synaestheidetic | for thomas

for thomas

[He's been like this, locked in this personal prison, inundated with sounds and sights and colours he can't turn off, for at least two days - some part of his mind is still aware enough to catalogue it. Two days since Aurora was shouting at him while they were surrounded, their cell breaking apart as Harry and the others tried to shoot him out. Two days since he fumbled his earplugs out so he could hear what she was saying, fumbled them onto the floor, and then all he'd consciously heard were the gunshots, obliterating everything else until his world was vivid ringing and loud bangs, flashes of colour obscuring his vision, hands clasping at him.

He'd tried to take the red pill, large and oval, because he'd heard them, heard them whispering - Alfred can't be taken alive. He knows too much. - but the pill had joined his earplugs, his hands failing to function. After that it had been nothing. Barked German and French and English and he hadn't understood any of it.

But his subconscious remained, cataloguing everything around him. He'd gone with the Germans, pushed and pulled, and he hadn't slept, but he'd blacked out, unconscious, on autopilot. They'd hurt him, over and over, inflicted pain to try to make him talk but he couldn't speak, couldn't make his mouth work even if he'd wanted to. And eventually it had gotten to be too much - the pain, the noises, overwhelmed, he'd gone away mentally. Flitted off into a prison of his own making, a sanctuary inside himself.

Awareness returns vague and still coloured with flashes of blue and red, blocking everything out, and he's aware of voices.

English. Lilting. Accents.

He isn't sure if he's still in France, but he's been captured by someone else. He stands still with eyes wide open, nostrils flaring as he struggles to breathe through the vise around his chest, the anxiety spiking, his heart pounding.

Allies. He's with allies. But he can't pull out of it, can't move, his hands are shaking, his body is shaking. His mouth opens and then closes, but he still can't speak, can't really see - all he knows is that blood is pumping from his mouth and down his forehead, that there are pricks of startling pain that drag his attention up and down his body, and someone is in front of him, but he can't see, just gulping for breath like a fish.]

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He won't talk, the sergeant says, as though he's some kind of mental doctor. We need to hear what he's got to say. Get him to talk. And then he totters away, off to tend to the other patients, leaving Thomas with a man who looks as though he's doing his best impression of a fish.

Hell. This is not what he signed up for. Medic, he'd said, because he thought that'd be an easy job. He ought to have just dodged draft and gone to prison, for how easy this job has proven to be.

"Alfred?" That's the man's Christian name, isn't it? Perhaps that will work better. Thomas hesitantly touches his forearm. "Can you hear me?"

Edited 2015-06-05 05:29 (UTC)

He can hear, in a way - he can process the words, his mind latches onto his name, and then the shaking starts in earnest. He can feel it, as if it's shaking apart his bones, his spine seems as if it will crack, his fingers and arms jerk, his eyes sting with exposure to air, tears welling up and building in his lower lashes. The voice is lilting. English. British. It's Allies, and he shouldn't be afraid anymore, but he can't...he can't...there's something lingering around the edges of his consciousness, exhaustion, like a preying animal.

The man is speaking his name, dressed in a military uniform, and he tries to tell himself it's like being back with the others. They don't wear uniforms, though, like this man. One hand jerks up and closes roughly into the front of the uniform, his breath starts sucking in hard and deep, hissing in through the swelling in his throat.

He manages to jerkily nod, just once, still feeling as if he's shaking himself apart.

"Shh-- shh, shh, calm down--" He wraps his fingers a little tighter around his arm, keeping him as still as he can. The man looks as if he's going to have a nervous breakdown, and while Thomas doesn't blame him, there's not much he can do to stop it. "Look, you're all right, yeah? You're safe now. You're in a medical tent, we're all British here, you're perfectly safe."

The voice is soothing, and Alfred does his best to focus on just that, on the kind words, the hushing, the promises of safety in that accent that's familiar but not his own. His breath slows as that hand closes on his arm, and his fingers feel reassuringly real in the fabric of the other man's uniform. Slowly, he starts to see again, flashes of colour surrounding everything in the room, with halos of blue and red and pink and purple, and then the oppressive black around the edges of his vision as that preying exhaustion starts to bear home.

Finally, he focuses, his eyes locking on the eyes of the man in front of him, and his fingers loosen, his hand flattens against his chest, pressing there to feel the heat of his body.

