He's having trouble concentrating.
The air is filled with dust and the floor is coming apart, huge cracks opening wide to provide whatever was below them with an exit. Her head is on his shoulder and he thinks she's coughing blood now, but still- it's hard to think.
Little disjointed thoughts are swimming through his head. Words like titans and gods are bubbling to the surface, connecting to vague memories of the Greek mythology books he used to devour as a kid.
He can't help but grin as he imagines it:
His mother is blinking moodily at her mug of coffee, as her husband stares at the newspaper, pretending to be reading the business section but really looking at comics. A distant rumble shakes her out of her daydream, and she lifts her eyes to peer out the window.
"Dear," she says after a lengthy pause. "I do believe there is a giant breathing fire on our neighbors."
The laugh that forces its way out hurts- are his ribs broken, too? Hell, not that it matters.
She looks up at him with a little frown, as if somehow it's inappropriate to be laughing during the apocalypse. He gives her hand a squeeze (and isn't that funny, when did they start holding hands?), and she settles back against his shoulder, waiting.
Another chunk of concrete falls from the ceiling and he can hear things moving. Now he's finding that he can concentrate and wishes he couldn't, because all he can think about his how his parents are doing.
Wonder what they'd say if they knew their only son was selfish enough to not die for the sake of humanity? He knows that they're not the forgiving sort, but he's kind of hoping for it anyway.
A guy can dream, right?