Her instincts are good. It would be worse; even the sensation of her hand hovering near makes him pull away reflexively. As much as he can in this cramped cell.
He doesn't need her to tell him to breathe. Except he does, and it bothers him that this is so. That part of him recognizes he's losing his grasp on himself, his composure, on everything that he has spent his entire life building, brick by brick. He should not be this easily rattled. Not even over...these memories. He's faced them down so many times. They shouldn't be haunting him as though they're fresh wounds.
He exhales, slow.
"You need to—make something." Because he can't. He can't concentrate well enough to do it. Not right now. "Like a door. Or...stairs."
Doesn't matter what. Maybe it'll not be perfect, maybe it'll send them falling into a pit of snakes. He doesn't give a shit as long as they're elsewhere.
no subject
He doesn't need her to tell him to breathe. Except he does, and it bothers him that this is so. That part of him recognizes he's losing his grasp on himself, his composure, on everything that he has spent his entire life building, brick by brick. He should not be this easily rattled. Not even over...these memories. He's faced them down so many times. They shouldn't be haunting him as though they're fresh wounds.
He exhales, slow.
"You need to—make something." Because he can't. He can't concentrate well enough to do it. Not right now. "Like a door. Or...stairs."
Doesn't matter what. Maybe it'll not be perfect, maybe it'll send them falling into a pit of snakes. He doesn't give a shit as long as they're elsewhere.