icarusalsoflew | 003. and in every raindrop... // open post.

[ Whenever he looked at you -- in the past, before this very moment, since that very first time his heart had realized before the rest of him caught up that he'd begun to look for you, worry how you were and everything else that comes when the fall takes you down, down, down -- he had to deliberately turn his eyes from the clock above your head, because every fluctuation, every dip and year or decade lost had clawed at him.

You two would never have enough time, is the thing he could never wholly, truly admit out loud. You two would be lucky to have five years together, maybe a generous ten -- but not the twenty in the illusion offered by the Dark Hour: the children he'd wanted to raise with you ( Lyle Shinta-Brennan, with your eyes and the smile he shares with Cindy, who you'd both agreed would be Jessiah Vice's godson because wasn't it Vice Technologies that helped make him possible? ) or the years spend hand in hand on the battlefield and off, always coming home to whatever safe space either of you carved out for yourselves; a home in the West District of Falner, among family and friends.

He had been reluctant to admit it out loud, that he'd wanted so much, because even selfishness had it's limits ( here and now, he'd said at some point or another, live in the moment, take it as it comes -- what a goddamned lie ) even if all he could ever want in the world was to stay by your side for longer than a mortal lifespan; to wake up and see your face in peaceful repose as the sunlight crept past the curtains, warming the wooden floor.

What else is there to admit? Plenty, as far as he's concerned. He'd buried his feelings away, shut them tight in a box all the what-ifs, all the possibilities held out in the open hand of something beyond him. The desire for more, for everything he could ever want because wanting shouldn't be wrong it just is.

In those moments when the blade of Liliana Panilio-Frostholm's hungry ghost had them all caged in that little glade, he had lifted his eyes and thought: I don't want this. I don't want to walk out of this with one less thing. So when the static came to fill his mind and the voices that had shared his headspace had been silenced in favor of an echo of his own -- he said 'yes', soldiering on, believing that he was right--

--headstrong and stubborn shunting aside everything else.

He's crossing to you as quick as his feet can take him, dropping to his knees; hands reaching for yours.

There are no words he can say to make any of this better. He was wrong, he is sorry, he was selfish and what's done is done. ]

[ Usually, the smell of you and the precise way that your presence fills the air whenever you're in the room never failed to anchor him. He's almost constantly victimized by the sharpness of his own sense, and the unique urges of his own body. Attuning himself, then, to the people who cared for the most gave him a reference point, a constant variable that he could always rely on no matter how insane things got.

At this moment, however, catching your scent and feeling you up close hurts, because he can't stop his brain from zooming right back towards how it felt for him to hold your corpse in his hands, to know that you were heavy and dead in his arms and it was all his fault. (What if it hadn't worked? What if he had truly killed you? What if, what if, what if--)

But he ought to try and be strong for you, shouldn't he? He's not the one who died out there. He's not the one who suddenly finds himself bereft of a companion who has walked with him and protected him for years, never mind that he's a geist. ~~And don't think about Makoto, just don't.~~ He ought not to be the weak one, not when there's so much at stake and not when he's sure that you need him. ~~Whatever he's worth, given the fucking freak that he is.~~ ]

S... sorry. [ He swallows the sobs, tries to beat them back. IT doesn't quite work. ] Sorry, I-I should stop.

[ And he's pulling back, shrinking in on himself, and trying rather vehemently to wipe the tears from his face and will himself to stop crying. ]

[ He knows that the initial grip of his fingers as they catch near-frantic on your wrists is hard, so he softens his touch so it doesn't bruise ( your hands are small, your fingers fine and delicate, nevermind that they belie a strength comparable to a god's. ]

Babe, [ that's choked out ] Hikaru don't-- [ Don't apologize, please. Don't pull away, or hide behind a mask of composure. ]

I'm sorry.

[ One hand lifting now, cupping your cheek and drawing your gaze back his way. He can feel the tears falling, trickling down because the sight of you like this brings back not only memories of the nightmares that had plagued you out there, in the Bone Hills, but his own recollections of your history.

( Don't think of Coach just yet, Josh. Of the Bargain you broke in a bid to reach for something more. Don't think of Makoto and the keys the geist -- your friend had gathered with each victory in Arcadia; that wish for something else whatever it could have been because you cut the rope without thinking, dropping him back down into the Underworld. ) ]

This was on me.

[ Please. Let him own it. Let him own the selfishness that's brought you pain. It's the least that he could do. ]

I'm sorry. [ His voice is so soft now. ] I'm so sorry, love.

