Almost two hundred... I... I would hope that you are out of them.
[ the words leave him with a breathlessness to it. two hundred times over and over again, and the realization that they'd ended up back in that meadow again.
(the truth is, artemy hears them, lays on his side with his arm under his pillow in the hours when he's found himself awake, catching his breathe because he feels as though he's suffocating some nights, it's either the plague whispers in his ears, or the eudora becomes his metal coffin, and always, always he wakes up with his leg throbbing in phantom pains, itching and burning, shooting up to his hip.)
but he himself would rather someone never have to hear the sounds he makes when he dreams about his son dying, when the plague takes murky in his dreams, when he has to die again knowing his father put him here, in this position.)
he sees that eye, and he shakes his head a little. they both are sat there together, tumbled toys with strings cut for now (for now?) for now, and artemy lets his hand slowly pass a little, up and down, a steady, slow rhythm.
he nods a little bit. ]
A beastly thing... time... over and over again, never enough of it even when you think you've stepped just right. Done the right dance.
[ he sees these flush, frowns somewhat, wants to press the back of his hand to their face - nearly does but just hovers. are they feverish...? he wants to check but waits to be given the go ahead, murmuring in the meantime. ]
... Need help standing...? Want to lay down somewhere...?
[ says the guy who got down on his knees. his stamina isn't what it used to be. still decent within the confines of these games, but an echo of it lines his bones in this moment. he'll never stop caring. ]
..I am. Nothing to worry about there. But I.. guess you could call me an expert lead when it comes to a stage play like that.
[ Director in their own play, acting to perfection, following the script line by line to every small detail. Memorizing even lines of other actors, able to repeat them without so much as a hitch. How exhausting that is.
It's the featherlight weight, but solid, warm, brushing in a rhythm that has their body shiver. But makes them breathe a little easier. Repeating small repetitive breaths in and out, just as they're always used to doing. Wait for that ache in their throat to die down, clear of its raspy mess. Like they haven't just swallowed a thousand nails. ]
..Didn't think there'd be anyone else following their own script.
[ That hand raises, comes close to their face, and their own response is a slow almost dizzied blink. They're definitely feverish though. But they don't turn away that request to check, just stay where they are. ]
I think.. I need a moment to sit for a bit. I'll be okay after.
[ Mostly because they troubled Artemy to get down here in the first place, and they remember one leg causes him some trouble so. For now, they can just sit here. Until they both feel fine enough to get up. ]
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[ the words leave him with a breathlessness to it. two hundred times over and over again, and the realization that they'd ended up back in that meadow again.
(the truth is, artemy hears them, lays on his side with his arm under his pillow in the hours when he's found himself awake, catching his breathe because he feels as though he's suffocating some nights, it's either the plague whispers in his ears, or the eudora becomes his metal coffin, and always, always he wakes up with his leg throbbing in phantom pains, itching and burning, shooting up to his hip.)
but he himself would rather someone never have to hear the sounds he makes when he dreams about his son dying, when the plague takes murky in his dreams, when he has to die again knowing his father put him here, in this position.)
he sees that eye, and he shakes his head a little. they both are sat there together, tumbled toys with strings cut for now (for now?) for now, and artemy lets his hand slowly pass a little, up and down, a steady, slow rhythm.
he nods a little bit. ]
A beastly thing... time... over and over again, never enough of it even when you think you've stepped just right. Done the right dance.
[ he sees these flush, frowns somewhat, wants to press the back of his hand to their face - nearly does but just hovers. are they feverish...? he wants to check but waits to be given the go ahead, murmuring in the meantime. ]
... Need help standing...? Want to lay down somewhere...?
[ says the guy who got down on his knees. his stamina isn't what it used to be. still decent within the confines of these games, but an echo of it lines his bones in this moment. he'll never stop caring. ]
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[ Director in their own play, acting to perfection, following the script line by line to every small detail. Memorizing even lines of other actors, able to repeat them without so much as a hitch. How exhausting that is.
It's the featherlight weight, but solid, warm, brushing in a rhythm that has their body shiver. But makes them breathe a little easier. Repeating small repetitive breaths in and out, just as they're always used to doing. Wait for that ache in their throat to die down, clear of its raspy mess. Like they haven't just swallowed a thousand nails. ]
..Didn't think there'd be anyone else following their own script.
[ That hand raises, comes close to their face, and their own response is a slow almost dizzied blink. They're definitely feverish though. But they don't turn away that request to check, just stay where they are. ]
I think.. I need a moment to sit for a bit. I'll be okay after.
[ Mostly because they troubled Artemy to get down here in the first place, and they remember one leg causes him some trouble so. For now, they can just sit here. Until they both feel fine enough to get up. ]