( inhibitions underground )
Characters: Chris Tuttle
Timeline: Present, Blizzard Time [?]
Summary: Tootles during the stampede.
Flynn tortures the puppy basically.
Trigger Warning:Not sure, just in case, it might be triggering?
There was never a sound when snow fell.
It wasn’t like drizzle that cut down from the heavens only to land on the ground with a chorus of splashes. Or rain that came down in echoes like an arousing battle cry or a soothing lullaby.
The snowflakes just spun around in the wind, swaying and dancing from one direction to another until they land in their particular destination.
They were subtle and quiet as they blanketed the whole city in sheets of white lulling the people into a false sense of yuletide cheer and complacence. Never realizing the imposing danger until the snow was almost knee high and the winds started to whale, and the chill in their bones were no longer just a figure of speech.
Tootles didn’t even see it coming. He didn’t think any of it at all until he was smack right in the middle of it, with teeth clattering, knees shaking, chest crying from the cold and surrounded by people. Not the bundles of scarves and sweaters and coats he’d wrapped himself around this morning prepared him from the sudden downpour, let alone the sudden sea of citizens fighting against the cold and each other to get home.
Trying to side step away from the crowd proved futile and only ended up with him losing his bag, caught in the arm of someone that only sent him flinging back and dragged into the current until his pull and the other man’s pull got too strong and the strap just snapped. He wasn’t sure what came first – the panic or the fear – perhaps those two cohabited with each other too much all the time now in a cavern in his chest that there was barely any difference anymore that his dependable logical thinking disappeared and he lost his footing trying to keep himself upright. And in a flash of a second, the waves of heads and ruffled hair was replaced with legs and limbs and feet and screams and calls for help and names.
He ended up on his side trying to crawl away or push himself back up to look for his bag, to look for anything, but just as he extended his arm, a heavy boot steps on his hand and then his arm to the point that whatever strangled cry he was going to make was silenced by the horror of a resounding ugly crack in the panic.
He was about to cry out but he couldn’t even complete the word when a knee banged him right upside the head. Whatever hold he had on what was happening disappeared when he felt like the world began to shake from the inside of his skull and he shut his eyes to welcome the seeping darkness. When he’d opened them again, the snow, his shaky bones and the agony of his now swollen arm was all the company he had left.
He jumped to his feet, the fear and panic catching up with his reappearing logic to search the empty street for his bag, for his scarf that was tugged away from him, his hat, but the winds were too harsh and the downpour was to heavy to see anything save for a few bottles and jackets and shoes.
Everything that was important was in that bag.
His heart sank in his chest – the seizing pain from his arm forgotten as he scrambled to keep his sanity together.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
His fingers curling around tightly on his hair, tugging and pulling as tears stung his eyes.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
He sobbed quietly into his hand as he thought about what he should do next, looking around for anything, or anyone, or any place he could possibly run without freezing to death but his arm begged for warmth just as his chest did. And he wiped at the tears that he hoped hadn’t immediately frozen on his skin as he tried to trudge against the wind and the snow – silently wishing he finds a wardrobe in the middle of the street that lead to Narnia or he’s consumed by the snow before he reaches the loft.
I’m a giant softy, for sure, but I honestly think these days it’s probably considered more masculine to be emotionally connected.