it's an incongruous rattling of senses — his own, prickling in some numb attempt at self defense that only gets duller the longer he looks at her, like a spell charmed into place. that crawling across his skin goes deeply ignored, no longer tugging and pulling at him, no longer telling him turn around or wake up or not real or she's gone.
maybe if he stopped to listen, he'd realize it all so. but he doesn't. the loneliness doesn't fade though, that emptiness echoing in cavernous breaths.
he steps forward, watches her fuss with the achingly-familiar lunchbox and when she turns to look at him, pushes her glasses up over her head and comes to him, he doesn't even realize he's crying until she says so. ] That's —
— that's okay, Aunt May. I like your lunches better anyway. [ words are croaked out, barely above a whisper, half-memories parroted back, eyes on the overstuffed box. had he cried then? he must've. is then now? he feels small, even if he's eye level to her now. is he small? he can't breathe. there's red, some brief wisp there and gone again, in his periphery and he closes his eyes when her hand runs through his hair and it feels warm and real and he is frozen in his spot and all he can taste is metal and salt. ] I'm sorry —
[ why is he sorry? he can't remember, but he feels its not enough. he misses her — dimly acknowledges that that's what that hollow feeling is. he misses her but why, if she's right here?
his fingers find her hand, and hold it tight. ] — I don't want to leave you. [ something bad will happen if he does. why does he know that? he wants to hug her, but finds himself afraid.
concrete dust and smoke, rough and bitter in burning lungs. ]
🥲
it's an incongruous rattling of senses — his own, prickling in some numb attempt at self defense that only gets duller the longer he looks at her, like a spell charmed into place. that crawling across his skin goes deeply ignored, no longer tugging and pulling at him, no longer telling him turn around or wake up or not real or she's gone.
maybe if he stopped to listen, he'd realize it all so. but he doesn't. the loneliness doesn't fade though, that emptiness echoing in cavernous breaths.
he steps forward, watches her fuss with the achingly-familiar lunchbox and when she turns to look at him, pushes her glasses up over her head and comes to him, he doesn't even realize he's crying until she says so. ] That's —
— that's okay, Aunt May. I like your lunches better anyway. [ words are croaked out, barely above a whisper, half-memories parroted back, eyes on the overstuffed box. had he cried then? he must've. is then now? he feels small, even if he's eye level to her now. is he small? he can't breathe. there's red, some brief wisp there and gone again, in his periphery and he closes his eyes when her hand runs through his hair and it feels warm and real and he is frozen in his spot and all he can taste is metal and salt. ] I'm sorry —
[ why is he sorry? he can't remember, but he feels its not enough. he misses her — dimly acknowledges that that's what that hollow feeling is. he misses her but why, if she's right here?
his fingers find her hand, and hold it tight. ] — I don't want to leave you. [ something bad will happen if he does. why does he know that? he wants to hug her, but finds himself afraid.
concrete dust and smoke, rough and bitter in burning lungs. ]