[ did he? or was that something he wanted to say to the viktor of his deathbed vision? either way, it was nice, hearing viktor chuckle at him, and for what reason? jayce couldn't make sense of what was so endearing when he was clearly telling the truth. it was sweet like honey. it made him want to just sit there and talk about their days. he loved seeing viktor happy and could not recall the last time he did.
"couldn't let me go". now, that's an odd thing to bring up— jayce takes a bit more time to focus on his surroundings, but the more he does the more he slows, and furrows the space between is eyes. why was he laying on the back of the cargo bed? why was hooked up to . .
carefully, rather than pulling blindly, jayce follows the tube connecting him to viktor. he was connected to viktor. in fact, how many things was viktor connected to? he tries to see, cranes his neck, and gets distracted by further details painting the scene. the viscous plash of opaline liquid around his legs dribbles off the cargo bed. it stains his clothes. he's not wearing a shirt. his chest is—
he remembers his chest flaring with pain, he remembered the herald. his mage, carefully steering his eyes away from the pluck of his heart from its home. the rhythmic, easy pulse starts to quicken. a rushing snare drum pressed against the wall of his spine and leveled shoulders rising and falling. his hands stay suspended, beginning to shake in front of him; the escalated breathing jostles the fluid still in his lung sack, interrupts the intake only by a fraction with a whooping cough before it resumes. the way his ribs are . . . thrumming with his heart is strange. the entire sensation, now that he is becoming more and more aware, is strange. like it has room to move rather than being wedged between tight muscle. it was a furnace but why was he so cold—? ]
W— Why is it, like that? My— [ his chest. something is very wrong with his chest. it glows like a purple neon sign from the inside, and he shouldn't be getting the feeling that the inside was only a dip away. the skin is off, the base of his collar bone is . . . cut. he can't see the smooth transition to his abdomen. there's a space in the way. he's caching up to the memory of drowning in his own blood. of bleeding out. of his arm, and his leg. to keep from dreadfully inching his fingers closer to his chest, jayce follows the rough grooves of his arm up his neck. it invades his face.
only a singular eye of his is fully hazel-gold— his right. the other, his left, is tainted with the same color and pattern as the anomaly's unusual kisses all over him. before jayce speaks, he croaks, his lips quivering and his gaze now wide with fear. not of viktor. not his beloved.
he fears what has happened and what is happening to him. ] You . . . How?
no subject
[ did he? or was that something he wanted to say to the viktor of his deathbed vision? either way, it was nice, hearing viktor chuckle at him, and for what reason? jayce couldn't make sense of what was so endearing when he was clearly telling the truth. it was sweet like honey. it made him want to just sit there and talk about their days. he loved seeing viktor happy and could not recall the last time he did.
"couldn't let me go". now, that's an odd thing to bring up— jayce takes a bit more time to focus on his surroundings, but the more he does the more he slows, and furrows the space between is eyes. why was he laying on the back of the cargo bed? why was hooked up to . .
carefully, rather than pulling blindly, jayce follows the tube connecting him to viktor. he was connected to viktor. in fact, how many things was viktor connected to? he tries to see, cranes his neck, and gets distracted by further details painting the scene. the viscous plash of opaline liquid around his legs dribbles off the cargo bed. it stains his clothes. he's not wearing a shirt. his chest is—
he remembers his chest flaring with pain, he remembered the herald. his mage, carefully steering his eyes away from the pluck of his heart from its home. the rhythmic, easy pulse starts to quicken. a rushing snare drum pressed against the wall of his spine and leveled shoulders rising and falling. his hands stay suspended, beginning to shake in front of him; the escalated breathing jostles the fluid still in his lung sack, interrupts the intake only by a fraction with a whooping cough before it resumes. the way his ribs are . . . thrumming with his heart is strange. the entire sensation, now that he is becoming more and more aware, is strange. like it has room to move rather than being wedged between tight muscle. it was a furnace but why was he so cold—? ]
W— Why is it, like that? My— [ his chest. something is very wrong with his chest. it glows like a purple neon sign from the inside, and he shouldn't be getting the feeling that the inside was only a dip away. the skin is off, the base of his collar bone is . . . cut. he can't see the smooth transition to his abdomen. there's a space in the way. he's caching up to the memory of drowning in his own blood. of bleeding out. of his arm, and his leg. to keep from dreadfully inching his fingers closer to his chest, jayce follows the rough grooves of his arm up his neck. it invades his face.
only a singular eye of his is fully hazel-gold— his right. the other, his left, is tainted with the same color and pattern as the anomaly's unusual kisses all over him. before jayce speaks, he croaks, his lips quivering and his gaze now wide with fear. not of viktor. not his beloved.
he fears what has happened and what is happening to him. ] You . . . How?
[ he chooses to focus on that, first. ]