[ She's tried so, so hard to hide it. To ignore it. To not acknowledge it. But now, it's out there. That she's broken, and she won't go back together. Her outside matches her inside, you are sick, and the way Basil's voice shakes, how he trails off, she wonders if he's looking at her differently now. With pity, with dismay, because she's not the strong girl she's pretended to be. After all of this, it has to be clear—she's weak, so incredibly weak.
Her lungs feel like something's squeezing them as little gasps start to build in her. Breathing be damned, it's just uncomfortable. Her head's spinning, suddenly warm in ways that have nothing to do with Basil's warmth. Her eyes feel wet, is she really crying again, is this really what she's doing right now, is she really this pathetic—
Warmth.
Warmth, like a heated blanket. Like a cup of soup on a cold day. Like a spring California night, walking under the pier, right before it'd get too hot and stifling.
All centered around her hands, stiff and tense in her lap.
Max's head whips up, her eyes snap open, and she looks into Basil's eyes, tears falling from her own. She's still small, and she's still vulnerable. But what he looks back at her with...
It doesn't feel like pity.
Before, she'd pulled him into a hug for his own sake. Because she felt that Basil needed—deserved that sort of physical comfort. Now, it's for her own that she pitches forward to lean her forehead against his shoulder, her fingers uncurling from their almost claw-like position and slipping between his, so that he doesn't let go. Her broken antler swings from the sudden motion, dripping bloody velvet onto his floor, and her whole one probably presses into the side of his head.
But, for the first time since she was pulled from the water, Max has stopped shivering. ]
cw: self-loathing, internalized ableism, panic attacks
Her lungs feel like something's squeezing them as little gasps start to build in her. Breathing be damned, it's just uncomfortable. Her head's spinning, suddenly warm in ways that have nothing to do with Basil's warmth. Her eyes feel wet, is she really crying again, is this really what she's doing right now, is she really this pathetic—
Warmth.
Warmth, like a heated blanket. Like a cup of soup on a cold day. Like a spring California night, walking under the pier, right before it'd get too hot and stifling.
All centered around her hands, stiff and tense in her lap.
Max's head whips up, her eyes snap open, and she looks into Basil's eyes, tears falling from her own. She's still small, and she's still vulnerable. But what he looks back at her with...
It doesn't feel like pity.
Before, she'd pulled him into a hug for his own sake. Because she felt that Basil needed—deserved that sort of physical comfort. Now, it's for her own that she pitches forward to lean her forehead against his shoulder, her fingers uncurling from their almost claw-like position and slipping between his, so that he doesn't let go. Her broken antler swings from the sudden motion, dripping bloody velvet onto his floor, and her whole one probably presses into the side of his head.
But, for the first time since she was pulled from the water, Max has stopped shivering. ]