up all night

[immortalized]

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[immortalized]

{ little pieces of Will's life that are familiar to Ambrose, things he can still vividly imagine as Will gives them out in his answer. the familiarity is a comfort; they have lived separately for months, gone without speaking for weeks at worst, while Will has slipped off a map from time to time. to think that nothing much has changed is somewhat is a reassurance.

but Ambrose thinks he would rather find out that he has instead missed a mountain of change, if it meant that Will was no longer suffering from his own mind, all by himself. }

Stay with me, Will. You're not going to endure this alone. { Ambrose feels like he has just been given the wheel of a ship, without a crew to navigate, and he's hitting the eye of a storm. he could appear relaxed here, lying on his living room floor in the silence of his apartment, hands up and resting on his chest, but he feels nothing but anxious tension. he can't go to Will, he can't fix his mind for him. he can only sit here, and wait.

and talk. }

Is that the last of what you remember? Before coming to? { Ambrose thinks he rather hates this, it feels like scrambling in the dark for something he doesn't know he is looking for. it's dreadful. he stares absolutely motionless at the ceiling for a terrible moment, struggling for something better.

he sits up slowly, turning to look out the window, the night tinted with the dark ambience of colorful neon. it had rained an hour ago, and the droplets collect up every color into little round gems across the glass. }

How are the dogs? { it is so painfully simple, it might almost sound stupid. not to Ambrose, and he hopes, not to Will. it's a very calculated and specific intention, coming from him. he hasn't been in Will's home for most of the year now, that little spot in the universe amidst a quietude that reminds Ambrose still of sleepy mornings. his chest aches to remember it, rising just at dusk and catching Will sitting silently on his porch. }

[wontgraham]

[ He feels like a child being lead through a tantrum. And yet none of that is coming from Ambrose himself - his tone isn't condescending. Nor is it similar to most of the tones Will's head directed at himself over the years. No, Will's hearing his own internal fears narrated internally instead.

The tunneling concepts of such things distracts him, until Ambrose keeps speaking. Will snaps out of it enough to pay more attention to the road, too, and do more than just stay in autopilot as he starts following signs to the interstate. ]

The-- they're fine. They're... [ Ambrose isn't asking about the dogs. Will's intake of breath can't decide if it's a laugh or a sob. He feels a pulling in his cheeks and thinks his expression can't decide either. ] They miss you.

Ambrose, I don't-- [ Back and forth, but it doesn't feel like going off-track to Will. He's following what he's been shown. Affection, away from work, talking about his home, proving that Ambrose isn't afraid of his continuing gaps from reality... ]

Work isn't helping. [ It comes out painfully small but sharp, shards of glass in his throat. Will can do nothing in the aftermath but swallow and try to make sure his voice will be clear once he knows what to do with it. ]