Edited 2015-07-14 14:35 (UTC)

[ Because of that, you'll end up seeing how haunted he looks the moment those eyes turn up towards yours, just as much as you'll be able to feel the way he's trembling. The anguish, stress and grief are all hitting him at once now, long after the fact. ]

But I could have fucked up. I could have --

[ He could have killed you. The thought alone is enough to send another fresh wave of pain through him, rendering him incapable of finishing what he started to say.

(And he is honest to Elaine upset that you did that, and it isn't because of what you pushed him to do since that's just what he'd do for anybody who mattered to him. It's because there could have been another way. Things could have still worked out without any of this. You didn't have to be so reckless. ~~He has to believe that.~~) ]

[ And perhaps he hasn't had enough time to truly interrogate the reasons why he'd all but leapt at the chance to save Anya, his eyes falling on the profile of one Yulia Bostova only to remember the last time they ( the Hounds ) had faced a force stronger than themselves.

They couldn't call for you out there. You would have cut Liana down, the choice of the matter taken out of your hands because some things, some people -- they stay dead once their time is done.

He lets your wrist go in favor of framing your face with his hands, the look in your eyes another shot to the heart with your words following in the wake of it all. ]

You didn't. [ He doesn't know exactly what you did, but you've broken the rules before, and it rakes over his heart, the knowledge that there's a cost for his actions and that it once more fell to you.

He tugs you toward him, a gentle guiding to bring you closer; bridge the gap between you both. ] You didn't.

[ You must understand, love, that he's at war with himself. It's instinctual for him to follow you: every cell in his body is screaming for him to do it, to just throw caution and care to the wind and give over. But his is the will of somebody who's been conditioned for too long to swallow the broken pieces of his own heart in favor of the people who matter to him the most. To never reveal what he's truly thinking, to shore up, soldier on, and deal with his own emotions well-hidden from view.

As such, it's almost like he's hanging between one place and the next: where he is seated and still within the minimum amount of distance he needs to safely retreat from you, and where he'll be able to collapse in your arms and know that ultimately, terrible as things are, he'll be safe.

If for anything, though, he hasn't started moving away yet, nor is he stopping you from getting closer. ]

[ He'll push up from the floor at that, weight on his legs and one hand falling to grasp fingers on the back of your chair as he presses near, forehead coming to rest against yours as he unapologetically wraps his arms around your shoulders. ]

I'm sorry, [ his voice breaks as the pitch softens to barely above a whisper, as if any louder might shatter him from the inside out. ] I'm so sorry.

[ He doesn't really know what to do. He only knows that he feels more exhausted than he thought he could ever be, the facts all lining up like little lead weights over his heart.

He's dropping his head to your shoulder, face pressed into the fabric of your clothes and fingers fisting ovee what they can gather up against his palm. ]

[ He hangs on that moment a little longer before he finally lets himself wrap his own arms around you. ]

I don't know what I'll do now, if you're gone.

[ He's never, ever been good at losing people. He could live a thousand years more, and it'll still hurt. ]

[ There's a breath that leaves him when he feels your body give into his embrace. ]

I'm here. [ Those words should not taste like ash in his mouth, but they do. This could have gone down better, had he given himself time to think, to wait, to consider. But what's done is done. He needs to think firmly in the present for now. ] I'm not going anywhere.

[ He'll need to speak to the others... but that can wait. He's going to push all thoughts of this campaign to the side for the moment because the world needs to stop spinning first. ]

[ You say that, and he knows that you mean it. He also knows, however, that regardless of who you are, what you're like, and how hard you try, you're still just one man. There are forces beyond you and him that neither of you can control completely.

You might truly intend to stand by him for as long as you can, but he could still lose you in a blink of an eye. (He could still lose himself, and end up destroying you in the process.)

So he's further reduced to tears just touching upon such thoughts, such ugly feelings. He clings tight to you, tighter than he ever has before, because truly: nothing has actually ever gotten better or slowed down in the least for him for years, and he is, indeed, starting to split apart at the seams. This has just sped up the process. ]

[ And he curls around you just as tight, the backs of his eyes hot and his heart aching because this is not how he had thought it would all go down. His head's a mess but he walked into this with his eyes open and his thoughts on one thing: that he wanted to do what he could, as selfish and as arrogant as that sounds, given that no one had ever put the world on his shoulders.

He'll hold you tight, hold you close, hold you even when you're falling apart. It's the least he could do, honestly, given the stress he's caused you from this whole ordeal. ]

Edited 2015-07-19 12:45 (UTC)

003. and in every raindrop... // open post.

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