[ the corn maze is the only place in town that's quiet.
stygia is a constant cacophany of idle thoughts, crowding shoulder-to-shoulder around mavis, squeezing her until it feels like there's little room for her. so she slips off, tries to put some distance between herself and others, and sits down in a corner that she believes is at the edge of the corn maze to put her head between her knees and catch her breath.
no one can see her, she tells herself, so it's alright. her fingers thread through her hair, the gentle scrape of nails soothing her scalp. stimulation that soothes and distracts instead of overwhelms.
she feels a little less nauseous for it. and also able to pick out a single, brightening star in the constellation of voices. like a radio signal growing stronger as static clears up.
it's him.
she lifts her head, alert, rabbit-like. her heart picks up. she has a sense of his movements, can hear an unfamiliar voice — you're getting complacent — because it's his memory and not hers, and there it is, a shirt button on the ground in front of her.
her fingers can't pluck it out of the dirt. it isn't really there. this is, she thinks, a comfort. she gathers what focus and control she has and tries to shove at him, as she has done before, tries to push him out and put some kind of wall there so he stops bleeding through and spilling into her. it's more of a limp wind than a shove. ]
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stygia is a constant cacophany of idle thoughts, crowding shoulder-to-shoulder around mavis, squeezing her until it feels like there's little room for her. so she slips off, tries to put some distance between herself and others, and sits down in a corner that she believes is at the edge of the corn maze to put her head between her knees and catch her breath.
no one can see her, she tells herself, so it's alright. her fingers thread through her hair, the gentle scrape of nails soothing her scalp. stimulation that soothes and distracts instead of overwhelms.
she feels a little less nauseous for it. and also able to pick out a single, brightening star in the constellation of voices. like a radio signal growing stronger as static clears up.
it's him.
she lifts her head, alert, rabbit-like. her heart picks up. she has a sense of his movements, can hear an unfamiliar voice — you're getting complacent — because it's his memory and not hers, and there it is, a shirt button on the ground in front of her.
her fingers can't pluck it out of the dirt. it isn't really there. this is, she thinks, a comfort. she gathers what focus and control she has and tries to shove at him, as she has done before, tries to push him out and put some kind of wall there so he stops bleeding through and spilling into her. it's more of a limp wind than a shove. ]