[ It all happens very suddenly, and it's enough to keep his mind off of things — the storm, the move to the Community Center. He and Vasiliy occupy a corner of their own, and then one of the smaller rooms as needed, where they can keep the animals out of people's hair.
It's a lot of work. And though he can barely keep up with it — he's so ill these days, and trying with all of his might not to think about the bag of human blood that Vasiliy asked that boar for, trying not to think about how it would stabilise him again, make things hurt less, make his body feel like his again for just a little while — Konstantin finds a certain reprieve in the frenzy of it all. It's easier to ignore all those glinting things at the tips of his fingers.
But then the windows and doors are locked shut and secured, and the waiting comes, and it's almost unbearable. There's not much to keep him distracted anymore, and he starts picking apart some of those threads like a wound he can't stop touching, feeling out who they belong to, cautious, and then flinching back too fast. He's never been claustrophobic — he was perfectly at home in a small, small place, drifting out further than most can ever dream of — but this makes him feel like he's somewhere too tight and he can barely breathe.
When the silence happens, and some people poke their heads out, and chatter drifts, thoughts of going out there, Konstantin does. Against any warning, unconcerned with consequence.
He has to get away. Just for a little. Just for a moment.
It's too bright out here, too beautiful, and the hairs at the back of his neck prickle with some awareness that something isn't right. But he keeps moving, not too far, just— away. Hands shoved into his coat pockets, head dipped down, it's completely still and silent out here right now, and he thinks he's alone. It's exactly how he wants to be.
His gait and breathing slows, but his thoughts run wild. Most of them center around one concept: escape. It's always been what he's best at.
He doesn't notice the dull black thread, the one that's some shade of grey, ripple with movement. Eventually he comes to a halt there in the center of the deserted town, and just stands there, breathing. He doesn't know where to go. ]
— Wynonna Earp.
It's a lot of work. And though he can barely keep up with it — he's so ill these days, and trying with all of his might not to think about the bag of human blood that Vasiliy asked that boar for, trying not to think about how it would stabilise him again, make things hurt less, make his body feel like his again for just a little while — Konstantin finds a certain reprieve in the frenzy of it all. It's easier to ignore all those glinting things at the tips of his fingers.
But then the windows and doors are locked shut and secured, and the waiting comes, and it's almost unbearable. There's not much to keep him distracted anymore, and he starts picking apart some of those threads like a wound he can't stop touching, feeling out who they belong to, cautious, and then flinching back too fast. He's never been claustrophobic — he was perfectly at home in a small, small place, drifting out further than most can ever dream of — but this makes him feel like he's somewhere too tight and he can barely breathe.
When the silence happens, and some people poke their heads out, and chatter drifts, thoughts of going out there, Konstantin does. Against any warning, unconcerned with consequence.
He has to get away. Just for a little. Just for a moment.
It's too bright out here, too beautiful, and the hairs at the back of his neck prickle with some awareness that something isn't right. But he keeps moving, not too far, just— away. Hands shoved into his coat pockets, head dipped down, it's completely still and silent out here right now, and he thinks he's alone. It's exactly how he wants to be.
His gait and breathing slows, but his thoughts run wild. Most of them center around one concept: escape. It's always been what he's best at.
He doesn't notice the dull black thread, the one that's some shade of grey, ripple with movement. Eventually he comes to a halt there in the center of the deserted town, and just stands there, breathing. He doesn't know where to go. ]