ghost doesn’t know how long he’s been on the ground
doesn’t know how long the cold’s been leeching into his knees, the concrete unfinished, jagged, biting through his jeans to tear at his skin. they’re wet. they’re wet and he doesn’t know why. he thinks it was warm at some point. it’s not now
he doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at nothing, the oppressive silence a physical weight bearing down on his shoulders, driving him even further into the unforgiving floor
the near silence
there’s a drip somewhere, a steady, rhythmic echo landing in something wet, something shallow. he doesn’t know where it’s coming from, can’t parse if it’s close to him or lost somewhere in the distance. every light splash cuts through him like a gunshot, a flinch he can’t control shocking his body
god, he wants it to stop
something sloshes through the shallows and ghost’s seized stiff muscles scream and rebel just enough to let him blink, the hinges of his eyelids almost rusted still. ripples break against his sodden legs and a great mass breaks through the long void of his vision
his breath shudders as an arm loops under his armpits, the other curving around his waist. he follows, limp, as he’s gently tipped forward into the plush breadth of a chest and doesn’t even feel nik tense as he holds his body together and lifts; fiery pain bursting through his knees as they unfurl, chasing away the cold with white-hot vengeance
his boots just brush the ground before he’s set back down, his weight still held in nik’s arms, as his numb feet struggle to flatten and hold him
nik doesn’t pull away, his arms don’t leave him adrift in the almost-silence. he waits; waits for him to steady, for him to stand. but ghost can feel it in the broad hands spanning his sides; he isn’t waiting for him to straighten, isn’t waiting for him to break away or stand tall. he isn’t waiting for him to gather his crumbled pieces and spit on his touch
nik doesn’t expect him to be whole
“come, ghost,” nik murmurs, his voice as steady as the arms holding him strong, blind to his razored edges. or, perhaps, in spite of them. “let’s go home.”