Everything is fuzzy, his mouth is dry and feels as if it's stuffed with cotton, but he speaks, after a moment, voice rough with disuse.

"I dropped the pill, but I didn't tell them."

"All right." A pill? He hasn't any idea what he's talking about. Likely it's nonsense-- the same kind of rubbish you spout when you've just woken up. It doesn't matter. A pill won't turn the tide of the war. Thomas takes a step forward, pulling Alfred towards the cot in the corner. "Come on. Come sit, all right?"

The pill. For some reason, fumbling the pill onto the floor had stuck in his mind as a failure, only redeemed by the fact that he hadn't talked, even if it was because he hadn't been able to.

He holds eyes with the man while he pulls him forward, and he stumbles on legs that feel as if they're made from wood. He's bleeding, the pain is starting to move to the forefront of his consciousness now that it's quiet, and he glances down to make sure he isn't about to fall over something before looking downward. He can hear through the walls of the tent, and he knows this camp's mission now, knows where he is.

A breath, and he settles heavily, still shaking himself apart, looking up at the British soldier.

"You know my name."

"Yeah." Carefully he kneels before the man. He has superficial wounds all down his front and on his legs, but Thomas doesn't dare try and get him to remove his clothes yet. He's clearly clinging to sanity by his fingernails; better to let him bleed a little more than set him off. Still, he keeps an eye on them even as he talks. "The rest of your unit pointed us towards you. It took us two days to find you."

Not, obviously, him. But Thomas is happy to take the credit.

It isn't the prospect of losing a few layers that bothers him, it's more the overwhelming sensory overload, the way everything still flashes chaotically, the way he's seeing everything, hearing everything, every word leaping out at him in a whisper, every sound coloured in flashes, crashing down at him, heightened by the anxiety, the fear...

After a moment, he notices it - a distinct scent of cigarette smoke. It only takes him a second to place the source, and he takes a breath, focusing on that, eyes moving up to the face of the man in front of him.

He's still shaking, but he's more lucid now, can feel the exhaustion and starvation hedging up on the edges of his vision, his awareness.

"Where are they? My unit?"

"Three days ahead." And then, in case this man is the sort to heroically leap to his feet, adds firmly: "You're to stay here for at least another two, til you're not so out of it. You're half-starved and dehydrated, not to mention all your other injuries. You can't leave."

But now he seems sensible enough, and so Thomas risks: "Can you take your clothes off, do you think? I need to treat you."

He isn't the sort to jump up heroically, but he is the sort that feels a sudden ache to be with his unit, the familiar people who know what he's about, what's going on in his mind. After a momentary cringe at the denial of going on after them, he lowers his gaze and gives one stiff nod, breathing roughly while he tries to work out whether he'd be allowed to tell these men about his condition.

Perhaps, if he limits it to the crossover effects of the synaesthesia, leaves out the bit about memory, about the massive vault of intel on the Germans that sits in his mind, it will be alright.

Lifting his hands, he shakily starts undoing the front of his button up shirt. His blazer is long gone, and he stares ahead as he works at the front of his shirt, exposing the sleeveless undershirt beneath, with no thought of how he might look.

"Do you have a pair of earplugs?" he asks, lifting his chin abruptly, pale grey-green eyes locked on the other man's.

"Uh-- no." Probably not. Who the hell has earplugs while you're in a war? He'd kill for fruit, or clothes that aren't worn through, or even a proper bar of soap, never mind earplugs. "Might be able to stuff some cotton in your ears, though, if you need be."

Torso exposed, Thomas begins to work-- dabbing at the man's cuts and bruises, wincing as he does. The Germans really have worked him over.

Somehow, Alfred had expected that, and he sighs slightly, lifting his hands shakily to press against his ears, eyes squeezing shut for a moment, as if he could shut everything out.

The soldier is leaning down, now, dabbing at the cuts on his torso - he's slimmer than most soldiers, he hasn't built up the muscle most do in basic training because he's still new to it, new to this whole war business. But this is what he chose, and he opens his eyes after a moment.

"I'll make do with some cotton, then." he says, quietly, calmer now, though he's still shaking, hissing softly at each dab of medical supplies on his wounded skin. Another shaky breath, and he's got it mostly under control.

"You're...Barrow. A medic?"

No one's told him, but he can hear it, can hear someone outside talking about it. About him.

