[Portal: Holly & Noah]
It felt bad. Dude, it felt really bad. The knot in Noah's stomach wouldn't untangle, wouldn't loosen. It sat, as tight as a fist, and curdled in his stomach acid until he didn't know what else to do, besides pop some Tums and hope it helped. But, of course, it didn't help. The feeling of foreboding deepened like a shadow in an already dark room, black on black, until Noah excused himself from the front desk, from the skin-crawling flitter of flies around an old woman's head like a halo of rot, and went upstairs.
Part of him fr just hoped he was coming down with something. Another part tried to offer rationality. He got these feelings sometimes. Usually nothing happened. It didn't mean anything. And another part just knew, knew, knew something bad was coming. Noah tried to make himself throw-up, just to see if the feeling would ease, and instead, filtering through the dread, came Holly. Holly, who felt like his chest was too tight, who was trying to tell himself to breathe, who was being escorted by two dudes with guns toward something awful enough, even Noah's mind didn't want to touch it.—But, it did.
Away from the toilet bowl and up to his feet, Noah worked to think through the shared panic that seeped into him like ice in his veins. Holly was going through things as he dressed himself in a suit that felt suffocating even from here, and Noah tried to ignore that too, because how the fuck was he going to get there? That was his question. God, you know, he'd promised. He'd promised he wouldn't. If something happened, he'd be good and he'd stay safe. But, now that he was faced with the reality of, like, whatever the FUCK this was? He knew he couldn't keep the promise. He wouldn't.
He was tying his shoes as Holly was passed through checkpoints. He was in the car when the chain was placed around his husband like a leash. No. Like a fishing line, and he was the bait.—Noah's hands shook on the steering wheel. His heart was busy trying to beat its way out from behind his ribcage, pumping, no doubt, in time with Holly's. By the time he got on the road, with no clearer plan of action in his head than before, Holly was walking away from voices buzzing with anger and into the weeping wound of the world.
The sensation of slick, sticking wetness sliding over Noah was disgusting. Worse, almost, than the stench that filled his nose. Worse than the chill that crawled up his spine. His vision started to narrow and blacken around the edges, and the dude didn't even think about pulling over. He was holding onto himself by a thread, but he had to get to the fucking facility. He might've made it too. But, the moment—the exact moment, Holly reached out to him, he veered tf off the road. It was like someone pouring something boiling directly into his fucking skull. He heard himself yell. He saw the ditch jump into his field of vision. He managed to jam his foot on the brake. His cheek glanced off of the steering wheel, but it didn't slow him down.
In his head, with all the fucking amplification he could muster, he responded: Holly, come back, come back, come back. You have to come back. It was only when Noah opened his eyes, seconds later, that he realized all of his windows had blown out at once.