Jay's voice is dry dead leaves in his ears, fingers too bony and raw - too much like - too much - too much -

He squirms away, rolls over, shoulders quavering under each staggered cough. His eyes crack open a slit to the dizzying drop below - it wouldn't take much to just - he could even - Jay's right there and he weighs practically nothing -

Tim resurfaces for a heartbeat of burning clarity, gasping, lungs heaving like he's just been drowned, and maybe he has. He can never fucking tell. He's on his stomach and, and he's moving, he's getting up, he's on all fours now, he can do this, he can fucking - Jay's just kneeling there and trembling and asking him, begging him to get up and he growls and wraps one hand around the back of his shirt and starts dragging the ungrateful shit even if he can barely stumble along the swaying, suspended wood on his own. He's getting no help here. But he's not -

There are fingers in his head he's always known are there. They're twitching, bony, grasping, unraveling the threads that make him. Maybe they're what stitched those there in the first place. Right now, Tim doesn't fucking care. It can have him, as far as he's concerned. He's never ever really gotten away, has he.

"Move," he grinds between gritted teeth, breathless and pained over the spike blazing between his eyes and slammed through his temples. "Move."