[He tenses at first. The words are distant and muffled, nearly drowned out under the rain, under the tight protection of his own arms viced around his head, one side still brutally silent to the world while the other pounds with a racing heartbeat that feels like it would explode in his throat. Were he not so panicked, he would lash out, plow his knuckles into flesh and let the pain drive him back, give him space, give him anything--
Don't treat him like a child. Don't speak to him like he's uncapable, like he needs to give in to his emotions at a time like this, that he can't pull his own weight...
Don't remind him that he's weak.
...
The redhead's breath catches hard in his chest in a strong attempt not to hyperventilate, staying tensely drawn into himself with only the sound of dry, drawn shudders of panic. The paralyzing inaction slowly unravels, habit turning from cowering at death to something a little more practical -- for him, at least. His gloved hand stiffly jerks up to plaster his hair up and out of his face, shakily shoving moisture out of the way of his eyes and mouth as best he can. The waterlogged leather only does so much, however, and with a pained exhale through his teeth, Lutha brings his wrist to his mouth, catching the glove in his teeth and frantically peeling it off.
His hand shares the same reddened, gnarling scars that creep up his neck and face, the joints marred and stiff underneath inflexible tissue that seeps well up his forearm and out of site. It's still about as soaked as the rest of him, but it's the best he can do, trying to clear the rain from his face and neck and shaking his hand off like every swipe of his fingers was meeting hot oil rather than simple rainwater.
He can hear Kai. The feel against his face and mouth, even when his eyes couldn't see... but it's distant. The moment has passed, the rush of a river now the pattering of rain against fabric and his own quickened breathing echoing against the small space.
Catch his breath... he just has to catch his breath, and maybe... maybe he could just pretend. He could pretend that Tsurumaru wasn't still overtop him, and that he wasn't tasting bile in his own mouth.]
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Don't treat him like a child. Don't speak to him like he's uncapable, like he needs to give in to his emotions at a time like this, that he can't pull his own weight...
Don't remind him that he's weak.
...
The redhead's breath catches hard in his chest in a strong attempt not to hyperventilate, staying tensely drawn into himself with only the sound of dry, drawn shudders of panic. The paralyzing inaction slowly unravels, habit turning from cowering at death to something a little more practical -- for him, at least. His gloved hand stiffly jerks up to plaster his hair up and out of his face, shakily shoving moisture out of the way of his eyes and mouth as best he can. The waterlogged leather only does so much, however, and with a pained exhale through his teeth, Lutha brings his wrist to his mouth, catching the glove in his teeth and frantically peeling it off.
His hand shares the same reddened, gnarling scars that creep up his neck and face, the joints marred and stiff underneath inflexible tissue that seeps well up his forearm and out of site. It's still about as soaked as the rest of him, but it's the best he can do, trying to clear the rain from his face and neck and shaking his hand off like every swipe of his fingers was meeting hot oil rather than simple rainwater.
He can hear Kai. The feel against his face and mouth, even when his eyes couldn't see... but it's distant. The moment has passed, the rush of a river now the pattering of rain against fabric and his own quickened breathing echoing against the small space.
Catch his breath... he just has to catch his breath, and maybe... maybe he could just pretend. He could pretend that Tsurumaru wasn't still overtop him, and that he wasn't tasting bile in his own mouth.]