𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕖𝕣 ft. @unsccnangcl !
HE CAN’T FEEL HIS FINGERS. he’d rationalized it before by just reminding himself that it was batshit freezing outside … but a moment later, he’d forget that rationality, finding the glittering, pearly-white snow looking oh so soft … only to curse at himself when his fingers would freeze again, this time covered in melted snow. his eyes had been so focused on his fingers, he hadn’t noticed that what was supposed to be a ten minute walk to clear his head had turned into an hour. his conception of time was completely destroyed once the sun had set—never mind the mix of poisons that coursed through his body.
the SOBER version maverick braxton that existed a few hours ago had almost been successful in keeping himself from forming far-too-familiar lines of white powder. almost. but news of melanie’s death was so foreign to him. he’d never truly experienced loss before … it was terrifying. and at the time, he didn’t want to deal with the emotions that would come crashing into his chest once he had processed the news.
instead, he’s feeling tears freeze on his cheeks, his head throbbing PAINFULLY—but not his fingers, no—he still can’t feel those. he can see his feet dragging through the snow, but he can’t feel his feet lifting at all. hitched, quick breaths cuts the silence of the night, his breath fogging up his already impaired vision. his brain is spinning—he can barely feel his feet on the ground, let alone keep his balance. he needs help. now.
eyes dart around, trying to lock onto ANY goddamned landmark he can find to figure out where he is. it’s vaguely familiar … he searches his numb, dull mind if he can remember … he doesn’t know why, but his fingers, still numb, reach for his phone to text her. ella. perhaps his synapses had made this connection without him realizing, but in a moment, he’s already sent a pleading text to her, hoping she’s awake to respond to him.
MAVERICK, 1:48AM: ella MAVERICK, 1:48AM: i need help MAVERICK, 1:49AM: can i come over
it isn’t at ALL the sort of text he’d send her ( or anyone, frankly ); in fact, they barely text at all. their interactions are ninety-nine percent in person, away from screens and other distractions.
it’s a miracle she responds, even semi-immediately, even more of a miracle that he can drag himself to the apartment buildings. the synapses again … must have pieced together memories to form a map up to her doorstep. he knocks—or at least he thinks he does, before leaning against the doorframe. “ ella … it’s me, ” he manages to sigh. “ i’m … sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry … ”
