𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏.

[demainvient]

𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⊹ 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒚 ⊹ 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍
 

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[demainvient]

[ Don't fight it, she says, but when she sets her hands on his chest and starts the slow, methodical flow of chroma, begins meticulous surgery of the smallest parts of his insides; when the pain comes, deep and aching and cavernous, and his vision starts tunneling, all he can do is fight. He doesn't want to go back into the dark, not again, not ever, not knowing if he'll wake back up. He never expected to be drawing any kind of breath again, but now that he can, he's grasping for each copper-tinged gasp of air, the complex ache of consciousness.

Lune's face swims above him, bathed in the cool glow of her chroma. It touches delicately deep inside him, glances of fire quenched by rippling water; he can feel her knitting together torn muscle, shoring up leaking veins, every touch precise and deliberate. He feels like the strings of her guitar, gently but firmly tuned back from a sour note, plucked into life.

The more she pours into him, the more he wakes up, the more clearly he can see her, and now his breath is catching for a different reason. Gustave's hand lifts and scrambles to grip one of hers – his left arm shifts, but there's no hand there anymore to manipulate – his fingers spread, grip weak but determined, as he tries to lift her hands away from his chest. ]

Stop, stop–

[ He could drink all her chroma greedily, drain her dry, and it wouldn't be enough to heal him all the way. What he's had thus far is enough for his shattered mind to start turning, making connections too slow. Lune's pale face, her firm jaw, the stubborn way she's working – it's too much. She's exhausted, worn to a shadow of herself; he can see it now, hates himself a little for not seeing it before. ]

Lune, stop, you'll kill yourself – that's enough. It's enough.

[trebuchim]

[ Lune's head aches, a wave of nausea scouring along her stomach and a peculiar ache curling around her spine as it claws its way up, jangling along her nerves and nibbling at her joints. But it's all background noise that she stubbornly pushes aside as she keeps siphoning her chroma and pouring it into him, keeps concentrating on her task, gritting her teeth against the mounting discomfort.

She can handle it— just a little longer, just a few more injuries healed and maybe then...

The sudden and unexpected contact has her gasping sharply, her breath catching as Gustave's grip on her hand, weak as it is, breaks her focus and causes the flow of chroma at her fingertips to rear back and scatter— almost as if it lashes back at her like a living thing, leaving her winded. Panicked, almost, for a moment thinking she'd miscalculated, somehow causing the snafu herself. ]

No— Gustave, what...

[ She's confused for a bit, a faint humming in her head as if being underwater from the abrupt disruption of her chroma, missing half of Gustave's words in her moment of discombobulation. She grips his hand in hers again, shaking her head a little to clear it as clarity returns slowly. Her head pounds. ]

What are you doing? Let me do this.