There's a bitter crack of a feeling, as if through very thick glass: why is he remembering, when everyone else seems to forget? Blood in the snow, men hanging in the trees. That can't be real, there's no reason for it. He turned the truck off the road and drove it right down the slope, clipped by trees until one crunched it to a halt. Why had he turned? In his sketchbook there's a rough drawing of antlers out of a skull, or there was: he's torn it out and fed it into the fire every time.

He almost touches the shape of it, the throb behind his eye picking up its pace until it all blanks out. Not even fog, just a white space, Jude limp under Bodhi's hands for a minute that stretches on.

With a sharp inhale, he's back. A small fit, then: his head hurts in a general way, and he didn't shake, and he didn't cry. He's right where he remembers - being held, being told it's alright. Bad days don't usually resolve themselves into this, and he doesn't clutch Bodhi so much as a fold of his shirt, his grip hanging the fabric with the weight of his hand. "Sorry," he says, fuzzy and reflexive at the end of blanking out. He sniffs, more for his brush with the cold than anything else, and eventually his other arm slings carefully along the back of Bodhi's waist. Indirect holds, with a little more of his weight leaning center.

"Is this okay" feels like such a horrible thing to ask, need to ask, when all he wants is to tighten his arms and sink. He doesn't know if he wants to talk about it, if he can even properly explain - but he wants to hold on. If he has to think of it at all, and lose himself, and have his fits and headaches, he just wants this too.