[no. no seeing for now. though, seeing can be different than looking. a different animal, a different experience altogether as he follows, as near as he can remember to being something other than fearsick or seasick (see-sick? ha. that's funny. he should write that down.)
her shudder isn't lost, it's not so much that it extends to her feet as it extends to the outward air, the tendrils of his awareness rippling in indecision before they too decide it's shudder worthy.
shiver worthy. this is an eight. eight outta ten shivers for sure. he mirrors it in a shake of his head, caught between realizing he's holding his breath again, remembering to breathe. ah, good. it's eldritch department store perfume counter, right on cue.]
Don't worry, I'm not touching---
[that. he'd been about to say that when the woman who calls herself woe touches it, and not a fleeting fingertip touch, this is no light 'boop' as if to test the waters (horrible, it smells like an overripe, slightly rotten bouquet.)
happy anniversary, mr. enslin love, all your friends
it's a full on palm press, but there's no sound effect to accompany it, no squelch or squish because the blood is old.
old blood. old rot. ancient maybe.]
You can touch it, though.
[half a question, more observation. obviously she can and will. but he was wrong about the sound effects - it's not his own breath that's rushing in his ears, it's ...yep, that's the walls. the walls are breathing.
nope. not looking at that either. which is fine because there's also the screaming, thin and distant and repeating the same question over and over again. it's the same question he'd directed at the lighthouse itself, at the beach, and woe herself before she'd come into full view.
what is it?!
he winces at that, turns away from the wheezing wall and looks at woe's boots instead. they're utterly normal, even padding up blood caked stairs.]
no subject
her shudder isn't lost, it's not so much that it extends to her feet as it extends to the outward air, the tendrils of his awareness rippling in indecision before they too decide it's shudder worthy.
shiver worthy. this is an eight. eight outta ten shivers for sure. he mirrors it in a shake of his head, caught between realizing he's holding his breath again, remembering to breathe. ah, good. it's eldritch department store perfume counter, right on cue.]
Don't worry, I'm not touching---
[that. he'd been about to say that when the woman who calls herself woe touches it, and not a fleeting fingertip touch, this is no light 'boop' as if to test the waters (horrible, it smells like an overripe, slightly rotten bouquet.)
happy anniversary, mr. enslin
love,
all your friendsr̴͖̾ò̴͚̭͍͒̚ǫ̷̩̞͖̺̅̒͋̆̒͝m̷̦̥͉͌͆͜ ̸̮̗̀͂͆̚̕͝1̷̧̡̘̻̮̜̼̽̑͗4̸̼̫͖̜́̈̋̍̋̋̀0̸̡͉̰̥̪̘̭̼̱̬̃͝8̶̻̹͇̰̘̊̃̍̓̽͊̂͜
it's a full on palm press, but there's no sound effect to accompany it, no squelch or squish because the blood is old.
old blood. old rot. ancient maybe.]
You can touch it, though.
[half a question, more observation. obviously she can and will. but he was wrong about the sound effects - it's not his own breath that's rushing in his ears, it's ...yep, that's the walls. the walls are breathing.
nope. not looking at that either. which is fine because there's also the screaming, thin and distant and repeating the same question over and over again. it's the same question he'd directed at the lighthouse itself, at the beach, and woe herself before she'd come into full view.
what is it?!
he winces at that, turns away from the wheezing wall and looks at woe's boots instead. they're utterly normal, even padding up blood caked stairs.]