There's still too much blurring behind the half-elf's eyes, and he shivers, feeling the thin, snarled fingers of the emptiness inside his head crawl their last stroke down along his neck before it fades. His lungs still can't keep up with his heart, rattling a staccato of beats in his throat and his ears, pulsing louder than the world around him.
Think about himself? Esteban is nothing but selfish-- wanting so much from the world. Wanting and greedy and so determined, that he always ends up clawing up more than he should from it, holding his treasures close even though he shouldn't. Shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't.
Telling-- well, he'd thought it was already obvious what he was trying to do; but it hadn't actually occurred to him to tell Tidus. And, despite the darkness, the void, the loss that still feels raw across his ribs and down his throat, and inside his thoughts, barely keeping his head above the waves that threaten to swallow him, Esteban knows that it would have changed nothing.
he never has enough time, slipping, crumbling through his fingers, losing far more than he should be holding
"I w'ld've tried 'nyways." Not trying is not an option. Not even if he knew it was useless, because he couldn't bear the thought of 'if'. But, well.
"Sorry." It's still too shallow, not for the dozen thoughts that still haunt him, but Esteban is having a bit of trouble pulling himself together enough to form better, coherent thoughts. His limbs are slowly faltering, and he feels slow, sluggish. "For draggin' you int' this."
And ripping open the wounds of his own loss. They still echo somewhere in Esteban's memories; faces and names he's never seen, never heard, but that he now knows he would give anything to find again. He's only now realizing how many, just how many people have gone missing from the train, vanishing into the nothing that almost pulled Esteban under with its hissing, wailing voices.
no subject
Think about himself? Esteban is nothing but selfish-- wanting so much from the world. Wanting and greedy and so determined, that he always ends up clawing up more than he should from it, holding his treasures close even though he shouldn't. Shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't.
Telling-- well, he'd thought it was already obvious what he was trying to do; but it hadn't actually occurred to him to tell Tidus. And, despite the darkness, the void, the loss that still feels raw across his ribs and down his throat, and inside his thoughts, barely keeping his head above the waves that threaten to swallow him, Esteban knows that it would have changed nothing.
he never has enough time, slipping, crumbling through his fingers, losing far more than he should be holding
"I w'ld've tried 'nyways." Not trying is not an option. Not even if he knew it was useless, because he couldn't bear the thought of 'if'. But, well.
"Sorry." It's still too shallow, not for the dozen thoughts that still haunt him, but Esteban is having a bit of trouble pulling himself together enough to form better, coherent thoughts. His limbs are slowly faltering, and he feels slow, sluggish. "For draggin' you int' this."
And ripping open the wounds of his own loss. They still echo somewhere in Esteban's memories; faces and names he's never seen, never heard, but that he now knows he would give anything to find again. He's only now realizing how many, just how many people have gone missing from the train, vanishing into the nothing that almost pulled Esteban under with its hissing, wailing voices.