#hmtb

—

The space between his ribs is hollowed out, his head empty; he feels like a marionette that lost all its attachments, and can no longer function. There’s nowhere for him to go: not forward, not backwards, not a step anywhere. No frayed end of a string that could link him back to the world.

He can’t even anchor his gaze, his surroundings a blur out of focus. 

He startles, body twitching as a lightswitch flicks on in a doorway off to the side. Far, too far. (Anything is too far right now. All of it too insurmountable.) (He’s tired. He’s so, so tired.) Light spills sideways into the hallway, illuminating a shadow of a figure, a person stopped just short of entering the room and dipping out of sight.

Grian’s breath keeps catching in his throat, his eyes big and incomprehending, glistening.

In a couple of swift steps, the figure comes closer, erasing the distance between them.

Lips move, but it’s meaningless to Grian. His ears continue to buzz. The world is askew, and Grian isn’t a part of it.

Gentle hands come up to cup Grian’s face, warm fingertips brushing freckled skin. Concerned green eyes try to catch his gaze. 

Grian’s brain rattles.

Light spilled behind dark brown hair paints the strands shiny-gold against the darkness that crowds in from the sides—the darkness that holds Grian hostage, its tendrils curled around his frame, tugging at his stomach and keeping him in place. But there’s another hold on him, soft and firm and pleading all at once, and Grian wonders if it’s going to pull him out of this place. Out of—

Distressingly, he thinks of a wet bed and slick floor and stained clothes—blood, his blood, so much of it—and a hole in the ceiling, a familiar face looking down at him. Coming closer, reaching out, eager and desperate to save him.