“I know this might not be an exact cognate, so feel free to tell me to fuck off and that it’s actually something else, but I know— I remember—” Stephen’s tripping over his words again; not through that giddy stupid delight in finding out they did the same thing with their presents, but instead now the delicacy of it, trying to find the right words to express what he wants to.
He’s not a poet or a writer or a diplomat. Still, he tries.
“Needing to take a bit of time to get comfortable in your own skin again. To feel like you’re yourself again. They put metal pins in all my fingers to reconstruct them; at night it seemed like I could feel them there, inside me. My hands were crooked. Everything was the wrong shape. Obviously it’s not fucking faerie wings,” there’s a touch of dry humour in his voice, their similar coping mechanisms, “but I don’t know. I remember what that sort of thing felt like, is what I mean.”
no subject
He’s not a poet or a writer or a diplomat. Still, he tries.
“Needing to take a bit of time to get comfortable in your own skin again. To feel like you’re yourself again. They put metal pins in all my fingers to reconstruct them; at night it seemed like I could feel them there, inside me. My hands were crooked. Everything was the wrong shape. Obviously it’s not fucking faerie wings,” there’s a touch of dry humour in his voice, their similar coping mechanisms, “but I don’t know. I remember what that sort of thing felt like, is what I mean.”