He doesn't like the way he shifts over to focus on him suddenly. He doesn't shrink back, but a part of him really wants to. His eyes are narrowed up at him as he considers that for a long, silent moment.
First: It's almost a test. How much does he actually trust Noah?
Second: He's suddenly incredibly aware of how public of a place they're doing all of this and he only barely manages to keep the urge to glance around in check.
But maybe most importantly: This thing that Noah had given them means Jesper is going to feel this the way he does. Does he dare let him in like that? Subject him to how terrible it is?
His gaze slides past Noah, perched on the table in front of him, waiting expectantly, to Jesper behind him. It's brief, but it's perhaps the closest to an apologetic look he's ever given anyone before he looks back at Noah again. Whether from the drink, or just because that's something Noah does, he'll feel it, too, an he has to assume that's where this is stemming from.
The choice is molasses slow, but it eventually is made. He reaches up to carefully tug one, ever-present black glove off of his hand and sets it on the table. It's another beat. Two. Four. Before he finally steels himself enough to reach over and grab Noah's hand.
It's ice water crashing down on him–
it's a struggle to keep his head above water, drowning–
it's a sea-sickness that never really goes away–
it's a repulsed shudder down his spine–
it's the Barge and the dead in every state imaginable–
it's cold, clamy, skeletal fingers grabbing at him–
it's something sharp and cold and tight as a vice grip in his chest–
it's dizzying and impossible to breathe–
it's darkness trying to flood in from every side–
He manages to yank his hand away before he passes out, at least, his arm tucked close to his chest so Noah can't try again, if he thinks to try at all. He doesn't know which of them to focus on, and his eyes glance back and forth between the other two boys in front of him, not sure what to think– but there's an intense sort of panic threading through his veins now that will take more than a few minutes to sort through in his head.
He's not 9 in the Barge surrounded by dead bodies, he's 17 and in Hell, in some stupid club on the request of some ridiculous boy. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.
no subject
First: It's almost a test. How much does he actually trust Noah?
Second: He's suddenly incredibly aware of how public of a place they're doing all of this and he only barely manages to keep the urge to glance around in check.
But maybe most importantly: This thing that Noah had given them means Jesper is going to feel this the way he does. Does he dare let him in like that? Subject him to how terrible it is?
His gaze slides past Noah, perched on the table in front of him, waiting expectantly, to Jesper behind him. It's brief, but it's perhaps the closest to an apologetic look he's ever given anyone before he looks back at Noah again. Whether from the drink, or just because that's something Noah does, he'll feel it, too, an he has to assume that's where this is stemming from.
The choice is molasses slow, but it eventually is made. He reaches up to carefully tug one, ever-present black glove off of his hand and sets it on the table. It's another beat. Two. Four. Before he finally steels himself enough to reach over and grab Noah's hand.
He manages to yank his hand away before he passes out, at least, his arm tucked close to his chest so Noah can't try again, if he thinks to try at all. He doesn't know which of them to focus on, and his eyes glance back and forth between the other two boys in front of him, not sure what to think– but there's an intense sort of panic threading through his veins now that will take more than a few minutes to sort through in his head.
He's not 9 in the Barge surrounded by dead bodies, he's 17 and in Hell, in some stupid club on the request of some ridiculous boy.
It's not real.
It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.