[Shinjiro feels increasingly restless, as the date approaches closer. Everything's been coming to a head, of late. The labyrinth driving home a point he's avoided confronting directly -- the aftermath of his death. It was as the older man had said, all those months ago. There were ripples, pain that branched out. And they all had to live with another lie, too, because deaths during the Dark Hour aren't allowed to stand as they were.
It's a strange feeling, to be coming upon this day again, nearly a full year past the point he expected to be done and finished, and staring down the prospect of maybe even seeing another one. He'll be twenty, next year. Officially an adult, for how little that meant here. It's not as oppressive a prospect as it once was, though, and he's not sure how he feels about that. There are little snatches of contentment that reach him, now and again -- days when he walks Koromaru, bickers with Aki, cooks for Flat when he comes by, and doesn't think about an alley with a crushed roof and a crushed woman inside and a boy whose future was crushed alongside it -- and whenever he becomes aware of them it feels like a live wire of electricity all through his body, like a fresh gunshot stealing the breath out of his lungs. There's a certain numbness that comes of constant pain; once you remember what it's like to experience a few moments without it, the suffering is all the more intense when it returns.
He wakes, on the morning of the 4th, and it's a day like any other day. There will be another tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that, because there's no definite ending for him, not any longer. He's not sure if changing that is what he needs anymore, either -- conversations he's put off not entirely of his own choosing, what with the barrage of nonsense this place throws at them, but longer than he should have. Fear of living, perhaps -- or maybe fear of what it would mean, to give himself a chance to. To actually want it.
He wanders aimlessly around the streets of Stellari, unsure what kind of destination wouldn't feel like the equivalent of nails on chalkboard, today, but ultimately ... he finds himself at a certain beach. It's just past sunset, orange and purple hues staining the sky as the sun dips below the horizon, faded away with the coming of night.
He sits quietly in the sand, breeze cool against his face, the ebb and flow of the waves like a metronome to measure his own heartbeats. He can't decide if he resents them, tonight.]
[ the beach is a place dolph comes back to. perhaps it's a cruel thing to do, to attach a beach to his house. the beach which was the culmination of his dream with alex. his future. but now those feelings have faded, vestiges of what they once were. now, he just gets to feel the breeze and the salt and feel . . . alive.
so he comes back to it often. to keep the dream alive or just to remind himself that some dreams don't need to be torn up completely. it is a surprise to see shinji there. without calling or notice. shinji is always so careful about those things. ]
[Perhaps all the more tellingly, he doesn't react until Laserhawk actually speaks. He turns his head to acknowledge the older man briefly before it turns back to the sea.]
Hey.
[The quiet lingers a moment too long before he tries speaking again.]
How're married sunsets? All those sappy songs onto somethin'?
[An acknowledging nod, though that's all at first. He does know he can be allowed to just quietly exist in peace here. Perhaps on some level, that's why he came.
But after a little while, he does speak up.]
...It's the anniversary. Of her death. [...] Mine, too, I guess, though it ain't quite been a year yet.
[ ah. no wonder he's out of sorts. dolph looks out into the waves. anniversaries huh? he's never been good at dates. he doesn't know what day alex died. what day he died. and perhaps that's for the best, but it seems mournful too. ]
[Laserhawk hits the nail squarely on the head, as he often does. Sometimes Shinjiro can't decide if it's comforting or disquieting.]
I'm. Wakin' up tomorrow. And that doesn't piss me off as bad as it used to. ...But the fact it doesn't kinda pisses me off on its own.
[Being alive is not your crime, the other man had said, and yet it still feels like getting away with something. Just sitting here, talking about it with someone who cares about him feels like an excessive liberty.]
I dunno. There bein' an 'everything' to get in the way of in the first place is kinda the whole problem.
[Perhaps that's hard to explain to someone who was never the architect of his own suffering, though. For whom every joy is a miracle and not an indulgence, sins on top of sins, as it were.]
[I know hits him hard, almost surprising. Sometimes he thinks the older man couldn't, with how much of his experience here is marked with joys and opportunities he could've never had in Eden. But he's only really seen the ghost of this man's pain once. He has no idea what it was like for him before he became engaged, before he owned a beloved club that was a cornerstone to the community. The journey it took to get there.
He pulls his knees closer to his chest, as though he could bury himself in them and disappear.]
I don't know how to do this.
[How to forgive himself for living, for being able to forget even for a moment.]
[He doesn't jerk away from the touch like he might have, before the Labyrinth. Instead he lets it be, allowing the warmth to seep into his bones. He doesn't deserve it, is the thing. Everything he has is built on ashes and blood. Hers, his own...
The more he sits around, letting the world keep turning, allowing himself to live, the more he'll lose sight of that.
Idly, he starts to draw a pattern in the sand with a finger, not looking up at his friend.]
...You know. Someday, I might not even feel so much like shit for being okay now and then. I think I'd really fuckin' hate that guy.
[But the longer he lives, the closer he becomes to being that guy.]
[ anniversaries and all that. strange to dolph to mark days like that. every day here feels transient, like he's holding onto his guts one minute or he's just . . . being alive. crazy to just be alive after everything. ]
[Even if it's still hard to internalize, to let himself listen to.
