[Sparks catching eddies of wind and sizzling when they settle on the skin of his arms, on his hair. They pinch, burn, and he doesn't brush them aside. He's two inches to the left of himself. He's drifting. He's watching the world roar to life with sheets of orange-gold flame. He's gritting his teeth. He's - ]
[We should go.]
[He looks back at her, finally, and he's not sure whether or not he should really be seeing her. The reality of the situation is strange, slipping, poorly constructed.]
no subject
[We should go.]
[He looks back at her, finally, and he's not sure whether or not he should really be seeing her. The reality of the situation is strange, slipping, poorly constructed.]
...yeah
[He doesn't feel entirely himself.]
Okay.