pictured: kaz holding graham's hand as they're sat together at the campfire, her cheek resting on his shoulder. " we're going to be okay, kitty. we survived a fucking dream cult. we can survive some... guys in masks. either way, we're not alone. you still have me. "
“it isn’t fair,” he whispers, eyes lost somewhere on the dance of flames and tinder. “we shouldn’t be here.” these words are useless, and he wishes more than ever he had anything like kaz’s backbone to protect him from the spiraling dread of them. words soft and repeated until they turn to dust around his teeth and he’s silent.
graham’s shoulders shake, but he’s been crying too long for anything else to happen now, so he just anchors himself on kaz’s hand, trying to be mindful of how hard he squeezes--verifying she’s still there. eyes burn, throat stings where voice has broken, dirt and blood decay windbreaker as he looks at nothing--spaced out in a slowly ebbing panic attack.
a soft trembling laugh, eyes finally raising from flame. he lets himself slump a bit against her side, jaw setting against mussed hair. suburban sleepwalkers and underground cults had been beyond suspension of disbelief–this was nightmarish. surreal and filthy and visceral, with monsters moving among reeds--just to hunt them down--just to hurt them. “i better,” he breathes quietly, “i already almost lost you once. you’re not… you’re not allowed to do that to me again, okay?”
