( better? in some distant, relative sense, maybe. one that’s past articulation, as his hand slips away from esi’s wrist, unable or unwilling to maintain its hold. sweat beads on his forehead, the room spins at the edges of his vision. though there was a brief moment, earlier, where he’d thought about offering to do this himself, if that’s what it was coming to— it’s clear now that he wouldn’t have been able to make it this far, let alone through. bro is not escaping the saw trap
still— he doesn’t answer. he’s too busy trying to relax, you see. relaxation looks something like holding his own arm, above the cut, as if the halfhearted pressure he exerts can do anything to stymie the flow of blood; it looks like his head coming to rest on esi’s right shoulder, despite all the movement and jostling, for some sort of extra anchor, a tether to remind him that other sensation exists in the world beyond what’s being enacted upon him. his face turns into esi’s neck, and the erratic pulse he feels inspires an entirely new wave of dread and nausea.
kirma keeps it all down, of course. he is nothing if not practiced at suffering, though he can’t say it’s ever been quite so bad— golden peacock is a realm full of new experiences, isn’t it.
he remains silent, mostly, save for the harsh and ragged breaths he takes, until esi saws through to the core of his arm. the feeling of metal glancing off bone earns esi a gasping cry right in the hollow of his neck, as the vibration of it shoots up all the way to kirma’s shoulder. the strange sensation isn’t necessarily any more painful, but it does speak to a certain amount of progress and finality. doesn’t it? but more than that— )
You’re going to ruin my knife.
( funny, what the mind chooses to focus on, in a dire situation. the words come out in a pained moan, but he’s being entirely sincere with them. doesn’t he know how hard it is, to come by anything remotely weaponlike in the no-weapons casino? )
never say those words in that order to me ever again
still— he doesn’t answer. he’s too busy trying to relax, you see. relaxation looks something like holding his own arm, above the cut, as if the halfhearted pressure he exerts can do anything to stymie the flow of blood; it looks like his head coming to rest on esi’s right shoulder, despite all the movement and jostling, for some sort of extra anchor, a tether to remind him that other sensation exists in the world beyond what’s being enacted upon him. his face turns into esi’s neck, and the erratic pulse he feels inspires an entirely new wave of dread and nausea.
kirma keeps it all down, of course. he is nothing if not practiced at suffering, though he can’t say it’s ever been quite so bad— golden peacock is a realm full of new experiences, isn’t it.
he remains silent, mostly, save for the harsh and ragged breaths he takes, until esi saws through to the core of his arm. the feeling of metal glancing off bone earns esi a gasping cry right in the hollow of his neck, as the vibration of it shoots up all the way to kirma’s shoulder. the strange sensation isn’t necessarily any more painful, but it does speak to a certain amount of progress and finality. doesn’t it? but more than that— )
You’re going to ruin my knife.
( funny, what the mind chooses to focus on, in a dire situation. the words come out in a pained moan, but he’s being entirely sincere with them. doesn’t he know how hard it is, to come by anything remotely weaponlike in the no-weapons casino? )