[team sonic] durcheinandergehäuft
Starting word from here.
Title from Rilke's Meschen bei nacht.
Heels clicking down the corridor of his dream, he's dead-
"she won't wake up"
a small child sitting alone-
"you can't go back there"
the body turns into someone else and it's Adam, eyes closed, lying on a metal bed. Except it's not a bed, it's an autopsy table in the morgue and his dreams aren't supposed to do this. Ronan looks around for Chainsaw but the sky is empty, dark clouds threatening to burst over the ceiling-less basement. There are dead cows everywhere, and the stench of rot. He blinks. The miasma is gone, along with the flies.
It's just Adam, lying on a white bed, sheets tangled around his bare legs. The curve of his neck, swoop of his collarbones, soft hollow of his throat all draw Ronan in. But as his fingers creep forward, lightly touching skin, this isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't real bruises blossom like crushed fruit under the surface of smooth skin, too pale in the starlight, flickering like dim florescent tubes and it smells like the hospital, antiseptic thick in his nostrils and throat and Adam isn't breathing.
This isn't real.
But Adam isn't breathing. Ronan tries to swallow but he has no control over himself, saliva pooling in his mouth and he knows he's going to be sick-
"no it's nothing"
Adam's voice still echoing in his head, the way he and Gansey don't look at each other, don't know how to fix what's almost broken, the way he used to look at Blue and Ronan would let his fingers curl into his palms and wake up bleeding.
He looks down at his hands now, crimson pooling in the tiny crescent-shaped hollows in his palm, and he knows that if he touches Adam he'll open his eyes.
drip, drip
tiny blooms of scarlet bursting over white landscapes of cotton, so close, so close the endless whispers, air swirling overhead and building into a spiral-
"No."
Ronan is startled off-balance at the sound of his own voice bursting out of his throat. He looks down at Adam, but it's not Adam, not the real Adam, not the one he wants.
This Adam isn't real.
Ronan opens his eyes.
"Why are your hands bleeding?" Adam asks.
Ronan shrugs, looks away.
Title from Rilke's Meschen bei nacht.
Heels clicking down the corridor of his dream, he's dead-
"she won't wake up"
a small child sitting alone-
"you can't go back there"
the body turns into someone else and it's Adam, eyes closed, lying on a metal bed. Except it's not a bed, it's an autopsy table in the morgue and his dreams aren't supposed to do this. Ronan looks around for Chainsaw but the sky is empty, dark clouds threatening to burst over the ceiling-less basement. There are dead cows everywhere, and the stench of rot. He blinks. The miasma is gone, along with the flies.
It's just Adam, lying on a white bed, sheets tangled around his bare legs. The curve of his neck, swoop of his collarbones, soft hollow of his throat all draw Ronan in. But as his fingers creep forward, lightly touching skin, this isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't real bruises blossom like crushed fruit under the surface of smooth skin, too pale in the starlight, flickering like dim florescent tubes and it smells like the hospital, antiseptic thick in his nostrils and throat and Adam isn't breathing.
This isn't real.
But Adam isn't breathing. Ronan tries to swallow but he has no control over himself, saliva pooling in his mouth and he knows he's going to be sick-
"no it's nothing"
Adam's voice still echoing in his head, the way he and Gansey don't look at each other, don't know how to fix what's almost broken, the way he used to look at Blue and Ronan would let his fingers curl into his palms and wake up bleeding.
He looks down at his hands now, crimson pooling in the tiny crescent-shaped hollows in his palm, and he knows that if he touches Adam he'll open his eyes.
drip, drip
tiny blooms of scarlet bursting over white landscapes of cotton, so close, so close the endless whispers, air swirling overhead and building into a spiral-
"No."
Ronan is startled off-balance at the sound of his own voice bursting out of his throat. He looks down at Adam, but it's not Adam, not the real Adam, not the one he wants.
This Adam isn't real.
Ronan opens his eyes.
"Why are your hands bleeding?" Adam asks.
Ronan shrugs, looks away.