( mathias dreams, too — but his dreams involve crystals speeding across the fjord, expanding and spiderwebbing until the entire surface of the water turns solid in his wake, sturdy enough to carry him; he runs with desperation, adrenaline alone carrying him across the surface as he tries desperately to escape. he dreams of a woman's cries, anguished and afraid, the sound of magic crackling in the air, the winds picking up speed as they whirl around him, carry swirls of storm as though that may offer some form of a protective barrier. it's no use, though — there's a loud crack and a hole opens up before him, and he isn't fast enough to stop his feet from skidding over the edge, from plummeting deep into the frozen depths, from flailing his arms as he tries desperately to break the surface again —
and then there's hands. hands that grab hold of him, his shoulder, and could he be saved? no, he's being shaken, and that's enough to yank mat suddenly from his slumber with a jump and a gasp, heart racing in his ears and breathing rapid until he sees ... that teal hair, that shy kind of smile. milo — the boy who'd saved him.
mat is embarrassed over his own reaction, scooting back to sit up against the arm of the couch and fingers curling into his blankets and drawing them over him, tugging them up past his chin and covering his whole body (including the pajamas he wears that are decidedly not the comfortable sweatpants and old secondary school t-shirt he'd been generously given, a pair of deep, royal blue satin pajamas in their place, lined with white trim).
did the temperature suddenly drop in the living room? )
Good morning, Milo — I'm, mm. Sorry for reacting so strangely.
( he smiles sheepishly, even if he can't quite shake the prevalent feeling of loneliness that hangs heavy in his heart, like something, someone, is missing. )
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sforzinda
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Date: 2019-02-09 07:46 am (UTC)and then there's hands. hands that grab hold of him, his shoulder, and could he be saved? no, he's being shaken, and that's enough to yank mat suddenly from his slumber with a jump and a gasp, heart racing in his ears and breathing rapid until he sees ... that teal hair, that shy kind of smile. milo — the boy who'd saved him.
mat is embarrassed over his own reaction, scooting back to sit up against the arm of the couch and fingers curling into his blankets and drawing them over him, tugging them up past his chin and covering his whole body (including the pajamas he wears that are decidedly not the comfortable sweatpants and old secondary school t-shirt he'd been generously given, a pair of deep, royal blue satin pajamas in their place, lined with white trim).
did the temperature suddenly drop in the living room? )
Good morning, Milo — I'm, mm. Sorry for reacting so strangely.
( he smiles sheepishly, even if he can't quite shake the prevalent feeling of loneliness that hangs heavy in his heart, like something, someone, is missing. )