( It doesn't seem real, none of it seems real, but that insistence by his mind is countered by all of the ways it very much is real, from the loud sound the... thing had made, to its bright lights, to the feel of wind rippling across this impossible landscape. He can smell it too, out here — something dry and clear and clean, something so very different from the ice. Fresh breeze, not cutting, not cruel. Just— quietly alive.
And then there's her. She's very much real, even if he doesn't at all understand how that's possible, and his breaths are progressively becoming not enough. Each attempt seems to draw more and more air out of him instead of push it in, and it's too tight, too painful. He's starting to gasp louder now, giving pained little wheeze-sounds, gloves bare at the fingers, allowing them to feel the dry soil beneath his grasp.
When she crouches down close to him, he's tensing again, shirking back as though afraid — later, he'll berate himself for how rude that is, but in the moment, his body's gone straight towards the outer circles of panic-mode, and he doesn't understand anything.
But it also means that he latches, unthinkingly, onto anything too, and when the woman tells him to take a breath, shows him how, he immediately does with an almost comical obedience, eyes rolling over to stare at her, wide as saucers and petrified but listening to what she says. He breathes in, first attempt shattered by another gasp of sharp pain, but the second one helps a little. It's not full panic yet, thankfully, just. Just a baby amount. There's still time for a true nervous breakdown.
The truck? He meets that claim with a blank, oblivious stare, before grasping onto the woman's next words with a fresh wave of alarm. "This isn't any kind of place to go wandering around", she says, and Little turns his head to stare fully at her, shuddering around the breaths he's still labouring to take. )
What is this place? If I may ask — Where are we, madam?
no subject
And then there's her. She's very much real, even if he doesn't at all understand how that's possible, and his breaths are progressively becoming not enough. Each attempt seems to draw more and more air out of him instead of push it in, and it's too tight, too painful. He's starting to gasp louder now, giving pained little wheeze-sounds, gloves bare at the fingers, allowing them to feel the dry soil beneath his grasp.
When she crouches down close to him, he's tensing again, shirking back as though afraid — later, he'll berate himself for how rude that is, but in the moment, his body's gone straight towards the outer circles of panic-mode, and he doesn't understand anything.
But it also means that he latches, unthinkingly, onto anything too, and when the woman tells him to take a breath, shows him how, he immediately does with an almost comical obedience, eyes rolling over to stare at her, wide as saucers and petrified but listening to what she says. He breathes in, first attempt shattered by another gasp of sharp pain, but the second one helps a little. It's not full panic yet, thankfully, just. Just a baby amount. There's still time for a true nervous breakdown.
The truck? He meets that claim with a blank, oblivious stare, before grasping onto the woman's next words with a fresh wave of alarm. "This isn't any kind of place to go wandering around", she says, and Little turns his head to stare fully at her, shuddering around the breaths he's still labouring to take. )
What is this place? If I may ask — Where are we, madam?