[Hank reaches up, straightening up, abandoning his search behind the bed to wrap his hand around Connor's arm. He's not grabbing tight enough, so behind his hand there's nothing. Connor's not even there; Hank might not be, either. Hank has the lingering sense that something was, once, and while his head knows that's just the memories of the hallucinations, when he at least thought he could feel what wasn't there, he hasn't been able to shake the feeling that with every second he's moving further away from something.
That's the backdrop of Hank's brain, being in the middle of some vague, cloudy void, some solid anchor, something good, moving further and further away. In the midground of Hank's brain is a feeling like feeling your nails scrape down a chalkboard, all the stupid little details like - like kids with magic powers, like the stupid weird animals that flutter around this place, like having to use the word dimension on a daily fucking basis, like being expected to be a big damn hero in this impossible, impossible- there's the feeling of nails on on a chalkboard and of the noise rising loud, unbearable, building to some kind of crescendo, one that'll never fucking come, it'll just go on and on and on.
And in the foreground there's a faint sense of disappointment, of an anchor in his hand that he can't feel, numbness eating away at his skin and moving outward, dissolving everything else away with it. And once the world he sees, the false, senseless, stupid one dissolves away, the one that can't exist, there's another one behind it. There's a sense of that vast, echoing emptiness he'd felt in that lake, lost in empty nothing, and the dream he'd thought of there, the sense that behind this world he can't believe or feel there's just another dream, the one where he's hanging in the air and whatever was holding him up is crushed and bleeding, screaming with a pain he's almost deaf to but won't be, soon, isn't, as the ground closes in and he crumbles against it, all the pieces of him coming apart and rotting into blood and bone smeared against the pavement.
And of course, alongside all that, there's a low, bass note of need, some little shelter he can hunker under, if he reaches for it.
So he does. He leans away from Connor's arm, knowing his limp, numb fingers will just slide away the moment he stops looking at them, and leans over to peer behind the bed, instead.]
Ha. There you are, you little fucker.
[Carefully, with both hands, he pulls out a bottle, a cork stuck in it, a fork with twisted tines stuck in the cork. He doesn't look at Connor, just sets the bottle on the mattress between his knees and starts twisting the fork around, waiting for the cork to pop out.]
no subject
That's the backdrop of Hank's brain, being in the middle of some vague, cloudy void, some solid anchor, something good, moving further and further away. In the midground of Hank's brain is a feeling like feeling your nails scrape down a chalkboard, all the stupid little details like - like kids with magic powers, like the stupid weird animals that flutter around this place, like having to use the word dimension on a daily fucking basis, like being expected to be a big damn hero in this impossible, impossible- there's the feeling of nails on on a chalkboard and of the noise rising loud, unbearable, building to some kind of crescendo, one that'll never fucking come, it'll just go on and on and on.
And in the foreground there's a faint sense of disappointment, of an anchor in his hand that he can't feel, numbness eating away at his skin and moving outward, dissolving everything else away with it. And once the world he sees, the false, senseless, stupid one dissolves away, the one that can't exist, there's another one behind it. There's a sense of that vast, echoing emptiness he'd felt in that lake, lost in empty nothing, and the dream he'd thought of there, the sense that behind this world he can't believe or feel there's just another dream, the one where he's hanging in the air and whatever was holding him up is crushed and bleeding, screaming with a pain he's almost deaf to but won't be, soon, isn't, as the ground closes in and he crumbles against it, all the pieces of him coming apart and rotting into blood and bone smeared against the pavement.
And of course, alongside all that, there's a low, bass note of need, some little shelter he can hunker under, if he reaches for it.
So he does. He leans away from Connor's arm, knowing his limp, numb fingers will just slide away the moment he stops looking at them, and leans over to peer behind the bed, instead.]
Ha. There you are, you little fucker.
[Carefully, with both hands, he pulls out a bottle, a cork stuck in it, a fork with twisted tines stuck in the cork. He doesn't look at Connor, just sets the bottle on the mattress between his knees and starts twisting the fork around, waiting for the cork to pop out.]