06-28-2018, 10:35 AM
AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT
There was something there in her eyes that made his stomach turn, though he couldn't place it. She looked at him like she was waiting for something, but he couldn't meet her gaze for too long. Instead, he watched dully as she fumbled with the bandana, hid away the truth of the past, and told himself that he didn't care. He wanted to sweep her up and hug her with a vicious burning, to make sure no one came close to touching her like that again, but he didn't care about the marks, the scars. He looked at them and only felt an anger in his throat, a silent threat to kill who ever had done this. But it wasn't his place, and besides -- he was also in the wrong for always touching her all the damn time, for taking her bandana off in the first place. He looked away, finally, head back against the stable door, and breathed out shallowly.
He can hear her breathing, calming herself down, and there's silence for a moment as he waits for her to leave. She doesn't. Her words take him by surprise, and he glanced down at her, taken back. He opened his mouth to say that she didn't, not really, because every time he was near her she kept her distance or got angry with him. But she kept going, and he shut his mouth, staring at her in silence. He didn't know what to say to that, didn't know how to tell her he wasn't sure if he was that boy, either.
Instead, he opted for silence, swallowing against the burn in his throat and the way his head was pounding. Her presence, lingering here, didn't seem to help him at all -- he couldn't feel the calming effect of her aura when she just kept talking and none of it was anything he wanted to hear and he didn't know what to say to her. Hell, there was nothing he could say.
He looked at her when she said Margaery's name, and he knew instantly that she knew. Of course she did. He might have assumed that she would find out eventually, that either Margaery or Suiteheart would tell her, but that didn't make it any less horrible to hear it from her. To be reminded that he was out of line and know that Hazel was going to judge him for it. He might have felt the regret set in and eat him alive if he could feel it, but just then the come-down had him drained and it wasn't the right mix of pills to let him feel anything anyway.
He leaned his head back once more when she seemed finished, half-lidded and over-bright stare locked on her across the cooridor. He breathed out slowly, not sure what to do with the knowledge that she might care, and instead tried to focus on what he could answer to: what the fuck had happened. That much he knew how to put into words, more or less, and he owed it to her, anyway. Owed it to her to explain himself at least, to let her understand, even if it didn't make it any better.
"I'm sorry," he said after a moment, low and raspy, his throat burning with the abuse he'd put it through so soon after Beck's rope dug in. "You didn't do anything. I just..." A pause. "My souls are so unstable. Have been since Starry." Nothing. His throat tightened slightly, but there was no flicker of pain, his apathy coming up like a shield. He breathed out and continued, "I haven't really... struggle with them like this, not since I was young, and--" A pause. He looked across at her, still for a moment. "I've never had a friend before. I didn't know how one-- I didn't know how he was going to react. I wasn't ready to stop it."
He glanced away, then, not wanting to look her in the eye and not wanting to be there just then, his head still spinning slightly with the whiplash of his come-down. But he kept going, voice lowering a little bit, quieter, like he was trying to hide it from himself, maybe. "I... I don't know, Haze. I guess I figured you would be able to talk to Margy in Latin and learn from her and you wouldn't be forced to hang out with me any more." He hadn't entirely convinced himself that they would be friends if not for his ability to speak Latin. She had no other reason to continue to put up with him. He looked back to her for am oment and sighed.
"It's... confusing, because he makes it hard not to focus on that, and I can't tell what I'm feel or what he's making me feel and he's just so angry that sometimes it's all I can feel when I think about losing you." The words felt wrong, too honest, too much like a confession, and he exhaled once more, defeated. "His name is Pollie." Bastille had never actually cared to introduce himself in anything but nicknames, and that seemed to apply to his souls as well.
"It wasn't your fault, I know," he concluded, closing his eyes briefly because his head hurt and his throat hurt and things were spinning very, very slowly once more the longer he sat there. "I can't feel anything any more anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter now."
[align=center]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGSHe can hear her breathing, calming herself down, and there's silence for a moment as he waits for her to leave. She doesn't. Her words take him by surprise, and he glanced down at her, taken back. He opened his mouth to say that she didn't, not really, because every time he was near her she kept her distance or got angry with him. But she kept going, and he shut his mouth, staring at her in silence. He didn't know what to say to that, didn't know how to tell her he wasn't sure if he was that boy, either.
Instead, he opted for silence, swallowing against the burn in his throat and the way his head was pounding. Her presence, lingering here, didn't seem to help him at all -- he couldn't feel the calming effect of her aura when she just kept talking and none of it was anything he wanted to hear and he didn't know what to say to her. Hell, there was nothing he could say.
He looked at her when she said Margaery's name, and he knew instantly that she knew. Of course she did. He might have assumed that she would find out eventually, that either Margaery or Suiteheart would tell her, but that didn't make it any less horrible to hear it from her. To be reminded that he was out of line and know that Hazel was going to judge him for it. He might have felt the regret set in and eat him alive if he could feel it, but just then the come-down had him drained and it wasn't the right mix of pills to let him feel anything anyway.
He leaned his head back once more when she seemed finished, half-lidded and over-bright stare locked on her across the cooridor. He breathed out slowly, not sure what to do with the knowledge that she might care, and instead tried to focus on what he could answer to: what the fuck had happened. That much he knew how to put into words, more or less, and he owed it to her, anyway. Owed it to her to explain himself at least, to let her understand, even if it didn't make it any better.
"I'm sorry," he said after a moment, low and raspy, his throat burning with the abuse he'd put it through so soon after Beck's rope dug in. "You didn't do anything. I just..." A pause. "My souls are so unstable. Have been since Starry." Nothing. His throat tightened slightly, but there was no flicker of pain, his apathy coming up like a shield. He breathed out and continued, "I haven't really... struggle with them like this, not since I was young, and--" A pause. He looked across at her, still for a moment. "I've never had a friend before. I didn't know how one-- I didn't know how he was going to react. I wasn't ready to stop it."
He glanced away, then, not wanting to look her in the eye and not wanting to be there just then, his head still spinning slightly with the whiplash of his come-down. But he kept going, voice lowering a little bit, quieter, like he was trying to hide it from himself, maybe. "I... I don't know, Haze. I guess I figured you would be able to talk to Margy in Latin and learn from her and you wouldn't be forced to hang out with me any more." He hadn't entirely convinced himself that they would be friends if not for his ability to speak Latin. She had no other reason to continue to put up with him. He looked back to her for am oment and sighed.
"It's... confusing, because he makes it hard not to focus on that, and I can't tell what I'm feel or what he's making me feel and he's just so angry that sometimes it's all I can feel when I think about losing you." The words felt wrong, too honest, too much like a confession, and he exhaled once more, defeated. "His name is Pollie." Bastille had never actually cared to introduce himself in anything but nicknames, and that seemed to apply to his souls as well.
"It wasn't your fault, I know," he concluded, closing his eyes briefly because his head hurt and his throat hurt and things were spinning very, very slowly once more the longer he sat there. "I can't feel anything any more anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter now."
Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]