[ for one brief, instinctual moment, they cling to one another like they're holding onto the edge of the world, ready to fall off. he is warm and steady and a part of her, yet at the same time, awareness of him makes her skin crackle as though he puts out a current that now runs beneath it. a fire burns low in her gut.
there is suddenly more to the world. his, as well as hers, overlaid together. it's hard to focus on anything but him because the rest … the rest is almost like some liminal space that will not decide what it is. both abstract and overstimulating. ]
The shape of your room. But the colors are all running.
[ bleeding together with finn and poe's room. she finally wrenches her gaze away from him to try to take it in. she looks around. there's a shadow on the floor. clothes? she can feel his lightsaber there — no, he can feel it. it's a security blanket to him, just like luke's is for her, packed away in her bag. and beneath them, his bed.
it's like … being aware of his awareness. she has to focus on remembering to breathe, not to get swept up in what isn't real and present. or maybe … not to hold her breath with him.
she feels his pulse stir. his breathing break the rhythm of hers. concern flutters across her expression; something is wrong. he is retreating. but — she can't put her finger on what. it's a stark contrast, the weight of his doubts and hesitation, with her certainty. ]
No. Don't let go. [ she looks back at him. ] Breathe.
no subject
there is suddenly more to the world. his, as well as hers, overlaid together. it's hard to focus on anything but him because the rest … the rest is almost like some liminal space that will not decide what it is. both abstract and overstimulating. ]
The shape of your room. But the colors are all running.
[ bleeding together with finn and poe's room. she finally wrenches her gaze away from him to try to take it in. she looks around. there's a shadow on the floor. clothes? she can feel his lightsaber there — no, he can feel it. it's a security blanket to him, just like luke's is for her, packed away in her bag. and beneath them, his bed.
it's like … being aware of his awareness. she has to focus on remembering to breathe, not to get swept up in what isn't real and present. or maybe … not to hold her breath with him.
she feels his pulse stir. his breathing break the rhythm of hers. concern flutters across her expression; something is wrong. he is retreating. but — she can't put her finger on what. it's a stark contrast, the weight of his doubts and hesitation, with her certainty. ]
No. Don't let go. [ she looks back at him. ] Breathe.