The brush of Roland's hand on the skin of his cheeks is a near-foreign, distant memory. A caress he can't pinpoint as knowing in the present, but it's reminiscent of a time, far from his mind, but not forgotten completely. He doesn't react as he might've once; the guy so dismissive and pouty about embraces, with that fifty-fifty chance of scoffing at Roland's compliments, a ninety percent one of teasing his habits. His gaze far, lost and complex. The hold of his mouth tight but twitching. His senses on the verge of escaping him, waiting on Roland's word. Standing inches taller than him, but feeling as if half his height.
What should I do?
What can I do?
With nothing else before him but the man of another world, Tidus listens; the moment that he speaks, the first word that he says. He listens, not knowing before or during what he'll say. Speaking about that platform, when he nearly faded. The last time they saw each other until the start of the mission. Tidus doesn't meet Roland's eye, but not out of avoidance; he's not thinking about sight, though his eyes continue to stare open somewhere on the other man's chest. Pooling all of his senses into his ears, to listen and decipher. The stabbing pain in his throat growing, to hear-- not his answer, but concern. Care. Roland's feelings on that day, none that he's known about, asked or discussed. What he feared to confront, and kept running from.
I wanted you to stay. To fight it. I didn't want you to go.
So don't. Stay with us. In the here and now.
It runs up his throat, tearing in deep as his eyes water once more.
His breath is heavy, a heaving he keeps low, but that still echoes in his ears with each inhale, every exhale. Funny, that as soon as Roland starts to give his advice, is when the threads keeping him together finally snap and unravel. Tidus hears him by tone than by the words he speaks, the meaning in them. His head bows lower, his mouth crinkled and every other feature of his face, his eyes, nose, chin, brow; his shoulders shaking and small choking sobs trapped between his mouth, fingers digging tight into the palms, folded in tight.
--but, he can't keep it in. His mouth gasps open, and the second the seal breaks, his jaw refuses to budge and close again. He can't quiet the sobs, the small, painful cries that drag out uncomfortably, that strangle out. Trying to hold them back, but failing desperately, and Tidus has choices of what to do next. To leave, to stay--turn away from Roland or to hide away with his misery.
And maybe he would have chosen what he does despite the fact, or maybe, that emotion stirred in him before that sticks with him somehow--maybe that does have some cause. But with the memory of that touch on him--something remembered, something lost--Tidus grabs onto the front of Roland's shirt below the shoulders, twisting the fabric in his hold and gripping on. He leans in only a little in, to hide his head, keeping it bowed low; doesn't stop trying to push back on the losing battle of his tears. But he lets out a long, painful growl, cut short through the cut of his teeth.
no subject
What should I do?
What can I do?
With nothing else before him but the man of another world, Tidus listens; the moment that he speaks, the first word that he says. He listens, not knowing before or during what he'll say. Speaking about that platform, when he nearly faded. The last time they saw each other until the start of the mission. Tidus doesn't meet Roland's eye, but not out of avoidance; he's not thinking about sight, though his eyes continue to stare open somewhere on the other man's chest. Pooling all of his senses into his ears, to listen and decipher. The stabbing pain in his throat growing, to hear-- not his answer, but concern. Care. Roland's feelings on that day, none that he's known about, asked or discussed. What he feared to confront, and kept running from.
I wanted you to stay. To fight it. I didn't want you to go.
So don't. Stay with us. In the here and now.
It runs up his throat, tearing in deep as his eyes water once more.
His breath is heavy, a heaving he keeps low, but that still echoes in his ears with each inhale, every exhale. Funny, that as soon as Roland starts to give his advice, is when the threads keeping him together finally snap and unravel. Tidus hears him by tone than by the words he speaks, the meaning in them. His head bows lower, his mouth crinkled and every other feature of his face, his eyes, nose, chin, brow; his shoulders shaking and small choking sobs trapped between his mouth, fingers digging tight into the palms, folded in tight.
--but, he can't keep it in. His mouth gasps open, and the second the seal breaks, his jaw refuses to budge and close again. He can't quiet the sobs, the small, painful cries that drag out uncomfortably, that strangle out. Trying to hold them back, but failing desperately, and Tidus has choices of what to do next. To leave, to stay--turn away from Roland or to hide away with his misery.
And maybe he would have chosen what he does despite the fact, or maybe, that emotion stirred in him before that sticks with him somehow--maybe that does have some cause. But with the memory of that touch on him--something remembered, something lost--Tidus grabs onto the front of Roland's shirt below the shoulders, twisting the fabric in his hold and gripping on. He leans in only a little in, to hide his head, keeping it bowed low; doesn't stop trying to push back on the losing battle of his tears. But he lets out a long, painful growl, cut short through the cut of his teeth.
'You'll cry. You're gonna cry. You always cry. See? You're cryin'.'
It hurts.
It hurts, and he doesn't want to be alone.
He doesn't want to be alone.