âitâs okay, iâm here, weâre okay.â e.g @ tunny iâm ready to hurt
( say âi love youâ / @oenomaled )
    he clings onto her like she is the only safety he knows; tunny is drowning, here, drowning in sand and blood, so vivid that he can taste it at the back of his throat, and if he lets go, he might be swept away entirely. itâs not real. itâs not real, itâs not real---but he can smell it, and taste it, and feel it, and what else is reality but something that tangible, huh? sometimes, tunny drifts through his life completely fucking numb, feeling absolutely nothing; itâs like heâs not there, like heâs unconnected to the world around him, and how is that any more real than this? nothing seems real, and everything seems real. all at once.
    sheâs real. sheâs real, and he didnât know her in the desert, and he can cling onto that. does cling to that. ( heâs chanting it, under his breath: youâre real, youâre real. ) tunny hides his face against her chest and makes himself focus on what else he can tell is real: the sound of his harsh breathing, the warmth of tears on his cheeks, the beep of monitors, the smell of antiseptic. the smell of her shampoo, the feel of her arms around him, secure but not constricting, her hand soft on the back of his head.Â
    the world has conspired against her, trying to make her anything but gentle. it didnât succeed. and tunny, who failed at the first hurdle, who has been made bitter and angry and sharp, is grateful for it.
    thereâs a brief moment where he considers letting go of her, but he doesnât, just loosens his grip a little so that she can breathe. tunny considers apologising, considers masking his fear and shame in something crude, but he doesnât do that either.Â