(no subject)

[exanimatus]

[Private;]

[it's stupid. the whole thing is just stupid. he's woken up himself again, left the castle since he has no reason to stay there--not with everyone so fresh and so willing to bother him about it. he doesn't see the point of it. perhaps Rin had a childhood, perhaps Legato had a reason for being who he is, but his childhood? meaningless. he doesn't even remember it. there is no reason for the powers-that-be to go around drudging up a past that doesn't exist.

as if it could change him now--that him is dead. that him was never alive.

and now he's going to have to see it in their smug faces. disgusting.

but that's all it is--disgusting. worthless. trash. but not violating, not the same kind feeling as all of the other times (most of the other times). as he jumps across rooftops, towards his destination, it doesn't feel like something's reached in and wrenched out an ugly part of himself and shoved it back inside. this is just... obnoxious.

and that bothers him more than it should.

he gets to his grounds, walks through, barely notices whether or not anything has changed. he's too wrapped up in himself, wondering why things are like they are. is he getting used to it? is that it?

used to the idea of being a puppet? that's what it would mean to accept this fact as truth. but he can't think of another explanation for it, and that really unnerves him, because that isn't him. that's not the him that first came here, that's not the him that he wants to be. he doesn't want to change. he wants to be himself, and only himself.

but now that he looks at it, it's so obvious, and on his way to his room he's struck with a sudden (but understandable) want to be doing and thinking about something else. anything else.

so he calls out for Asuka.

...

no answer.

not unusual, but in the period between shouting and waiting for a reply, the silence creeps in around him and gets heavier and now that he thinks about it, something's not right. a quick look, a glance around with his senses tells him she isn't even in the mansion.

and that starts a spark of something that grows in his mind and his heart until he moves down the hall to where her room would be (she always likes to stay close, even with hundreds of rooms at her disposal). opening the door, all of her things are gone. the room is empty, like she'd never been there.

she wouldn't have moved back to the castle. no one would have just taken her stuff. she wasn't in the castle. she isn't here. there's only one other place she could be, and he can't feel her if she's there, but she would have said something, so he moves back to his room and shoves things out of the way to find his journal and flips through the pages, but it's pointless because a part of him knows he won't find anything there because no one would there's no reason what could have made her why didn't she come find him when he was a child?

nothing. there's nothing to find, no explanation. not from her, not from anyone.

which means she's gone.




and he stands there, staring at the cover of the journal he only vaguely remembers closing. he can't hear anything. he isn't looking at anything. he isn't thinking anything. it's just fact.

it's just what it is. didn't they know this would happen?

and for a brief moment, he's okay.

it's better this way.

sooner or later.

pointless.

right?

they knew. they knew, they knew, they knew. he told himself every single day. he would think about it every time he saw her. he's spent years bracing himself for the inevitable. and now that it's come, well... wasn't he expecting it? he'd planned her funeral a thousand times, so now all that's left to do is throw his handful of dirt and leave some flowers. right?

so he should probably say something. because that's what people do. and no one else is going to say anything, because no one else was around her like he was and no one else is going to care and no one else will throw their dirt and she's gone back to the world where she's going to sit and rot and die and it's not fair.

CRASH.

he screams, something unintelligible, animalistic. things break, things fall off the shelves, things are scorched and torn and absolutely none of it helps. she's gone, she's gone, she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone--

and it's all its fault.

eventually he stops, either because there's nothing left to break or because he realizes that none of it is making him feel better or because he's shaking horribly and his chest hurts and he wants to hurt something so badly, make it feel even a tenth of what he's feeling, make everyone understand just how absolutely wretched everything is.

make them understand how it's all a... joke.

a joke.

it's funny.

...that's right.

he would know, wouldn't he? in that room... he would know. he understands.

and with that thought, a horrible sort of silence settles over him. he's nearly delirious with rage, and it can't be contained with action. it doesn't matter how much he breaks, how many lives he snuffs out, or how long he waits. it won't subside, because it's been there all along. he had something here--tricks, reasons, exceptions. he had outs, he had ways to trick himself, he had reasons not to live like he's only waiting to die.

but now that's all gone. now there is literally nothing to distinguish this world from his own, and no reason to live any differently. and now, in a way that is both jarringly sharp and sickeningly exciting, he realizes that he has absolutely no reason to play nice anymore.

it's going to consume him. he can feel everything crashing, his thoughts a confused stammer as loss battles with potential battles with hatred battles with the pounding of drums and he knows that he has to leave. he has to think. he has to stop feeling.

but before he turns to leave, Zelman does open the journal again. he doesn't tell anyone. someone else can notice, if anyone will. but there's one person who deserves to hear--one person he can share this with. one person who would understand.

one person who will say what he needs to hear.]



[Legato;]

[at first there is only inaudible, tense silence. he doesn't breathe, doesn't move. eventually, though, he speaks--voice quiet.]

Well.

I'm invincible now.



[and he closes the journal.]