[ He's falling, and there's nothing below to catch him except cobblestones some sixty feet down, and this is such a stupid way to die. Not by Gommage, not on an expedition, just betrayed by old infrastructure and bad luck. Merde.
The shock of something catching his arm is so unexpected that he can't prepare for it, and he yells in pain and surprise and fear as the metal tugs at the stump of his arm. Fuck, what if it detaches? It was never meant for this kind of strain—
But then he's arcing up and over the edge of another roof, one filled with green plants and the yellow and pink and orange flowers that no one picks or buys for the Gommage. Gravity kicks in again, but it's a much shorter drop this time. He lands heavily in a mess of limbs, some other body half-wrapped around him as they both go rolling over brick and crashing into flower pots. And then, abruptly, everything is still.
His chest works like a bellows, trying to get enough air in his shock. Everything hurts. He lifts a shaking hand to run it over his own head and is vaguely relieved not to come away with blood or any evidence of a traumatic hit, but his shoulder hurts, his left arm where the metal prosthetic attaches is on fire, and his right hip feels very much as though he'd cracked or deeply bruised something important. He groans, rolling onto his side, coughing, and hears his rescuer get unsteadily to their feet. ]
I'm alive.
[ It's as much as he can say truthfully, because he certainly doesn't feel okay. Gustave sets his scraped, bloodied right hand on the brick, pushing himself up on his shaking right arm. Only now does he lift his head, blinking, and look to see who had swept in at the last second. He owes his life to them, to—
A moment of stillness, as he takes in a face he thought he'd never see again. ]
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Date: 2025-05-23 05:22 pm (UTC)The shock of something catching his arm is so unexpected that he can't prepare for it, and he yells in pain and surprise and fear as the metal tugs at the stump of his arm. Fuck, what if it detaches? It was never meant for this kind of strain—
But then he's arcing up and over the edge of another roof, one filled with green plants and the yellow and pink and orange flowers that no one picks or buys for the Gommage. Gravity kicks in again, but it's a much shorter drop this time. He lands heavily in a mess of limbs, some other body half-wrapped around him as they both go rolling over brick and crashing into flower pots. And then, abruptly, everything is still.
His chest works like a bellows, trying to get enough air in his shock. Everything hurts. He lifts a shaking hand to run it over his own head and is vaguely relieved not to come away with blood or any evidence of a traumatic hit, but his shoulder hurts, his left arm where the metal prosthetic attaches is on fire, and his right hip feels very much as though he'd cracked or deeply bruised something important. He groans, rolling onto his side, coughing, and hears his rescuer get unsteadily to their feet. ]
I'm alive.
[ It's as much as he can say truthfully, because he certainly doesn't feel okay. Gustave sets his scraped, bloodied right hand on the brick, pushing himself up on his shaking right arm. Only now does he lift his head, blinking, and look to see who had swept in at the last second. He owes his life to them, to—
A moment of stillness, as he takes in a face he thought he'd never see again. ]
...You?