(jonas doesn't shrug the hand off of his shoulder, but his eyes, narrow and raw from crying, hold the overwhelming intent to. pragmatism has never worked on him, often the one offering the pessimistic view or the "out there" solution. he's always emotionally charged even when he seems mellow; why can't noctis understand that? why can't anyone?

is it their responsibility to? was it alex's? was it your parents'?)

Fine, (he says, a sudden wind current drowning out an already quiet agreement. the backs of his hands were wet against his mouth, but his fingers and palms, locked around the fire flask, are dry and warm.

it's held tighter and higher up as noctis hooks him securely around the middle and forces his feet to leave the deck. there's no muscle strain jonas can feel that would indicate that noctis flagging under the weight of his body. even as he's set down, he's still manoeuvred carefully, the control with which noctis wields his own strength frankly incredible. he's envious. you're jealous.

feet find their place, inherently clumsy on his own but surprisingly difficult to knock over when acted by someone or something else.) Okay, I'm— (the apology sticks, stubborn, and jonas abandons it with a squeeze around the explosive. there's no time for that now, even though the chances or having an opportunity later look slim as he casts a look down at the black sea.)

Thank you. I... I get it, you know what you're doing! I'm gonna go to the side and hang on for dear life till you're good to start lowering me, alright?

(rock-climbing is a new thing in his life. edwards island was full of walls to scale, dangerous but necessary. rappelling is an entirely different aspect of it that makes him want to throw up, leaning across the taffrail to stare down at the ice he's meant to land on. jonas stuffs the flask deep into his jacket pocket so that the heat spreads from his hip, and throws a leg over to straddle the side.

this is the only way? this?)

Fuck, fuck, fuck... ready!