[ The barrage begins to stop, and everything moves backwards in time - the moths, suddenly gentle, fly from his flesh, others crawl up and out his throat to join the coalescing body he's been trying so hard to hold onto, despite barely being a body. Kahlil remains half blind from his ward's final death throes of sharp, bright light, and he's vaguely aware of his own injuries - some of them internal. The moths have left burns wherever his flesh was already exposed, his thick cloak in tatters from their acidic dust trails.
He hears an apology in Jack's voice, because it is Jack now, and Kahlil himself is no longer screaming, though he has the sudden urge to retch. He holds that in, somehow. Manages to get actual words out instead: ]
You're okay - it's okay...
[ His voice is hoarse and raspy, his arms still encircling Jack. He's putting more weight than he means to against Jack for support as his body sends too many pain signals for him to properly register at once. Everything hurts, and he's exhausted - in a good way, almost.
Or maybe that's just the relief that the nightmare is over. ]
( Kyle's consoling him, but it- that doesn't feel right. In the sudden frantic, frenetic reality that presses into his mind too sharply and too abruptly, he's blisteringly aware that he is not the one that needs to be supported right now. Everything feels vibrant to an extent that makes him nauseous — it's like being woken from a deep slumber by a bucket of ice water, it's like waking to a gunshot and a house fire.
To go from a dreamy, distant nothing to an adrenaline-fueled hyper-awareness is jarring and disorienting, and suddenly he's sweating, and his heart is pounding, and Kyle doesn't seem to weigh very much at all in his arms. As the other man sags, his grip tightens around Kyle's middle, holding like he's convinced his friend is about to fully collapse.
It's not an unfair guess, now that he can see it — the blisters shaped like moths, burn marks on his flesh where they've touched down, and Jack knows with sudden clarity they were inside him. )
Oh fuck, fuck- Kyle.
( It becomes a guided, gentle descent to the ground, with Jack carefully navigating himself down to his knees, hands still clinging, eyes still wide and rapidly searching over the body before him to try and understand just how badly he fucked up. How badly he hurt one of the people that matters most to him in the world.
He did this. He did this.
If his hands weren't occupied, they would be shaking. )
[ Kahlil winces and bites back a small cry as they lower to the ground on the red forest, still unable to untangle where each individual hurt is coming from, while at the same time he can feel his body trying to mitigate the damage, to begin an automatic healing process beyond what any mortal body should be capable of. The pain starts to dull to a dull buzz, and he can hear Jack continue to apologize even if all he can see right now is shifting reddish shadows and the outline of his features. If not for the color it might remind him of the Gray Space. It's too warm for that, though, too humid here. His clothes feel stuck to his skin, what remains of the tattered cloth and leather at least. His shoulders are mostly bare, the shadows that sometimes replace the physical material have all but vanished in his damaged state. ]
It's okay - [ he repeats this softly, as softly as he can manage with his damaged throat, leaning into him, foreheads touching. ] - you're back.
[ For a brief moment, he is somewhere and someone else. Someone with his face, staring up at a god who had just torn asunder a battlefield with such terrifying force - only, that's not what scared him most.
I thought I lost you, thinks someone else in his own voice. ]
( In this moment, Jack doesn't feel like a god. Maybe he never really does on a normal day, but he especially doesn't now. He feels all of twenty-something years old again, with a missing finger and a missing leg, lost and terrified and absolutely overflowing with a constant stream of guilt that threatens to drown him. And Kyle doesn't feel like a god to him either; he feels breakable, he feels entirely too easily to hurt, to bruise, to burn. It feels like a box cutter in a bedroom several lifetimes ago.
There is blood on his hands, he's not sure if it's Kyle's or his own or someone else's, and it causes his palms to slide when they shift to Kyle's face, to his jaw, framing ears with his thumbs. Their foreheads touch, but it doesn't feel like enough. )
I-
( He wants to say something, but the combination of words it would take to express the guilt and shame he feels, the relief that Kyle's okay, the desperation that's starting to churn in him; please don't leave me for this, please don't leave me because I did this — it's all too much to fit into his mouth. He chokes on it.
