It feels like the first drop of a rollercoaster, but...not, like dipping into a deep, deep ocean (from a great, great height), like--like he can't describe it in any way possible. One moment, he's him, in his own head, but next he's sliding sideways into a blur of what makes him up (memories thoughts feelings and part of him wants to fight but another part knows not to), whirlwinded about.

And then there's York. He's still in there, somewhere, but York takes the centre stage, laughter and lines of code and wires and locks, the warmth of a summer stroll and the warmth of Carolina in his-York's-their arms and the warmth of family and the warmth of life. He's warm. There's warmth, and it keeps him frown drowning, but...

But she's there, too. Another presence, despite being dead. Like a part that's missing and ripped away but also clinging on and a flash of red hair and a flash of turquoise and a flash of bright green eyes and she's tempting and distracting and Not York. She's Not York and she has a new set of memories that aren't him, blonde and military fatigues and an older man with a defeated look and seeing York from her eyes and a lighter and a club the music pumping pumping pumping just like with their club but it's her and it's him and it's--it's--

He feels like dancing away with them both. He feels like he's overheating. Don't chase. Don't chase her, don't chase anything about her let her go let her go. (But she's always there. Can't let her go. She feels so real even though she's far and away and gone.)