There's a distance that Tidus can't get himself to close. No matter the embraces he's experienced (thanks to Inigo), becoming more used to giving it as a means of comfort, he can't reach out for it now. Not with Roland; and it doesn't cross his mind, since when did he have anyone older like that in his life? It was no dig at Auron--for their differences, the ways they didn't always meet, he was a guy Tidus would look back on with respect. With fondness. Someone he might think of as family, even already did. They had their relationship, and it was a memory he'd always keep close to him. Auron was Auron, and he'd miss the guy. The grump.
But life was what it was, and so--for whatever part of him that clings, wanting to know he isn't alone, to have his feelings reciprocated, acknowledged; he doesn't envision a how. He just cries, torn between expressing vulnerability and still trying to keep it down, turning his crying more ragged than it needs to be. But then the arms come about him, the one to cradle his head, and it takes little time. Little effort for him to press in his head, little thought to take an arm and to wrap it around Roland's back, a motion similarly done to him. To keep him there, like he might go; to keep himself from being exposed, to keep this between them.
He lets go, not for the first time--but the first time letting anyone else in.
What a scene, surrounded by corpses of their own making, crying over guilt of a dead. And there's truths that Tidus wants to admit, to say then, to make clear: That it hurts, to think that he ruined all their lives, that there exists a What if. That he never wanted this damn responsibility in the first place-- and was he weak? Did he give in? Just like his old man did and Braska, and all the other summoners. 'Cause they found another way, but what if?
But it's easier to cry, to express it that way. Unable to give Roland answers, assurances--assurance he doesn't even have anyway, even though all he asks isn't to go. To have any answer at all is too much. He doesn't know. But Tidus tries to talk once, a sobbing mess, hiccupping, tripping over his own words--
"Wh-ha' if-- I c-coulda save 'em?"
But if Roland doesn't understand, it's no surprise. And it might be enough just to say it, not really expecting an answer when he can hardly decipher himself.
no subject
But life was what it was, and so--for whatever part of him that clings, wanting to know he isn't alone, to have his feelings reciprocated, acknowledged; he doesn't envision a how. He just cries, torn between expressing vulnerability and still trying to keep it down, turning his crying more ragged than it needs to be. But then the arms come about him, the one to cradle his head, and it takes little time. Little effort for him to press in his head, little thought to take an arm and to wrap it around Roland's back, a motion similarly done to him. To keep him there, like he might go; to keep himself from being exposed, to keep this between them.
He lets go, not for the first time--but the first time letting anyone else in.
What a scene, surrounded by corpses of their own making, crying over guilt of a dead. And there's truths that Tidus wants to admit, to say then, to make clear: That it hurts, to think that he ruined all their lives, that there exists a What if. That he never wanted this damn responsibility in the first place-- and was he weak? Did he give in? Just like his old man did and Braska, and all the other summoners. 'Cause they found another way, but what if?
But it's easier to cry, to express it that way. Unable to give Roland answers, assurances--assurance he doesn't even have anyway, even though all he asks isn't to go. To have any answer at all is too much. He doesn't know. But Tidus tries to talk once, a sobbing mess, hiccupping, tripping over his own words--
"Wh-ha' if-- I c-coulda save 'em?"
But if Roland doesn't understand, it's no surprise. And it might be enough just to say it, not really expecting an answer when he can hardly decipher himself.