#psychexch

it gets a little easier each time you make it disappear. fingers tighten against themselves in the wide pockets of the swath of her yellow skirt, eyes glassy as she walks down the street and with every step further from the lovely hotel and father’s glowering and mother’s murmuring. they are cross with each other. they are always cross. it’s easier to escape on these trips into the city; they let her shop on her own and constance had heard her mother’s wheedling voice in her own when she said she was going out to look for a new dress.

I’M A SHAKING HAND WITHOUT A CONCRETE PLAN! she stops at a corner, watching the light across the street and stepping off the curb a moment after it flickers, changes. she could walk forever. she could walk right off the side of the island and into the cold, brackish water. if only she had merricat here with her - then they could vanish beneath the surface, siren-like, and swim away.

he feels like he’s made out of spit. david opens his eyes and closes them immediately-- just in case they dribble out of his sockets. something is humming but not in a sing-songy way. it’s the static droning of a machine trying to breathe but forgetting it’s a rhythm, not just one long exhale. for a second there, david wholeheartedly believes he’s going to melt off the couch and trickle into the nearest crack in the floor but that doesn’t happen. he stays solid and aware. he’s not spit, he’s a spine with some wires and four heavy limbs attached to it.

“shit.” he mutters. sometimes he gets angry at the sheer fact that he’s awake. take two, david opens his eyes again. he knows what he’s going to see. the floor, some furniture and then elliot, vaguely. david sniffs as he sits up, making sure to shuffle as loud as possible to let his host know he’s awake. he drags a hand down his face, cups his right cheek with it. it feels swollen. elliot is probably looking at him now, he doesn’t check.

“i had that dream again.” he says. starts out slow and quiet but warms up as the words keep coming. “the one with the-- the... a world where people, um, pay for their things... like, coffee, with their teeth. they go to the counter and every time you um, want to pay you have to--” he pulls at an invisible object next to his mouth and clicks his tongue as he yanks it out of its imaginary socket. a bloodied tooth lands on the coffee table but david knows it’s not there, not really.

just  the  way  she  likes  it,  then.  there  are  times  making  LITTLE  sense  to  those  around  you  is  a  boon  rather  than  a  problem,  and  this  is  one  of  them.  does  she  feel  bad,  just  a  little,  for  keeping  elliot  so  WHOLLY  in  the  dark?  YES.  it’s  for  everyone’s  sake,  though.  those  of  them  who  aren’t  part  of  this  cycle  can  rarely  seem  to  comprehend  it,  or  think  it  some  feverish  imagining,  or  some  worries  of  the  future  she  cannot  contain  the  way  those  around  her  do.  out  of  everyone  she  has  met,  pearl  thinks  elliot  stands  the  most  CHANCE  of  not  discounting  her  wholly,  but  he  doesn’t  NEED  to  know.  not  yet.

the  smile  she  offers  is  near  vacant  and  she  leans  back  in  her  chair,  “sorry,”  fingers  are  steepled  before  her  lips,  “would  a  different  story  be  better?”

The baggie of comes to rest in Nemo’s lap, with one sugar pill sitting pretty in the palm of their hand. It’s useless until they coat it, and they don’t want to look shitty by holding that back from Elliot - but Neev has got Nemo really safety first about the whole thing.

Which is a shitty thing to be annoyed about. They are being shitty, in some way or other.

   “Do you usually dream?”