[He could sense when his reply began broaching into territory the man in front of him hadn't lived yet, the combination of horror and resignation enough to make it clear that he had misjudged the situation, just a bit. That, and the uncomfortable grin on the others' face, were enough to make him feel like he'd been dunked in ice water.
He was about to ask where he had come from, if he had yet to bury him but, if the streaks of his hair were anything to judge by, had definitely been there when he died. But then he spoke before the question could coalesce itself into words, and it made at least some sort of sense.
It was both strange and at the same time a comfort when the other began communicating the way he did with their sisters, like some kind of DNA-deep instinct that he so rarely got to act on, something that was coded into the structure of his bones. Words were more difficult, words could be misconstrued and twisted and misunderstood, forgotten. The way their sisters communicated was the feeling of simply being known, understood, accepted. He couldn't help but reply in kind, even after he'd pulled back on his own just moments earlier.
The Ark had left, taking their sisters with it, there had been no calls for help in December. It had been in Octovern, he had connected with them, given them their choice, left it up to them, and they had reached out, called out, abandoned Knives' mission of death and destruction and reached out in turn to humanity in a shower of gleaming feathers. That had been where the call had come from, only...this time it had been different. Something had changed, and with that change had come...whatever this was.]
They're safe. Er. Were safe. He didn't stay here after the attack. We had time to...[He gestured vaguely, uncomfortably, didn't want to say it out loud.] Livio is fine. I mean he is where-...when? I come from? It's...the war is over...It ended months ago.
[For him, at least. But...if the man in front of him isn't a lie, either, and he has yet to stop Knives, then...
He felt a sudden wave of nausea hit him with full force as the implications sank in. He doesn't want to do this all over again. He can't-...Not Legato again, not fighting with his brother, letting himself take what should have been a fatal blow for him and then carrying him away as he lost consciousness. Waking up, knowing he's nearby, sensing him in hiding as Dr. Bond nursed Vash back to health and told him who had begged the man to save his life but had never come back to speak to him in person once he had regained consciousness.
Feeling his presence suddenly...gone, when the day had come to leave six months later, and knowing, knowing, that he was now, for the first time in his entire life, really, truly alone.
He swayed back a step, felt a weight settle on his chest that made him feel as if his lungs were struggling to draw in air. He wanted to say something, but words caught in his throat, and where before the mental connection had been a conscious action, suddenly he knew it was the only way he would be able to communicate until the spell had passed. Where he had pulled back out of a sense of vulnerability moments before, his mind was reaching back out in a wave of what he dimly realized was a panic attack.
Oh, oh no, had he projected all of that outward? Had he forgotten to pull away to avoid overwhelming the other, the younger, him? His emotions flared even stronger, shamed, worried.
To someone watching them from a distance, he might have even looked calm. To anyone with the communicative abilities they had, he was calmly losing his shit.]
no subject
He was about to ask where he had come from, if he had yet to bury him but, if the streaks of his hair were anything to judge by, had definitely been there when he died.
But then he spoke before the question could coalesce itself into words, and it made at least some sort of sense.
It was both strange and at the same time a comfort when the other began communicating the way he did with their sisters, like some kind of DNA-deep instinct that he so rarely got to act on, something that was coded into the structure of his bones. Words were more difficult, words could be misconstrued and twisted and misunderstood, forgotten. The way their sisters communicated was the feeling of simply being known, understood, accepted. He couldn't help but reply in kind, even after he'd pulled back on his own just moments earlier.
The Ark had left, taking their sisters with it, there had been no calls for help in December. It had been in Octovern, he had connected with them, given them their choice, left it up to them, and they had reached out, called out, abandoned Knives' mission of death and destruction and reached out in turn to humanity in a shower of gleaming feathers. That had been where the call had come from, only...this time it had been different. Something had changed, and with that change had come...whatever this was.]
They're safe. Er. Were safe. He didn't stay here after the attack. We had time to...[He gestured vaguely, uncomfortably, didn't want to say it out loud.] Livio is fine. I mean he is where-...when? I come from? It's...the war is over...It ended months ago.
[For him, at least. But...if the man in front of him isn't a lie, either, and he has yet to stop Knives, then...
He felt a sudden wave of nausea hit him with full force as the implications sank in. He doesn't want to do this all over again. He can't-...Not Legato again, not fighting with his brother, letting himself take what should have been a fatal blow for him and then carrying him away as he lost consciousness. Waking up, knowing he's nearby, sensing him in hiding as Dr. Bond nursed Vash back to health and told him who had begged the man to save his life but had never come back to speak to him in person once he had regained consciousness.
Feeling his presence suddenly...gone, when the day had come to leave six months later, and knowing, knowing, that he was now, for the first time in his entire life, really, truly alone.
He swayed back a step, felt a weight settle on his chest that made him feel as if his lungs were struggling to draw in air. He wanted to say something, but words caught in his throat, and where before the mental connection had been a conscious action, suddenly he knew it was the only way he would be able to communicate until the spell had passed. Where he had pulled back out of a sense of vulnerability moments before, his mind was reaching back out in a wave of what he dimly realized was a panic attack.
Oh, oh no, had he projected all of that outward? Had he forgotten to pull away to avoid overwhelming the other, the younger, him? His emotions flared even stronger, shamed, worried.
To someone watching them from a distance, he might have even looked calm. To anyone with the communicative abilities they had, he was calmly losing his shit.]