The sound of bones cracking as they hit thick concrete walls was the only sound that could possible reslease it's thick, sick vibrations on his mind. Namely because there wasn't very much else his brain could process, taking into account that he was processing absolutely everything, everything from sounds to colours to words that slurred and made so much senseless sense and all played their part in the maddening rythm of his heart at that percise moment.
He could tell he probably screamed, but he knew that her muscles were tearing in places, stretching, her vocal chords dying out in one last pained moan. She was alive, she was alive because her wholebody, her whole body was music, terrible, broken, wonderful music.
Kamio hated it, this specific moment, when he began to see again, and realzied he wasn't going to stop, or that he couldn't, and that the wasn't getting his dose back, and it had been a complete illusion, the past five minutes of incredible bliss and colour.
Kamio's body contracted violently, and he lost his breath. He faintly heard the melody of her gasps matching his for a wonderful, orchestral moment, before he purged whatever was left of his earlier meal mixed in with bile and a searing headache.
It was here, six minutes in, or some, that he began to lose his ability to hear. His sight was being eaten at the sides, clouding black, even though he was sure his eyes were open.
Neruologically so, he was under so deep that his brain rejected every wave of sound and substituted it with this incredibly loud and continuous beeping noise that he only heard in his life when it was absolutely silent.
And Kamio hated every second of it. The night and darkness swallowed him whole and it was merciless and quiet, and made him lurch forward, violently, in repulsion and search, before his body tingled, harshly, all over, and he fell.
Things were cloudy, then. Again, he felt the vibrations, but his brain just made no sense of them. He couldn't control it, like his voluntary synesthesia. Flight wasn't possible with his incredible speed anymore, and little could he do to stop it, only pray that it would end in peace today, so that he would rest, at least for a while, sleeping, disconnected.
Ann knew, though, that Kamio wouldn't sleep. She knew, too, that for a while, he would go back to his violent outbursts and rage fits that usually ended like this, with him on the floor of the court, stubbornly refusing to go home and wasting his body and mind training for no reason until..
She held him, when he was curled up, smiling at him when he began crying loudly, clutching her thighs and hitting her legs, damaging the sides of his hands on the textured concrete wall. Kamio spilled senseless gibberish and apologized profousely, brown hair wild and humid from his training and preceding seizures, head buried between her thighs.
At some point he would climb up and wrap his arms around her neck, shivering, mumbling on about how cold it was, even if the night was hot, and they were in the middle of July. He was taller than she was by a head or two, and even so, with awkward fragility, they would embrace, and Ann would kiss his neck, gently, until he lost consciousness on her shoulder and became heavy and limp.
It was very hard for Ann to keep this from the rest of the team. Kamio forced her to be quiet about it. She decided she would tell the team anyway, and so, keep him actually in the team until he sobered up enough to tell them what was happening himself. Even though he was stubborn, and this was a very unprobable outcome.
It was hard for him, she knew that, hard enough for him to simply never go back to the way he was before. And that if she kept worrying and coming to him like this, her brother would finally understand where the wounds and bruises she got actually came from. Kamio would then be expelled, and she wouldn't be able to see him again.
The sun rose up - it was six am. Ann was hopeful.