InsaneJournal

It feels like: carbonation bubbles tickling your throat and smiles that light up your eyes. The bright sound of children’s breathless laughter. A fluttering of butterflies in your stomach when you catch a certain someone’s eye in the crowd. The insistent tug of your hand, leading you towards the stage. The way music reverberates in your bones, enticing you to dance. A dog pawing at your thigh, tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. The nervous anticipation of being about to walk on stage.

He feels it all a distance, and he lets himself jump from thread to thread of emotion, letting it buoy his own excitement.

It feels like: hesitation and the creeping sense that something is wrong, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. A few steps back, but your hand is still reaching forward, and you’re caught between directions. A slight narrowing of eyes. The tiniest seed of distrust burrowing into your mind, making you question what’s in front of you. Disbelief and your mind not comprehending the sudden change.

He feels it before he sees anything wrong, and he’s running towards the stage, knowing what will come next and needing to be able to see as much as possible.

It feels like: your lungs closing in on themselves, leaving you unable to breathe. Clutching the nearest hand and pulling so hard they feel the strain in their shoulder. Fight or flight. Being unable to move, frozen in place. Tears stinging your eyes. Screams and shouts assaulting your ears. The uncontrollable tremble wracking your body as you try to move, move, move.

He feels it all as he gathers as many threads as he can, pushing calm down each one as he grabs more and more, more than he knows he should.

It feels like: tranquil. A rational thought telling you to go this way, to walk, not run. Placidity. Your heartbeat is strong and steady — normal. The way your mind eases listening to the surf rush in and out on the shore.

He feels it despite the tripping of his heart, the insistent voice in his head reminding him that Clark is out there somewhere, and the intruders are still wrecking havoc. The way everything feels harder as he holds and pushes and trusts his colleagues to get everyone out safely because this is all he can do to help.

It feels like: heavy limbs and eyes you can’t quite keep open. A hazy fog over your thoughts, making them seem distant and out of reach. The swaying of a body that wants to stand, but its balance is just off center, and you’re tipping forward, the earth getting closer, but you can’t do anything but wonder where Clark is and if he’s okay. The closing in of darkness as you just—