[ She has to stagger, but together they somehow manage to keep his back out of the mud, even if they don't manage to keep his jacket. In this weather, it wouldn't have done him much more than another minute of good, honestly. The logic in her says they should move, that they should get back under some tents before they dig in to the meat of their second reunion in as many weeks (at least for her) but the sound of Richie's voice—the real one, the true one... it still isn't quite right. ]
[ For all he was right and all she could feign to hate that it was so, it's too heavy to be kidding, too hot to be shaking with the cold. The corner of her smile seems to catch on the edge of his collar, peeling right off as he lifts her head off his shoulder. And the smile she's met with seems to fray even worse. The lines around his mouth and eyes, the shadow along his jaw, it all suddenly has the look of a boy drowning in his father's overcoat, tie in a clumsy knot under chin, hat propped just above his eyes by the good grace of his big old ears alone. As if manhood suddenly looks far too big on him. ]
[ And then he shatters off the last of the facade in one fell swoop against her shoulder, that aching sob sending a spider's web of cracks through her own porcelain mask. Sympathy is always quick to burn her eyes, but awash with a rush of confusion, of fear—panic and pain, tears are quick to join the rain painting streaks down the rest of her face. Her arms, already hugging tight, shore up in a reflexive jolt, one hooking the line of his rattling shoulders and the other cradling his head. Fingers thread soothingly through his short crop of curls, as if searching through the flood of what he's mumbling for half a lick of sense. ]
Richie—
[ There's a lot of sense there, actually. A little too much she hadn't entirely had the nerve to try wrapping her head around. A little, fuck, there's been so goddamn much, who could blame her. But Boxer, he'd outright told her that Richie was loose, and she hadn't even thought so far as to ask how long. Months, years, decades irrationally spring to mind, there were nowhere near decades in those lines, but her breath can't help but catch, hiccup, her chest seizing trapped against his. Decades, no, but there could be years. All at once, the utter weakness in his voice terrifies her. Even if it is relief. ]
I'm here, Richie, I'm— [ Her arms tense, her fingers squeeze, all solid and real, and she gives it a good, long time before she even dares to move. But she has to pull him off eventually, has to search his eyes. ] How long... How long have I been out? How long have we been—
:knife:
[ For all he was right and all she could feign to hate that it was so, it's too heavy to be kidding, too hot to be shaking with the cold. The corner of her smile seems to catch on the edge of his collar, peeling right off as he lifts her head off his shoulder. And the smile she's met with seems to fray even worse. The lines around his mouth and eyes, the shadow along his jaw, it all suddenly has the look of a boy drowning in his father's overcoat, tie in a clumsy knot under chin, hat propped just above his eyes by the good grace of his big old ears alone. As if manhood suddenly looks far too big on him. ]
[ And then he shatters off the last of the facade in one fell swoop against her shoulder, that aching sob sending a spider's web of cracks through her own porcelain mask. Sympathy is always quick to burn her eyes, but awash with a rush of confusion, of fear—panic and pain, tears are quick to join the rain painting streaks down the rest of her face. Her arms, already hugging tight, shore up in a reflexive jolt, one hooking the line of his rattling shoulders and the other cradling his head. Fingers thread soothingly through his short crop of curls, as if searching through the flood of what he's mumbling for half a lick of sense. ]
Richie—
[ There's a lot of sense there, actually. A little too much she hadn't entirely had the nerve to try wrapping her head around. A little, fuck, there's been so goddamn much, who could blame her. But Boxer, he'd outright told her that Richie was loose, and she hadn't even thought so far as to ask how long. Months, years, decades irrationally spring to mind, there were nowhere near decades in those lines, but her breath can't help but catch, hiccup, her chest seizing trapped against his. Decades, no, but there could be years. All at once, the utter weakness in his voice terrifies her. Even if it is relief. ]
I'm here, Richie, I'm— [ Her arms tense, her fingers squeeze, all solid and real, and she gives it a good, long time before she even dares to move. But she has to pull him off eventually, has to search his eyes. ] How long... How long have I been out? How long have we been—
[ Christ, Richie, how long have you been alone? ]