[People waiting for him - even if he can't put names to the thought. He can't think of more than just a whirl of color. A rainbow, put through a prism, solid ground the color of hot tea beneath. He doesn't have the names, he doesn't have the faces. But that image, flickering in child's watercolor, in the wings of butterflies, etched into plaster, stays.]
[It's frustrating. He has to get to them. He has to get out to them. He can't be trapped, he can't be restrained, he can't - ]
[Don't put me under!]
[His head jerks, in surprise. That's his own voice. A memory of his own picking up the panic, picking up the fear until he's told to just... breathe. Like an order, in the gentlest manner he's ever heard one.]
no subject
[It's frustrating. He has to get to them. He has to get out to them. He can't be trapped, he can't be restrained, he can't - ]
[Don't put me under!]
[His head jerks, in surprise. That's his own voice. A memory of his own picking up the panic, picking up the fear until he's told to just... breathe. Like an order, in the gentlest manner he's ever heard one.]
I... yeah. Yeah I -
[Breathe.]