He doesn't know how long they've been sitting there before he can bring himself to look up at the world again. He's singing softly by the time he does, his throat aching, his shoulders and side and ears sore from awkward angles and scratches and tension.

He takes one slow breath and then another, not letting go yet, but not holding on as tight either. The echoes of the world are still loud, but he could hide it now if he wanted, could pretend to be normal. He's very good at acting normal. But he doesn't have to do that until he lets go.