Everything seems so new, he thinks: these thoughts running through his head, and he can't stop them at all, but they're all so wonderful that his brain is inviting more and more in, and he just can't stop them. He gasps as all these wonderful thoughts surround him—the thought of the air blowing—blowing—on his skin. There's someone touching his shoulders, and that is clothes on his skin, too. He can feel it. And this air he's breathing in tastes so good that he's breathing in-out-in-out-in-out-in-out, quick-quick-quick. He's gotta take in as much as he can before he goes away again, in a flash of ones and zeros and faulty memories, and he can't believe that he's breathing. He's breathing. He's breathing. He's finally fucking breathing again, and he's got clothes on his skin, and he can feel the cotton on his skin and—holy fucking tap-dancing Buddha on a pogo stick, he. Can. Breath. He. Is. Alive. He doesn't know how it happened or why it happened, but he's alive again, even if just for a moment, and he's hyperventilating because he can breathe in that sweet, wonderful, polluted air that he never thought he'd ever taste ever again.

"Clay?"

He's alive. He's alive. He's alive. He's got cotton on his skin and carbon dioxide ruining his lungs and cold concrete under his feet and his heart pounding in his chest, and he's so utterly alive that it's absolutely amazing that he can't believe it and—holy Elvis Presley he's going to die from sensory overload after all that time in the Animus memory core.

"Clay!"

He's got his hands in his hair, and it's all so fucking awesome that he's can feel his hair again and run his hands through it. It's still so soft, and he can't believe that he's going to have clothes and hair and finally be able to do whatever he wants. He can see things moving, and he can feel hands on his shoulders, and he can feel the cotton moving against his skin—and sweet skin alive he's moving, breathing, and feeling things like never before. And then there're lips against his, and he's still, his breath frozen in his throat as his eyes widen, and he's met with the most gorgeous looking—fucking Godzilla-eating one-horned rat-goat he's got Desmond kissing him. He's got Desmond kissing him. He's fucking swapping spit with the same man that he gave his life for—he got it back from—and hot shit brain-melting fudge-packing gopher guts that feels so damn good he just wants more.

So he grabs the man's head—he thinks it's his head—and he can feel that soft skin beneath his fingers and all he wants is to keep touching it forever because nothing feels the same in the Animus as it does now, and all he wants to do is keep kissing his man, and his lips are so soft against his, and that tongue feels fabulous and is doing tricks that feel like a thousand crushed up baby angels in his mouth. His thoughts seriously need to take more breaths because he can breathe—fucking breathe—for the first time in a long time.

And he can feel Desmond breath on his lips—on his skin, on his skinon hisskin onhisskinandallover—as he chuckles—that laughter is beautiful—and he's stuck staring at the man because he's seeing him in a completely new light. He's running his hands over Desmond's smooth chin and ears and hair, and all of it feels so wonderful that he can't help but keep touching it because he's so real, like that movie with the wooden puppet: he's a real boy now, and he can feel a tingling warmth inside him, as if he could feel Desmond's heartbeat, and he's still running his fingers over that enticing caramel skin as he's stared at.

"Hey, calm down, man. You're not going anywhere."

And he looks at Desmond with wide eyes because it's been forever since he's actually had enough of a grip on himself, and he keeps touching that skin and feeling that breath against his lips and everything just feels so good with him that he can't stop, even if he wanted to, because he's human—he's human—he's mother fucking human—and everything just feels so new and fresh that he's staring at Desmond like a man in a desert who found an oasis that was being rained on just before the guinea-murdering flood from the Bible washes over him. Desmond is shaking his head and kissing the palms of his hands—which he can feel—and he's on the verge of hyperventilating again before he squeezes out one word:

"H-how?"

And then there's a smile he never thought he'd see in real time smiling right at him and smiling as if he were just the best thing in the world, and he never thought he'd see a smile like that directed to smile at him and—

"We found the Ankh. Juno told me how to use it, and I figured if the Ankh could bring anyone back… Well… you deserved it most."

He blinks, and he's got a million thoughts in his head again flying through at speeds he can't even recognize what the thought is, but they're all about the Ankh, and they're all about Egypt, and they're all about all the history he's ever learned, and before he knows it, his body is reacting, and he's got Desmond in a bear hug, a hand in his hair and the other around his neck, and he's alive; he's alive; he's alive, breathing in-out-in-out-in-out-deeper-quicker—holy mother of Saint Francis he's alive, and he's breathing, and it's all because Desmond chose to bring him back.

And when he finally calms down enough, he's sitting on a bench—no, on Desmond's lap—and he's got two hands on his stomach, and a pair of lips on his neck, and his eyes are slipping closed, and he's got his hands over Desmond's—but it shouldn't be this way because he was on top in the Animus, but this isn't the Animus anymore so maybe he doesn't mind what Desmond is doing to him as he practically mewls when a hand slips down his pants and—

"Christ, are you always going to act like this, Clay?"

He's going to die of overload, of Desmond touching him, of lips and hands on his skin, and every nerve on his body is alight with pleasure, but it's not supposed to feel like that except in bad porn novels, and it doesn't matter anymore because he'll use whatever damn phrase he wants as he fists a hand in Desmond's slightly-shaggy hair and gasps as he comes. But he shouldn't have come so quickly, but everything still feels incredible as he's left heaving for breath that he already didn't have enough of until he feels fingers at his mouth. He sucks on them, tasting his own semen, and he should be completely grossed out, but he doesn't care, and he can't care, because he can actually taste it, and it's not like in the Animus, and it's real, and Jesus Christ riding a velociraptor he's in Heaven, finally, and Desmond cleans the rest of his hand, and he just goes limp against him, and he's finally starting to calm down. He swallows, running a hand through his hair as he feels Desmond tuck him back into his pants and pull him close.

"Hey."

"Hey," he says, feeling his eyelids sag as he melts into the warmth he never felt in all their touching in the Animus.

"No smart ass comment?"

"Shut up, still coming off a high here."

He feels the man chuckle, and he was never one for cuddling, in all honesty, but the warmth Desmond's giving off is something he never thought he'd ever be able to feel again in all his time left alone, so perhaps he'll just have to make an exception as he presses his eyes against Desmond's neck, still able to feel the soft skin against his. He's alive again, and everything feels so incredible, and there's no way to know just how much he needed to value his life until now. He lets Desmond hold him, and he feels so utterly exhausted, but there's still so much to do, and so much to make up for, and he just needs to stay awake a while longer, and he can't help it.

"I suppose this is where I say thanks."

"You can if you want."

He snorts. Flaming bags of poop on polka-dotted polar bears, he probably should.

"Then thanks."

"Finally a little calmer?"

He scoffs again.

"Should have known it would take a hand-job to get you to calm down."

"Sedatives also work."

"Yeah, well, I was fresh out. Sorry about that, but I wasn't planning on letting you die of a panic attack on my watch."

He hums, not even in the mood to care and wanting to say something sarcastic, but he still has his thoughts firing at too many per second, not in ones and zeros but in real time pictures and text.

"Happy birthday, Clay."

And he grunts as he feels a kiss on his cheek, inviting sleep and welcoming dreams because they won't be the same as when he died, not with Desmond there, not with Desmond protecting him, not with the shared history and the new-found body heat, not with the feel of cotton against his skin and two callused hands rubbing his sides and tummy and soft breath across the side of his face.

Not with the sensation of touching again.

Not with the sensation of emotions again.

And most certainly not with the sensation of being alive again.

... I'm sorry if I scarred you.