[ Ten. By the time he hits eight, there's a pulse in Byerly's head - not a pounding, not an ache, just a thrum and hum of his blood coursing through his skull. Adrenaline, too, that make his fingers twitch on Wash's arm - not tapping, not signalling, just the nails digging in a little bit to steady himself. Thrilling and terrifying.
And then - and then. His breath back, and he struggles again not to gasp - but his airway is still restricted, so that the half-excited half-panicked ache in his chest barely eases. He struggles not to fight. Struggles not to pant and gasp and struggle for air. It's - difficult. His head swims, and everything seems intensely, impossibly bright.
He can barely even manage a cute little quip. The best he can do is a thready, breathless: ]
no subject
And then - and then. His breath back, and he struggles again not to gasp - but his airway is still restricted, so that the half-excited half-panicked ache in his chest barely eases. He struggles not to fight. Struggles not to pant and gasp and struggle for air. It's - difficult. His head swims, and everything seems intensely, impossibly bright.
He can barely even manage a cute little quip. The best he can do is a thready, breathless: ]
Fun.