Mind was a powerful thing; it would paint him with array of golden and orange rays as a confident brush stroke would caress across his lips, from his coppery flesh tones to sun-strewn glint of his cheekbones as the highlighted pigment would aglow in a perfect pitch. Now, he’s merely at the mercy of the frigid weather as the biting coldness amplifies in inch-by-inches, the plains of his muscles rousing and contracting in resounding flinches as none of the smoothing and soothing ease takes over his form. All of this reminds him of the merciless winter he had faced - the stubborn memory clung to him like an especially tenacious strand of viral disease. No fucking crop survived and food was scarce, his family didn’t even have a copious amount of meat to sustain five individuals, lest have enough firewood to last the worst of the snowstorms. All he recalls is being poured over with desolate coldness from his forehead to waist, drowning in a drizzle of slushes hurtling across the chipped front door, the whirling crystals frolicking up and down the ambiance to their horror. His fingers tighten, as if that sole object could offer him warmth instead of the majestic clump of fucking worthless chrome-covered machine.
He watches the other man through the slitted gaze, as he exhaled and his breaths rose, small and almost unassuming, but still with his innate bravado. At least his wholeness wasn’t stuck and reduced immobile like that ravaged corpse as his subconsciousness wades into a realm of blasphemy, such taboo beyond what normal individuals would ever consider in its vulgarity and ultimatum. His hand would dip into the warm cavity of the splayed-open ribcages, though the fast disappearing heat would be more so temporal and mostly, he would be accused of the murder he didn’t commit, though it screamed his modus operandi. The hypocritical nature of both resounding horrific putrid stink, as well as something bewitching about that colossal streak of blood, bursting and gushing on the earth with the rippling motion becomes a fueling gasoline. The etched violence along with such inclination towards the morbid would be a vehement thing and it would take years and years to shatter it down to movable pieces.
“They’re.. tingling. I speculate there’s still a fucking sliver of hope. I’m fucking nothing without my fingers,” Such contradictory thing, his fingers are. Capable of applying sublime delight upon the carnal flesh, yet very well the harbinger of suffocation and cessation of mortality. As soon as the other man offers up his gloves, he snatches them with a strong grasp, though his nerves seem to be slowed in mid-air, wobbling through the close proximity. He’s itching to chuck off the adhered button-up shirt, which he’s most positively sure that would turn into a frozen sheet of crumpled mess as soon as his sweat crystallize in the nippy air. His still bottomless gaze fixates upon his fingers, drained of color, faded veins appearing through the translucent skin. “How fucking considerate of you to instill that horrific image,” still outwardly crude, yet his used-to-be carapace slowly crumbling down, he already had faced his own demise in the dead silence of his cramped and dingy flat, where dimmed corridors stretched miles as he had crawled through the mud track, where perilous and gruesome sight of blood and watery discharge filled. “I’m not easily perturbed nor scared, but I would die standing than be a fucking desperate one in denial.”
Taking the other man’s advice as he slowly drapes his torso with a coat to insulate himself. He lets this coldness, both from the unforgiving elements and unrelenting rush of memories flooding his recollections and creases of his brain forms an adamant bond to overlap and strengthen even further with the man’s generosity. Though the subject of his helplessness and the lives which the Lecters could’ve have led upon the world as it had been stripped off from his weak grasp becomes even more palpable, the eroding emotion isn’t enough to begin a description and he has no reason to decline the hospitality. His body is in a complete dominion, that damned coldness severing the full-circuit of his constricted blood vessels as his form manifests into a wavering torchlight in the midst of the relentless gust of wind. Still, he was prevailing with persistence, though his steps are robotic, waddling at most. Any sign of movement and thrumming heart and tingling fingers jabbing with pricks as the surge travels downward. And as long as his hazel sparked with sparkles.
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