"Well done." He glances up in mild surprise. His name has been said over the past few hours, of course, but he'd thought his patient passed out the entire time. Apparently not. Thomas' eyes linger on his face, intrigued, before returning to his cuts. "Care to take a guess on my age next?"

He shakes his head, and then lowers his gaze, frowning a little bit. It's not something he should reveal, his memory, his...condition. Like his father said - no one likes an anomaly. For a moment, he's still, feeling alien and wrong, mouth set in a frown.

"Older than me."

He lifts his head and offers a wan smile, "But almost everyone is, even if I got into the army late."

A long pause, and he looks away again, mouth pursed, "You called me Alfred, but your given name...I don't know that."

He returns that smile, his own a little sweeter than it ought to be. This lad won't be around for long, after all, and even if he is, it's not as if they have much private space here. But he's pretty, and his jawline keeps catching Thomas' eye-- so he'll be kind, just to see if it gets him anything.

"Thomas," he replies, and sets the kit on the bed next to Alfred. "Go on and take some cotton, if you'd like. How old are you, then? You can't be younger than twenty-five."

"I'm not." he says, lifting his chin to look up at the other man, "Thomas. Do you mind if I call you that? I'm used to first names. My unit...we don't stand much on rank, except where it's important."

Another glance down, and his eyes trace all the red lines across his chest, the bits of cloth Thomas is using to clean the wounds. He's still shaking, he doesn't know how long he can hold out like this, but he's faced worse, watched Harry go through much worse.

"Thank you. I don't need it right now, but it'll help keep me from going into that state again. Loud sounds bother me."

He avoids eye contact again, his head turned to the side.

Don't they all. Thomas can still hear the explosions when he closes his eyes, the bullets whistling, the screams of terror and horror from the dying . . . but a bit of cotton won't help. Still, Alfred is pretty enough, and cotton common enough, that Thomas doesn't mind.

Then again . . . there's something odd about the way he turns his head. Thomas begins wrapping bandages around him, mindful of his bruises. "Oh?" he says, because it's leading without assuming.

For Alfred, it isn't just explosions. Gunshots. It's fireworks and slamming doors, things that catch him off-guard and paint his world in a flash of too-bright colour. But for the moment, he keeps it to himself, just twisting the cotton in his hands. His bare chest rises and falls heavily for a few moments, and he feels like he'll pass out, his ears ringing.

Thomas is a dark blue, his voice something paler, he smells like cigarette smoke and it's comforting in its way. And his taste, the taste of Thomas...he can't quite put his finger on it. Perhaps like sweet liqueur, fruity but with bite under the surface. Not spiky like cherries, but smooth, burnt...

He glances up at his face again, "I...have a condition. I'd prefer if you didn't tell anyone about it. Not until I can rendezvous with my unit."

"A condition?" He sounds a half-wit, repeating his words, but the phrase catches his attention. A condition he needs kept secret . . . well, that sounds rather familiar. "I'll keep your secret."

His chin lifts abruptly, and his eyes connect with Thomas' for just a moment before he looks down again.

"Synaesthesia. It isn't common. It's...a mixup of the senses. I make strange connections, letters have colour, sounds have tastes, that sort of thing. It's not something I talk about much."

Another glance up, "No one likes an anomaly, do they?"

How odd. Thomas blinks, trying to comprehend for a moment. To taste words, to see color where letters ought to be-- how can that be? But then the boy says that, so quietly and simply, and Thomas' heart drops.

"That's not entirely true," he says slowly, after a slight pause. He has to pick his words so carefully now. "Nothing wrong with being a bit different."

That catches him off-guard. He takes a short breath, lifts his chin and looks into Thomas' eyes, holding his gaze for a few long moments, his own grey-green-blue eyes searching the other man's - he's taller, older, Alfred is reacting to the way Thomas actually looks now, not just how he smells and tastes and the colours of his movements.

"Isn't there? I can't say I've ever really felt that way. Not until recently."

He reaches out, lets his hand brush against Thomas' shirt again, his uniform jacket, fingers feeling over the rough texture, the nuance of it.

Oh, hell. Thomas' heart pounds, his breath catching in his throat. It's foolish to move so quickly, but Alfred has started it, hadn't he? Thomas hesitates for just a moment before reaching out to brush his fingers against his cheek.

"Suppose that's why you ran into me, then, isn't it?" he murmurs. "To teach you better."

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for thomas

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thanks for not psting this last night dw you're a peach

dw is just so sweet

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