[The moment the other man broken, he couldn't help but glance away, his own vision blurring. Hearing that pain, so familiar, a constant weight on his heart, coming from a voice that was simultaneously his own but also separated from his physicality, was so strange. But the disconnect didn't make it any easier. It was still so fresh, such a recent, raw emotional wound that it didn't take much for him to break down in much the same way; the smell of cigarette smoke as someone walked by with a lit stick hanging out of their mouth, the sound of someone speaking with an accent just similar enough that for a moment it fooled his brain into thinking he was standing nearby, the clap of church bells at noon.
For all the weirdness of feeling his own mind mirrored back at him, there was something reassuring about it. He really didn't know how or why, but there was no mistaking who was in front of him, now. At the same time, there was a moment when his own mental thought-answer almost coalesced in reply before he blinked, giving a soft, bewildered laugh under his breath. Doing so, however, reminded himself of the girls' horrified reactions, wondering how he could smile with blood pouring down his head, chased from town on the threat of an actual stoning, and his realization that somewhere along the way, he'd started having trouble recognizing what an appropriate emotional response to the things that were happening actually was. He tried to quash the humorless smile on his face, and was mostly successful.]
Who am I, or who did we bury? [Truth be told, both were valid questions right now. How in the Hell is he standing here, having a conversation with himself in the flesh from months past? And also, pretending not to know who they had laid to rest behind the orphanage, if only to get confirmation that the person in front of him actually knew and wasn't an imposter, wasn't an entirely terrible idea, now that it occurred to him.] I'm not one of Emilio's puppets, at least. I really don't know what's happening, but I promise, I'm not a lie.
[The next thought-voice had lost all tones of amusement when he continued, grim and quiet and undeniably sad.]
We buried Wolfwood. Out between the buildings, by the play-yard. He doesn't ever have to leave, now, he's...home. [He reached up and rubbed at his sternum, at the physical ache in his heart, shifted to press the well-loved lighter he now kept in his breast pocket just a little closer to his chest. His own vision was well beyond clarity at this point, too. And, because it was something only they would know, only they had been around to see, undeniable proof of who he was, he added.] It hurt too much the leave him at first, so we sat with him in the grave until he'd gone cold.
[He didn't sob, but he couldn't stop the way his lip trembled, or the tears that now rolled unabated down his face. When he spoke again, it was physically, suddenly feeling too vulnerable to keep a full connection, despite keeping his mind open to the other, in case he still needed the non-verbal avenue open to continue the conversation.]
I really was just coming by to check on him, before...I don't know. Disappearing for a while, I guess, until things calmed down again. Just in case I couldn't visit him again for a while. I'm not sure what's happening. I was just walking, and I heard our sisters crying out just now, and then you were running toward me.
no subject
For all the weirdness of feeling his own mind mirrored back at him, there was something reassuring about it. He really didn't know how or why, but there was no mistaking who was in front of him, now. At the same time, there was a moment when his own mental thought-answer almost coalesced in reply before he blinked, giving a soft, bewildered laugh under his breath. Doing so, however, reminded himself of the girls' horrified reactions, wondering how he could smile with blood pouring down his head, chased from town on the threat of an actual stoning, and his realization that somewhere along the way, he'd started having trouble recognizing what an appropriate emotional response to the things that were happening actually was. He tried to quash the humorless smile on his face, and was mostly successful.]
Who am I, or who did we bury? [Truth be told, both were valid questions right now. How in the Hell is he standing here, having a conversation with himself in the flesh from months past? And also, pretending not to know who they had laid to rest behind the orphanage, if only to get confirmation that the person in front of him actually knew and wasn't an imposter, wasn't an entirely terrible idea, now that it occurred to him.] I'm not one of Emilio's puppets, at least. I really don't know what's happening, but I promise, I'm not a lie.
[The next thought-voice had lost all tones of amusement when he continued, grim and quiet and undeniably sad.]
We buried Wolfwood. Out between the buildings, by the play-yard. He doesn't ever have to leave, now, he's...home. [He reached up and rubbed at his sternum, at the physical ache in his heart, shifted to press the well-loved lighter he now kept in his breast pocket just a little closer to his chest. His own vision was well beyond clarity at this point, too. And, because it was something only they would know, only they had been around to see, undeniable proof of who he was, he added.] It hurt too much the leave him at first, so we sat with him in the grave until he'd gone cold.
[He didn't sob, but he couldn't stop the way his lip trembled, or the tears that now rolled unabated down his face. When he spoke again, it was physically, suddenly feeling too vulnerable to keep a full connection, despite keeping his mind open to the other, in case he still needed the non-verbal avenue open to continue the conversation.]
I really was just coming by to check on him, before...I don't know. Disappearing for a while, I guess, until things calmed down again. Just in case I couldn't visit him again for a while. I'm not sure what's happening. I was just walking, and I heard our sisters crying out just now, and then you were running toward me.