[ he knows that feeling, and at first he almost wants to shove away from being so close to it. it's weighty and almost smothering, but all of it tastes like elliot - metallic ozone dripping onto his tongue. almost immediately he wants to ask - pills? but the words don't come out. peter's trying to search with burnt fingertips through it all. when did you take them, when did you, when, tell— he hadn't felt them when elliot had arrived, had felt the sharp angles of his mind so clearly. nothing there to dull him.
let me it says.
and before he can think again on it, come inside he responds, both hands white-knuckled on the door as he lets elliot in.
he remembers the cloying heat of the sauna, and the static sensation of the morphine before, and he bucks against the way the sensation as it comes together over his connection, willingly given over but suddenly realizing just what it's doing. the panic is partially to blame, racing around, trapped as piece by piece it's very slowly smothered by a warm blanket of morphine-like calm. the whiplash leaves peter's mind heaving, bruised and aching thing keening along the soothing touch.
peter's mind bobs along with the sensation now instead of against it. he's moving along it, sluggish and contented. whatever elliot is... giving to him is enough to let him breathe, enough to cool the fire at his temples. what was squirming before, uncertain of the feeling coming over it like some hungry beast, is soothed, the rage and anguish blanketed. it's simmering, but finding itself gradually being cooled with every passing moment of elliot's presence. peter swallows cold air once. twice. deep, big, hungry gulps instead of short, pained gasps as his eyes widen, dark and swimming, searching sleepily almost. ]
(Elliot, what...)
[ softly, a song on a lazy cadence more in tune than the first that clings as much as peter's fingers do in reality. whatever this is, he feels it pressing him under, weighing him down. still, he tries. what are you doing what have you done don't go far. ]
no subject
let me it says.
and before he can think again on it, come inside he responds, both hands white-knuckled on the door as he lets elliot in.
he remembers the cloying heat of the sauna, and the static sensation of the morphine before, and he bucks against the way the sensation as it comes together over his connection, willingly given over but suddenly realizing just what it's doing. the panic is partially to blame, racing around, trapped as piece by piece it's very slowly smothered by a warm blanket of morphine-like calm. the whiplash leaves peter's mind heaving, bruised and aching thing keening along the soothing touch.
peter's mind bobs along with the sensation now instead of against it. he's moving along it, sluggish and contented. whatever elliot is... giving to him is enough to let him breathe, enough to cool the fire at his temples. what was squirming before, uncertain of the feeling coming over it like some hungry beast, is soothed, the rage and anguish blanketed. it's simmering, but finding itself gradually being cooled with every passing moment of elliot's presence. peter swallows cold air once. twice. deep, big, hungry gulps instead of short, pained gasps as his eyes widen, dark and swimming, searching sleepily almost. ]
( Elliot, what... )
[ softly, a song on a lazy cadence more in tune than the first that clings as much as peter's fingers do in reality. whatever this is, he feels it pressing him under, weighing him down. still, he tries. what are you doing what have you done don't go far. ]