( everything happens, as ash says, through a fog. also more slowly. he hears everything at a delay and it feels like he's using his last glimmer of control to not experience a full on panic attack. he tells himself not to think about the accident, about the explosion, about his mom or his sister. stay calm. be calm. in his head, he tries to count and when that doesn't work he just hangs on to the mental cliff that's there while his hands continue to fist in either the bedding or his own clothes. as distressed and sick as he looks, yin han's voice comes out as calm as he wants to be, easier to achieve because his volume is quiet and his audience is close enough that that doesn't have to change. )
Yin Han.
( he gestures to himself with one hand, but it still sounds like an apology, his mind catching up to the question finally enough to also say, )
It feels...I feel...sick.
( a sigh moves through his whole frame. the slight tilt of his head, face angled away from ash as he tries to gather his thoughts, yin han doesn't quite know what to do. that he should leave is a given, that he probably is not capable of it right now is also fairly clear. heat radiates off of him with his climbing temperature, unconsciously his breaths though quiet have become quite shallow. there is no one for him to call or ask for help.
it reminds him how real everything is, and just as through this whole time, he has himself in a mental chokehold, fingers thin and cold and unhappy: stay calm.
if he hopes to achieve anything he can't fall apart irreparably now.
another shuddered inhale, when he peers over at ash again, he may seem a bit more coherent, albeit no less pale with feeling unwell. )
Are we.... are we still in Chinatown?
( it strikes him again how beautiful this person is, objectively so. it seems at odds with the energy and personality he puts forward, but then, it's not like yin han knows much about it. even before all of this, at school he'd kept to himself and passed all interactions politely but detachedly. his art was enough.
no subject
Yin Han.
( he gestures to himself with one hand, but it still sounds like an apology, his mind catching up to the question finally enough to also say, )
It feels...I feel...sick.
( a sigh moves through his whole frame. the slight tilt of his head, face angled away from ash as he tries to gather his thoughts, yin han doesn't quite know what to do. that he should leave is a given, that he probably is not capable of it right now is also fairly clear. heat radiates off of him with his climbing temperature, unconsciously his breaths though quiet have become quite shallow. there is no one for him to call or ask for help.
it reminds him how real everything is, and just as through this whole time, he has himself in a mental chokehold, fingers thin and cold and unhappy: stay calm.
if he hopes to achieve anything he can't fall apart irreparably now.
another shuddered inhale, when he peers over at ash again, he may seem a bit more coherent, albeit no less pale with feeling unwell. )
Are we.... are we still in Chinatown?
( it strikes him again how beautiful this person is, objectively so. it seems at odds with the energy and personality he puts forward, but then, it's not like yin han knows much about it. even before all of this, at school he'd kept to himself and passed all interactions politely but detachedly. his art was enough.
another thing he tries not to think about. )