Alfred Graves (
synaestheidetic) wrote2015-06-04 10:08 pm
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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.]
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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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?"
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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.
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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."
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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."
thanks for not psting this last night dw you're a peach
Not, obviously, him. But Thomas is happy to take the credit.
dw is just so sweet
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?"
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But now he seems sensible enough, and so Thomas risks: "Can you take your clothes off, do you think? I need to treat you."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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."
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"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."
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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.
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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.
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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."
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"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?"
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"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."
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"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.
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"Suppose that's why you ran into me, then, isn't it?" he murmurs. "To teach you better."