the curious happenstance of pedro pascal and din djarin [The Mandalorian]

I could go for a drink.

So sorry this chapter was late. I couldn't finish it in time. :(

Big news: I have a patreon now! Not currently offering anything, but it's only $3 a month, so please do consider pledging if you want to support me! Link is in my bio <3

Like fire, like lava, an erupting volcano, burning and searing and agony, but he couldn't scream, or cry out. It was a harsh, half-stifled yell, mixed with a sharp intake of bitter air. He didn't fall, it didn't hurt, but it burned as though every nerve ending had been doused on oil and set fully ablaze, and only when he collapsed to his knees, then to the ground, onto his stomach, did he allow himself a deep, guttural, growl of a scream, that tore up the insides of his throat until it gave out and all he could muster was a weak, faint, childish sob, as deep crimson pooled underneath him.

And Eleis, weak and cowardly, stood above him. Shaking, trembling, crying angry, bitter tears, with the gun clutched in his feeble hand. He reached down and pulled Christopher up by his collar, ignoring the great howl that Chris let out at the jerk of movement. He tugged and pulled and dragged him until, until— until only his toes were on solid ground, and the only thing preventing him from plunging to his death was Eleis' tight grip on the fabric of his shirt.

"I hate you!" Eleis cried. "I hate all of you! You have no right, breathing my air—" He frantically wiped away his tears with his other hand, but more replaced them. "You should all be in Hell."

Without thinking, no second thoughts, Chris steadied his flailing, frail arm and strained to clasp Eleis' hand. It was cold, and thin, skin and bone, and it was shaking with the weight of holding an entire grown man by the fabric of his shirt.

"Please—" Christopher begged. "Please—"

"I'll drop you," Eleis seethed through his teeth, "I'll let go!"

"Je veux vivre, je—"

"SHUT UP! Shut up, shut the fuck up! You're going to Hell, I'll drop you, I will, and you'll go to Hell where you belong—"

Chris looked up at the sky, big and dark and cloudy, just as a drop of rain fell on his cheek, mixed in with his tears. The ever-looming atmosphere that surrounded them, the clouds that formed dark shapes, it made him dizzy and nauseous but he couldn't will himself to look away, look down into Eleis' eyes, blue like the sky should be. Another drop fell, and within seconds it was a light spit, cold enough to make him shiver. He let go of Eleis' hand, but the grip on his shirt was ever-stronger. Someone, a woman, screamed, hundreds and hundreds of feet below them, guttural and terrified to see a man hanging so far off the edge, ready to plummet to certain death. More screams followed, men and women, yelling up at him, he could almost picture them pointing with those horrified expressions, waiting with anticipation for the inevitable drop, and then the sickening collision.

"There's people," Christopher coughed, "there's people, innocent people below us, please, please, they don't need to see—"

It was sickening, nauseating, how his body hovered over empty air, his toes the only part of him touching solid ground — solid roof? — and Eleis' strength the only thing that could hold him there. A strength that would fail, if Eleis never found the courage to make his choice. Chris could see it. Every single thought that ran through his mind, the cogs turning and turning until they rust and fail.

"I don't know why you hate—" Chris stopped abruptly as Eleis met his eye, but swallowed his fear, and continued, "I don't know why you hate us, I don't understand why, but Robert—"

"No."

"Robert is a psychologist and he can help you, please, please, please, I don't wanna die, I don't wanna, je veux—"