her words point everything with a dull, buzzing sense of normality that he feels their weight in a sudden pinch. junhong feels heavy, dizzy; his own eyes blur her hands, antagonize them, make them monsters. it’s so easy to get carried away in dreams, so easy for his anger to blossom and spread, petals reaching every corner of him to rile him up, to fill him with rage.
"i’m not about to fall apart! i just don’t know what you’re talking about!" he takes a step back, almost falls. long, thin arms swing around the air, fingers curling as they try to grip to it for a sense of balance, as though the air can become solid if he claws at it enough. the problem is that only the reverse work; he can become like air, but the air cannot become like him.
junhong sees her out of the corner of his eye as he moves, stumbles, eyes tearing up as fear dances around him and jeers. terror strikes him and his palms begin to sweat, neck moving and rippling while he swallowed thickly.
Dasom almost sighs, but refrains because there’s only so much coaxing she can do. She’s tired and they’ve been at this for hours--her breaking point reached even before the fissure appeared between them. Her patience is tangible and it hangs on a proverbial thread; the very edges of the dreamscape flexing and vibrating with the ticking of a clock not there. Time may seem stagnant and sluggish here, but her physical body knows (she begins to stir, her body shifting every hour or so) and she must do something before either of them loses control.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she reassures him quickly, though her gaze is razor sharp and focused on the way he moves, balance off-kilter, and her heart nearly stops. Without even thinking, she reacts--and the dreamscape complies to her wishes.
Dasom moves out of pure instinct, completely disregarding the fissure (she knows it’ll close and form solid ground), and grabs his hand. Her heart thunders in her throat and she’s aware that her fingers are trembling, but she can’t shake the feeling of pure terror. It was almost as if she’d been afraid he would get hurt--even knowing that her subconscious would never allow him to sustain even a scratch, let alone die in his own dream. It is a testament to how close she’d been to losing it when she lets go of his hand only to shake him, the aftershocks of panic manifesting in the tremor of her voice. God, this foolish boy would be the death of her. “Are you out of your mind? What were you thinking?!”