Speaking of passes, though -- he's quiet, a long moment, staring out at the waves as the last vestiges of daylight continue to fade. The lines of tension have eased out from his frame, but there's still a storm lingering behind his eyes, somewhere. When he speaks next, there's a thread of vulnerability he doesn't usually allow.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oct 4th; cws for death, grief, ptsd, suicidal ideation throughout
It's a strange feeling, to be coming upon this day again, nearly a full year past the point he expected to be done and finished, and staring down the prospect of maybe even seeing another one. He'll be twenty, next year. Officially an adult, for how little that meant here. It's not as oppressive a prospect as it once was, though, and he's not sure how he feels about that. There are little snatches of contentment that reach him, now and again -- days when he walks Koromaru, bickers with Aki, cooks for Flat when he comes by, and doesn't think about an alley with a crushed roof and a crushed woman inside and a boy whose future was crushed alongside it -- and whenever he becomes aware of them it feels like a live wire of electricity all through his body, like a fresh gunshot stealing the breath out of his lungs. There's a certain numbness that comes of constant pain; once you remember what it's like to experience a few moments without it, the suffering is all the more intense when it returns.
He wakes, on the morning of the 4th, and it's a day like any other day. There will be another tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that, because there's no definite ending for him, not any longer. He's not sure if changing that is what he needs anymore, either -- conversations he's put off not entirely of his own choosing, what with the barrage of nonsense this place throws at them, but longer than he should have. Fear of living, perhaps -- or maybe fear of what it would mean, to give himself a chance to. To actually want it.
He wanders aimlessly around the streets of Stellari, unsure what kind of destination wouldn't feel like the equivalent of nails on chalkboard, today, but ultimately ... he finds himself at a certain beach. It's just past sunset, orange and purple hues staining the sky as the sun dips below the horizon, faded away with the coming of night.
He sits quietly in the sand, breeze cool against his face, the ebb and flow of the waves like a metronome to measure his own heartbeats. He can't decide if he resents them, tonight.]
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so he comes back to it often. to keep the dream alive or just to remind himself that some dreams don't need to be torn up completely. it is a surprise to see shinji there. without calling or notice. shinji is always so careful about those things. ]
Hey.
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Hey.
[The quiet lingers a moment too long before he tries speaking again.]
How're married sunsets? All those sappy songs onto somethin'?
[The levity in his voice is -- strained, though.]
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Maybe, a little. It's not all roses, considering where we are. But it's something. Small piece of happiness can go a long way. And it's ours.
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[Easier said than done, of course. Especially on a night like tonight.]
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[ dolph glances at shinji. ]
But you're not here to talk about my love life.
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...Wasn't really sure where I was goin', honestly.
[It's not that he'd come with the intention of talking. If Laserhawk hadn't come out to the beach, he'd probably have gone home eventually.]
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But if you got something stuck inside, I'm listening.
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[An acknowledging nod, though that's all at first. He does know he can be allowed to just quietly exist in peace here. Perhaps on some level, that's why he came.
But after a little while, he does speak up.]
...It's the anniversary. Of her death. [...] Mine, too, I guess, though it ain't quite been a year yet.
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Feels like walking over the grave?
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[Laserhawk hits the nail squarely on the head, as he often does. Sometimes Shinjiro can't decide if it's comforting or disquieting.]
I'm. Wakin' up tomorrow. And that doesn't piss me off as bad as it used to. ...But the fact it doesn't kinda pisses me off on its own.
[Being alive is not your crime, the other man had said, and yet it still feels like getting away with something. Just sitting here, talking about it with someone who cares about him feels like an excessive liberty.]
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Nothing wrong with being pissed off. Just don't let it get in the way of everything else.
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[Perhaps that's hard to explain to someone who was never the architect of his own suffering, though. For whom every joy is a miracle and not an indulgence, sins on top of sins, as it were.]
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You can feel like shit. Just don't act like it's the only thing you're allowed to be.
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...It feels wrong to be okay.
[Like a betrayal of something fundamental, a throwing away of everything that matters. Or perhaps -- a waste of past sacrifices.]
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But. It's not.
It's not.
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He pulls his knees closer to his chest, as though he could bury himself in them and disappear.]
I don't know how to do this.
[How to forgive himself for living, for being able to forget even for a moment.]
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No one knows. No one fucking knows anything.
But we just keep doing. World keeps turning. What else is there?
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The more he sits around, letting the world keep turning, allowing himself to live, the more he'll lose sight of that.
Idly, he starts to draw a pattern in the sand with a finger, not looking up at his friend.]
...You know. Someday, I might not even feel so much like shit for being okay now and then. I think I'd really fuckin' hate that guy.
[But the longer he lives, the closer he becomes to being that guy.]
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Some real roundabout logic there.
He's still you. He's always been you.
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That works out, then. Hate him, too.
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[ anniversaries and all that. strange to dolph to mark days like that. every day here feels transient, like he's holding onto his guts one minute or he's just . . . being alive. crazy to just be alive after everything. ]
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Perhaps it's that which has him lean into the hand on his shoulder, just a little.]
Can't say I won't hate him tomorrow, either.
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You got the point. Don't make me repeat myself.
wrap?
[Even if it's still hard to internalize, to let himself listen to.
Speaking of passes, though -- he's quiet, a long moment, staring out at the waves as the last vestiges of daylight continue to fade. The lines of tension have eased out from his frame, but there's still a storm lingering behind his eyes, somewhere. When he speaks next, there's a thread of vulnerability he doesn't usually allow.]
Sit with me a while longer?
sounds good!