breathing in the sun

I. Simon

I'm not sure what it is exactly that sets me off.

Sets me off differently than usual. Usually, sets me off means smoke. Rippling, wavering air like the earth is burning up hot, even though it's just me. Usually it suffocates everyone around me, chokes them with their own magic.

Now I'm the one suffocating, but there's no magic in the air. It's just me.

I'm not sure what it is exactly that sets me off.

It's probably the Mage. Probably him telling me about another mission, about another quest. (That's how he talks. Like I'm a character in a fucking D&D game.) Probably him talking about me to my face, like I'm not the only one in the room. Probably him saying "Think about it, Simon," all gentle and sweet, like he didn't basically just tell me he wants to take everything I love away, and I didn't just tell him no.

I'm not sure what it is exactly that sets me off.

Could be that I'm tripping and stumbling on my way back to Mummers. It's little, but it's frustrating, and is definitely adding more to the bucket that is my patience. Which is so close to overflowing.

The rocks on the ground fly up as my shoes kick them, throwing dust and dirt into the air. Some of it comes in with me when I enter the building. I shut the door behind myself, maybe a little too hard. (One of these days I'm going to slam it too hard and the building's going to collapse.)

I'm not sure what it is exactly that sets me off.

I stumble on the stairs too, can't quite get my footing. I have to catch myself with a hand on the edge of a step, and it hurts, shooting up through my wrist and pressing into the skin of my palm, but not enough to force me to breathe.

I pause there, bent over the stairs, holding myself up, and shut my eyes, before forcing myself upright and going all the way to our room.

I throw the door open and shut it behind myself, trying my damnest to breathebreathebreathebreathebreathe but it's not working. My hands clutch as the strap of my back like it's holding me together, my back presses to the door, my eyes closed again like maybe that'll help.

"What's your problem?"

I startle, letting out "Oh, Jesus," my eyes flying open, and I see Baz sitting at his desk, watching me with a look on his face. I can't tell exactly what it is. His lips aren't curled, he's not smiling. So not happy (though rarely is he ever), not disgusted. His eyebrows are furrowed, he's looking me up and down. But the heat isn't there, so not angry. Scared? Apprehensive?

Worried.

"I didn't know you were here," I exhale, leaning back against the door and shutting my eyes. I try to relax, but I can't. I can't.

I half-expect him to leave, but he just asks me again.

"What's your problem?"

"I don't..." know.

I cover my face, scared that tears are going to start rolling down my cheeks, because that happens when I'm frustrated sometimes, and then I wind my fingers in my hair, tugging like it'll pull this feeling out of me.

"...Snow?"

He does sound worried, his voice gentle and soft. It's weird. He should be loving this. He should be leaving me to die like this.

My muscles strain like they're trying to escape the air around me.

"I don't know what's..." I gasp. "I don't..."