He can't say it all, he wants to say it all, and the signals all fire in his brain at once, and he can't, so instead he presses his mouth to Kyle's mouth in a way that is less a kiss and more a telegraphed declaration lacking finesse, lacking anything but an onslaught of feeling. )
[ The crush of his lips overwhelms him, his hands reflexively gripping tight around Jack's thin arms, fingers digging in. In in his delirium it's deeper hurts suddenly dredged up faster than he can bury them again, the sudden remembrance of the last man he'd kissed and that life together, the way it had fallen apart in the end.
It's too much to hurt like this, in both body and spirit. But this isn't Viktor (isn't John).
It's Jack's lips pressed against his own. Jack who he loves as a friend, and once long ago more than that, a desperate plea behind his kiss that Kyle can only answer by feverishly returning it with a mouth that still tastes of blood from the cursed things that had torn their way out of him. His fingertips and palms leave dark red streaks across Jack's shirt as he pulls him closer, starving for every point of physical contact, even when it hurts. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cw: bugs...
He hears an apology in Jack's voice, because it is Jack now, and Kahlil himself is no longer screaming, though he has the sudden urge to retch. He holds that in, somehow. Manages to get actual words out instead: ]
You're okay - it's okay...
[ His voice is hoarse and raspy, his arms still encircling Jack. He's putting more weight than he means to against Jack for support as his body sends too many pain signals for him to properly register at once. Everything hurts, and he's exhausted - in a good way, almost.
Or maybe that's just the relief that the nightmare is over. ]
no subject
To go from a dreamy, distant nothing to an adrenaline-fueled hyper-awareness is jarring and disorienting, and suddenly he's sweating, and his heart is pounding, and Kyle doesn't seem to weigh very much at all in his arms. As the other man sags, his grip tightens around Kyle's middle, holding like he's convinced his friend is about to fully collapse.
It's not an unfair guess, now that he can see it — the blisters shaped like moths, burn marks on his flesh where they've touched down, and Jack knows with sudden clarity they were inside him. )
Oh fuck, fuck- Kyle.
( It becomes a guided, gentle descent to the ground, with Jack carefully navigating himself down to his knees, hands still clinging, eyes still wide and rapidly searching over the body before him to try and understand just how badly he fucked up. How badly he hurt one of the people that matters most to him in the world.
He did this.
He did this.
If his hands weren't occupied, they would be shaking. )
Please be okay, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry.
no subject
It's okay - [ he repeats this softly, as softly as he can manage with his damaged throat, leaning into him, foreheads touching. ] - you're back.
[ For a brief moment, he is somewhere and someone else. Someone with his face, staring up at a god who had just torn asunder a battlefield with such terrifying force - only, that's not what scared him most.
I thought I lost you, thinks someone else in his own voice. ]
no subject
There is blood on his hands, he's not sure if it's Kyle's or his own or someone else's, and it causes his palms to slide when they shift to Kyle's face, to his jaw, framing ears with his thumbs. Their foreheads touch, but it doesn't feel like enough. )
I-
( He wants to say something, but the combination of words it would take to express the guilt and shame he feels, the relief that Kyle's okay, the desperation that's starting to churn in him; please don't leave me for this, please don't leave me because I did this — it's all too much to fit into his mouth. He chokes on it.
He can't say it all, he wants to say it all, and the signals all fire in his brain at once, and he can't, so instead he presses his mouth to Kyle's mouth in a way that is less a kiss and more a telegraphed declaration lacking finesse, lacking anything but an onslaught of feeling. )
no subject
It's too much to hurt like this, in both body and spirit. But this isn't Viktor (isn't John).
It's Jack's lips pressed against his own. Jack who he loves as a friend, and once long ago more than that, a desperate plea behind his kiss that Kyle can only answer by feverishly returning it with a mouth that still tastes of blood from the cursed things that had torn their way out of him. His fingertips and palms leave dark red streaks across Jack's shirt as he pulls him closer, starving for every point of physical contact, even when it hurts. ]