[It's every time he's gotten the wind knocked out of him before but worse. It's her same words echoing over and over, and over, each time choking him more and more. I died. He doesn't know how to breathe. His first thought is no, an iron refusal, like it's a joke, one in poor taste.]
[There's a wetness building in his eyes, but the kneejerk reaction is anger, because he knows that, he's familiar with that. It's a crutch. What he's angry at in particular is a mystery, but he shakes his head, hard and fast and his body backs up until he crashes into the wall behind him. This is a nightmare. He's dreaming. He's going to wake up and roll out of bed, he's going to make a pitstop at the outpost, he's going to train until his hands bleed.]
Clarke. [Her name is pleading and disbelieving on his lips. He shakes his head again, because she wouldn't do this to him if it weren't true, but he just - he can't.]
[She can't. She can't have died. He was never supposed to let that happen. The breath rushes out of him quickly, lungs gasping for air, and he slams his fist into the wall beside him, denting it and bruising his knuckles at the very least. He closes his eyes from the pain of it, and it doesn't - it doesn't settle him, but it helps him start to remember how to breathe.]
What the fuck? Fuck, Clarke - [She's in front of him. In theory, she's fine. But she's not. He's crying, but his expressions twists because it's easier to be angry than it is to feel hurt. And it hurts.]
no subject
[There's a wetness building in his eyes, but the kneejerk reaction is anger, because he knows that, he's familiar with that. It's a crutch. What he's angry at in particular is a mystery, but he shakes his head, hard and fast and his body backs up until he crashes into the wall behind him. This is a nightmare. He's dreaming. He's going to wake up and roll out of bed, he's going to make a pitstop at the outpost, he's going to train until his hands bleed.]
Clarke. [Her name is pleading and disbelieving on his lips. He shakes his head again, because she wouldn't do this to him if it weren't true, but he just - he can't.]
[She can't. She can't have died. He was never supposed to let that happen. The breath rushes out of him quickly, lungs gasping for air, and he slams his fist into the wall beside him, denting it and bruising his knuckles at the very least. He closes his eyes from the pain of it, and it doesn't - it doesn't settle him, but it helps him start to remember how to breathe.]
What the fuck? Fuck, Clarke - [She's in front of him. In theory, she's fine. But she's not. He's crying, but his expressions twists because it's easier to be angry than it is to feel hurt. And it hurts.]
Clarke.