Because he has nothing again. No anger, but not left numb like before. That uncertainty, no longer seeing two steps ahead of him to keep him going, let alone the future. And he never thought about the future, hoped for it, because what did a guy like him have to think about it? -- but at least there was a way. A goal. A drive.
But Roland speaks, and there's nothing for him to grab onto. His arms freed and Roland's own passions receding, but still he continues to stand straight and sure. A man. There's nothing Tidus can beat into him about what he deserves, who he truly is. Roland won't listen. He won't hate him. And even if he would--it hurts. It hurts too much.
It hurts so much.
His arms hang at his sides, staring through Roland, at the nothing beyond. Everything else about the world and why he came here, what he was about to do just minutes ago, outside his peripheral.
He sees nothing but black.
"...what should I do?" He's at the platform again, clearly seeing what he's doing. But now this time, for no other reason than the end result. Tidus knows without looking where his SCA sits on his wrist, but knows too-- how useless it would be, to do anything with it. That had always been the key detail before, when he and Zanarkand disappeared: They both were. It wasn't one or the other. He wasn't even sure half of the time if there still even was a Zanarkand--it was easier, for the few minutes he could lie to himself, and pretend there wasn't.
The tears continue by the few to creep into his eyes, to be blinked away; his voice struggling its volume, to hold it together, to not break.
no subject
Because he has nothing again. No anger, but not left numb like before. That uncertainty, no longer seeing two steps ahead of him to keep him going, let alone the future. And he never thought about the future, hoped for it, because what did a guy like him have to think about it? -- but at least there was a way. A goal. A drive.
But Roland speaks, and there's nothing for him to grab onto. His arms freed and Roland's own passions receding, but still he continues to stand straight and sure. A man. There's nothing Tidus can beat into him about what he deserves, who he truly is. Roland won't listen. He won't hate him. And even if he would--it hurts. It hurts too much.
It hurts so much.
His arms hang at his sides, staring through Roland, at the nothing beyond. Everything else about the world and why he came here, what he was about to do just minutes ago, outside his peripheral.
He sees nothing but black.
"...what should I do?" He's at the platform again, clearly seeing what he's doing. But now this time, for no other reason than the end result. Tidus knows without looking where his SCA sits on his wrist, but knows too-- how useless it would be, to do anything with it. That had always been the key detail before, when he and Zanarkand disappeared: They both were. It wasn't one or the other. He wasn't even sure half of the time if there still even was a Zanarkand--it was easier, for the few minutes he could lie to himself, and pretend there wasn't.
The tears continue by the few to creep into his eyes, to be blinked away; his voice struggling its volume, to hold it together, to not break.
"I don't deserve a second life."
Deserve, willingly or unwillingly.