it's fortunate that radios like these require push to talk, which saves Ben the embarrassment of the involuntary breath that is so audible, it rings around the open space of this structure Ben has ended up in. he leans back to sit, on the smoothest part of the stone floor without garbage masking it, listening to the words that trickle through.
and what words spill forth ache in the connections between ribs and sternum, so direly relatable that they feel like words stolen off Ben's own tongue. it's not that it feels hopeless, or melancholy — it carries a neutral weight of truth that teeters on the sort of acceptance Ben might ascribe to understanding one's destiny. it's bittersweet, like coming home.
it's just that, returning home doesn't always feel easy...
Ben swallows, and finds his mouth uncomfortably dry. he buzzes with anxiousness, the sort that burns white and doesn't feel pleasant nor dreadful. ) Yes, well, I suppose that's up to the fickle whim of this...place.
For what it's worth, I could do with the company. ( unintentionally tender, a vulnerable admission to be made. it lacks the words, but it's a burst of gratitude blooming out like a blush, one that Ben has to reel at in a short daze. well, it's been an insane couple of days (Ben assumes; his wristwatch still isn't functioning) and he can chalk this all up to a very normal, human desperation as a response to what's happened to him thus far.
well...what does he say now? )
How are— ( no— ) Are...you all right? ( less awkward, but, hmm, not quite normal. good job, Ben. )
no subject
it's fortunate that radios like these require push to talk, which saves Ben the embarrassment of the involuntary breath that is so audible, it rings around the open space of this structure Ben has ended up in. he leans back to sit, on the smoothest part of the stone floor without garbage masking it, listening to the words that trickle through.
and what words spill forth ache in the connections between ribs and sternum, so direly relatable that they feel like words stolen off Ben's own tongue. it's not that it feels hopeless, or melancholy — it carries a neutral weight of truth that teeters on the sort of acceptance Ben might ascribe to understanding one's destiny. it's bittersweet, like coming home.
it's just that, returning home doesn't always feel easy...
Ben swallows, and finds his mouth uncomfortably dry. he buzzes with anxiousness, the sort that burns white and doesn't feel pleasant nor dreadful. ) Yes, well, I suppose that's up to the fickle whim of this...place.
For what it's worth, I could do with the company. ( unintentionally tender, a vulnerable admission to be made. it lacks the words, but it's a burst of gratitude blooming out like a blush, one that Ben has to reel at in a short daze. well, it's been an insane couple of days (Ben assumes; his wristwatch still isn't functioning) and he can chalk this all up to a very normal, human desperation as a response to what's happened to him thus far.
well...what does he say now? )
How are— ( no— ) Are...you all right? ( less awkward, but, hmm, not quite normal. good job, Ben. )