[He doesn't protest. He gives in too easily, reacting to the sudden shift with a gasp but not fighting against it. His breaths come more erratic as the grip tightens around him. He can't begin to process the flurry of words murmured to him, but the voice is gentle, familiar. The arms are warm. If he closes his eyes and allows himself to sink into the feeling, it's almost comforting.
He can't be dying, at least not like he was before. If he was, it would not feel nearly so pleasant. No blood, no ache, just quiet words and racing thoughts. It calls to mind the memory of being tangled in vines, wrapping limbs and wings around Doppio until everything stopped.
Those same soft words, the same tone. It couldn't be anyone else. There is nothing to fear in this room.
It's been weeks, he thinks, if not months, since the last time he sank so low. Plagued by thoughts spiraling out of control until they were indistinguishable from reality, and even then it is rarely something so mundane that sets him off in the first place. Potential danger, something real and tangible in his environment to react to — that he can at least understand. Television. He was watching television, of all things. A recording, yes, real and brutal but entirely harmless to him, and it was enough to ... to ...
The grip around him slackens suddenly. The change in pressure is enough to startle him into movement, the slowly easing tremor in his limbs returning twofold. He lowers his hand from his mouth, releasing another desperate sound.]
D-don't.
[Don't what? That may be too hard to verbalize right now. But acting is different, and, with shaking grip, he finds himself clinging back.]
no subject
He can't be dying, at least not like he was before. If he was, it would not feel nearly so pleasant. No blood, no ache, just quiet words and racing thoughts. It calls to mind the memory of being tangled in vines, wrapping limbs and wings around Doppio until everything stopped.
Those same soft words, the same tone. It couldn't be anyone else. There is nothing to fear in this room.
It's been weeks, he thinks, if not months, since the last time he sank so low. Plagued by thoughts spiraling out of control until they were indistinguishable from reality, and even then it is rarely something so mundane that sets him off in the first place. Potential danger, something real and tangible in his environment to react to — that he can at least understand. Television. He was watching television, of all things. A recording, yes, real and brutal but entirely harmless to him, and it was enough to ... to ...
The grip around him slackens suddenly. The change in pressure is enough to startle him into movement, the slowly easing tremor in his limbs returning twofold. He lowers his hand from his mouth, releasing another desperate sound.]
D-don't.
[Don't what? That may be too hard to verbalize right now. But acting is different, and, with shaking grip, he finds himself clinging back.]