It goes down. Geralt is on top of a pile of air, and if she could think outside of the shame (and relief when that heavy rattle of breath makes it dead), it would be comical. But it's not. Nothing is funny now. Every laugh, every smile, every deep silence is demolished utterly and stripped to nothing but her skin and even less than that.
Jo's jaw is locked, teeth pressed so hard there's pain radiating into her neck and head. Too certain if she released it, they'd be shaking, chattering inside. It's hard to say if it's hate or shame or fear that has the more brutal hold of jaws around her neck. One part of her yelling to get back up, spine straight, shoulders level. The other wants to burn these last five minutes to the ground, take back any proof she could ever be this weak. Another is desperate to curl up tighter into herself until the Horizon makes her disappear.
There are tears in her eyes, and that pressure is keeping them only there, too. She doesn't cry, doesn't do tears; another weakness. Her fist is pressed against her mouth, but there's not a single sound coming out of her (just that still speeding sprint of her heart; that too forced rhythm of her breath muffled against that curl of fingers, trying to escape her and being granted, forced into, only even breaths).
It's his feet she can see first. It's worse at that, though. It's worse that it's him. It takes her seconds—nearly makes her nauseous to try swallowing; hot, sticky, clinging shame is so much worse than fear, suffocating in her blood; this isn't her—to even make it to four words. More breath than sound in them, like any more force, might crack her voice, too. "I need a moment."
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Jo's jaw is locked, teeth pressed so hard there's pain radiating into her neck and head. Too certain if she released it, they'd be shaking, chattering inside. It's hard to say if it's hate or shame or fear that has the more brutal hold of jaws around her neck. One part of her yelling to get back up, spine straight, shoulders level. The other wants to burn these last five minutes to the ground, take back any proof she could ever be this weak. Another is desperate to curl up tighter into herself until the Horizon makes her disappear.
There are tears in her eyes, and that pressure is keeping them only there, too. She doesn't cry, doesn't do tears; another weakness. Her fist is pressed against her mouth, but there's not a single sound coming out of her (just that still speeding sprint of her heart; that too forced rhythm of her breath muffled against that curl of fingers, trying to escape her and being granted, forced into, only even breaths).
It's his feet she can see first. It's worse at that, though. It's worse that it's him. It takes her seconds—nearly makes her nauseous to try swallowing; hot, sticky, clinging shame is so much worse than fear, suffocating in her blood; this isn't her—to even make it to four words. More breath than sound in them, like any more force, might crack her voice, too. "I need a moment."