synaestheidetic | 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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

for thomas

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