forward till their foreheads touch, til a subtle shift of her head has their noses brush. if touch is what anchors him, she'll not be greedy. ]
[ she moves in closer to him and he breaths her in, the softness of her voice ringing out to him in tandem with the soothing guidance of her touch, planted palms framing him securely and steadily between them. with the brush of her nose, her breath fans against his lips, warm against the biting chill of the cold desert weather.
it's just you and me. and he believes it. nothing else needs to be real except this.
and for a moment, that's all he allows, not even taking a chance on speaking again until he knows for sure, until his heart slows down to something more comfortable. if his hands move, it's only to roll light caresses to the back of hers, thumb offering lazy circular strokes to the bone of her wrist.
(if i lose every other memory, just let me keep this, his mind briefly wanders.)
with a swallow, he finally parts his lips to speak again. ]
I've been seeing it more often again. Ever since we lost the town. [ he sighs, letting his breath wash over hers. ] I keep thinking about ... old man Branson. Way he lost everyone he cared about and survived, living in his guilt. Way he couldn't save anyone, so a part of him tried to forget it somehow.
[ quiet again, and then, ] What if — what if that's just me too? What if I can't save anyone and I just get stuck with the ghosts?
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(maybe it's just him.)
she doesn't wake when he does, but the second after, practically dragged out of her own slumber by his shudder, his shout. by the time her eyes fly open he's there, sitting up and looking down at her like he's just seen a ghost.
or is it that he thinks he's looking at one now? ]
Tak. I'm okay. [ she remembers the nickname that he'd told her, though she takes care to use it sparingly, like it's some delicate, precious secret he's entrusted to her, even though she knows that's hardly true. still, it's moments like these that feel necessary to use it, and use it she does with the soft, raspiness of a voice still thick with sleep.
she sits up, reaches out with a hand left chilled by the unforgiving desert night, but it burns when she rests it against his cheek, slick with sweat. ] You're okay, [ she reminds him steadily. her other hand comes up, framing his face. ] Just breathe.
no subject
with her aid, his breath begins to slowly steady, albeit still deep with quiet sighs, and he brings up his own hands to slide against her wrists, slim and soft to the touch. with closed eyes, his fingers rise against her knuckles, feeling out the curve of the bones, pressing gently to brings her palms further against his cheeks.
he breathes. once and then again. inhale. exhale. she's here. she's alive.
even as he calms, he doesn't open his eyes, simply feeling her, letting him soak up her presence through touch. he doesn't trust his sight, relying on her heat to tell him what's real. ]
You were right. [ he says quietly through the silent air, the room empty save for the space they take up together in this corner. ] I — I see it. The ash. I see it everywhere.
no subject
at his confession, her heart aches, thumbs sweeping across the high points of his cheeks, wiping away those phantom tears. ]
There's no ash here, Takeshi.
[ her voice is quiet, sincere. tipping forward till their foreheads touch, til a subtle shift of her head has their noses brush. if touch is what anchors him, she'll not be greedy. ]
It's just you and me. I promise.
no subject
it's just you and me. and he believes it. nothing else needs to be real except this.
and for a moment, that's all he allows, not even taking a chance on speaking again until he knows for sure, until his heart slows down to something more comfortable. if his hands move, it's only to roll light caresses to the back of hers, thumb offering lazy circular strokes to the bone of her wrist.
(if i lose every other memory, just let me keep this, his mind briefly wanders.)
with a swallow, he finally parts his lips to speak again. ]
I've been seeing it more often again. Ever since we lost the town. [ he sighs, letting his breath wash over hers. ] I keep thinking about ... old man Branson. Way he lost everyone he cared about and survived, living in his guilt. Way he couldn't save anyone, so a part of him tried to forget it somehow.
[ quiet again, and then, ] What if — what if that's just me too? What if I can't save anyone and I just get stuck with the ghosts?