Can he move? Fuck if he knows. He's stopped screaming, but his throat still feels wet, torn, hoarse and raw from the inside out. Like every other part of him that was scraped clean, nails over the chalkboard.

It's like hearing someone else speak through water. The other guy's beside him now - how did that happen? When? How could he have missed something like that? God, stupid, stupid.

"Can you?" Tim says, and he can't even pull himself together enough to make the words sound wry before they stagger into a ragged cough. Maybe that thing skittering around in the back of his skull would be strong enough - hell, it probably is. But there's no way it's bubbling up now. They're fucked. He's fucked.

"I think I broke something," he admits hazily. Something important, probably. He landed right on his back, smashed straight through the wood.

He thinks, dryly, dully, absurdly, of lighting a last cigarette. But with this kind of fire, what would be the point? He'll die of smoke inhalation one way or another, he was always going to - this just speeds it up some.

He laughs, brittle and forced, a low huff of mirthless irony.

"Sorry about this."