There’s the sound Eliot was bracing for. That awful splintering sound he can feel in his bones. A crack and a groaning, rending give. He’s barely giving his feet time to land before he’s moving on to the next beam, the next, swinging backwards, head thumping against the wall, numb hands scrabbling at searing brick. He rolls his head, just in time to hear Alley Guy dropping through the fucking floor, still telling him to get out.
The moment drags something sick.
The break wasn’t under his feet. Eliot thinks he’s going to vomit. He’s so nauseous he can’t even scream, just prying his hands away from the wall to clutch at his mouth, shaking so hard he thinks for a wild moment he might lose balance. No. No, no, no. He moves, doesn’t stop moving, all rush and momentum and haze until he’s slamming into a railing, it gives with a crack, he lurches back, feels his heels hit open air, drops to his knees to feel solid concrete. Stairs.
There’s a voice at the back of Eliot’s head like an eye opening. Go. You’re better off without him. No one to distract you from the goal. No looking back over your shoulder for him. No checking up. Nothing to check up on. Nothing but forward motion, now. He got you as far as you needed him to get you, now do the rest. Go. Move. Get the fuck up, move. Get out of here. He gave you his blessing didn’t he? What more do you want. Hand-embossed invitations are not forthcoming. Are you going to waste that? Get the fuck up and go.
He staggers until he reaches the stairwell, drops, making himself as small as he can, gagging, taking in too much smoke, gagging and hacking, scrubbing at his face with blunt hands.
Maybe he wasn’t real. Maybe you just needed something to get you up, get you headed in the right direction. Now get back up. You still have what you need to get out of here alive. Eliot knows he’d still be on that fire escape waiting to die if it weren’t for the guy in the alley. He also knows it wouldn’t be the first time he’s-
No. How the fuck do you plan to walk out of this and live with yourself not knowing whether or not you left someone who walked into a burning building for your sorry ass to die there?
Only one choice then.
Eliot runs, feet slapping cement, chest tight. He misses the landing, has to double back. The door handle is hot, too hot for him to hold, but the wood crumbles against the point of his shoulder when he plows himself into it, skidding and stumbling over broken furniture, flame gusting around him as it tears into the air in the stairwell. He can’t get back up, the smoke is too thick here, stinging his eyes closed, his throat. He crawls.
His hands push through glass and downed beams, greasy ash thick as snow.
CW: emetophobia, dissociation, suicidal ideation, hand trauma
The moment drags something sick.
The break wasn’t under his feet. Eliot thinks he’s going to vomit. He’s so nauseous he can’t even scream, just prying his hands away from the wall to clutch at his mouth, shaking so hard he thinks for a wild moment he might lose balance. No. No, no, no. He moves, doesn’t stop moving, all rush and momentum and haze until he’s slamming into a railing, it gives with a crack, he lurches back, feels his heels hit open air, drops to his knees to feel solid concrete. Stairs.
There’s a voice at the back of Eliot’s head like an eye opening. Go. You’re better off without him. No one to distract you from the goal. No looking back over your shoulder for him. No checking up. Nothing to check up on. Nothing but forward motion, now. He got you as far as you needed him to get you, now do the rest. Go. Move. Get the fuck up, move. Get out of here. He gave you his blessing didn’t he? What more do you want. Hand-embossed invitations are not forthcoming. Are you going to waste that? Get the fuck up and go.
He staggers until he reaches the stairwell, drops, making himself as small as he can, gagging, taking in too much smoke, gagging and hacking, scrubbing at his face with blunt hands.
Maybe he wasn’t real. Maybe you just needed something to get you up, get you headed in the right direction. Now get back up. You still have what you need to get out of here alive. Eliot knows he’d still be on that fire escape waiting to die if it weren’t for the guy in the alley. He also knows it wouldn’t be the first time he’s-
No. How the fuck do you plan to walk out of this and live with yourself not knowing whether or not you left someone who walked into a burning building for your sorry ass to die there?
Only one choice then.
Eliot runs, feet slapping cement, chest tight. He misses the landing, has to double back. The door handle is hot, too hot for him to hold, but the wood crumbles against the point of his shoulder when he plows himself into it, skidding and stumbling over broken furniture, flame gusting around him as it tears into the air in the stairwell. He can’t get back up, the smoke is too thick here, stinging his eyes closed, his throat. He crawls.
His hands push through glass and downed beams, greasy ash thick as snow.
“Hey! Hey. Is anyone alive here?”