[Akira can focus on the problems in front of him. Their confinement in this station in foreign space, adrift over a nameless and unidentified planet, how there were still yet chambers within this place they hadn't been able to broach, how there might be the solutions to the mysteries which plagued them stored within. These were things he could see. He could run his fingers along the braced doors, feel the cool surface of the metal broken by scoring and rivets; he could feel the sense of confusion and dread that clung to them all like a fine film. The forefront of his mind had always had a limited capacity, so when these distractions existed, presenting him with problems that he could work with Ryo to find solutions for, everything else fell away. Sometimes he felt that was preferable. These were weights that he could grasp and lift and move, but everything that he had left behind was something that he drug behind him, unseen but never unnoticed. He thinks that perhaps he should feel shame for wanting to minimize the pain of it. He'd never run from such things, instead choosing to embrace it just for the sense of feeling anything at all.
But the world that they had left behind was something thoroughly out of reach, so much so that it barely stood to exist anymore. No matter what he did, his strength and speed and fury and pain were all minuscule and meaningless, a single hoarse shout into the silent vacuum of space. So he finds himself torn between what he has always done and what his newfound strength had encouraged him to do, feeling it necessary to everything that he felt but feeling utterly stymied that there was not a single thing he could do about it.
So he cried. It was the only thing he could do about it, grasping at nothing constructive but instead only just pursuing outlet, providing some way that the sorrows circuitously trapped inside his chest could find some way to escape.
He could have easily anticipated what Ryo would do because he had done it perhaps a dozen or more times before - the easy and almost automatic pathing of his hand to the back of his neck, to hold him behind his head, fingers sinking into the haphazard locks of his hair. It's immediately soothing to at least a piece of him, unable to affect the deeper root of his distress but at the very least alleviating what rested on the surface. Some of the manic aimlessness that came with exhaustion slows and fades, making the energy about Akira's demeanor at least calm as he leans into Ryo, into the embrace of his arm and the resting of his head over his own, crying and yet drinking in his presence as panacea to his own concerns and doubts.
It makes it easier to listen to him despite the noise from the loudspeakers, feeling the resonance of the words in his chest. He almost doesn't need to clarify; the familiarity of them clinging to one another like this and how it stretched back throughout their history with one another made it already clear to him, painted as plainly as if it had happened just a few days ago rather than years and years. But it also reminded him of the time they had first met - though the clouds had been thick, heavy with the promise of rain, they hadn't yet broken. But they might as well have. He had felt the gloom and ennui of the rain trapped within Ryo even then, coloring that moment with a similar shade.
He blinks his eyes open at the admission; it's not something Ryo has ever told him, though it makes sense. Adults' ire had always ended up finding its way to him, regardless of whether or not it was correctly-placed (and even if it was, was it ever right to hold frustrations against a child in such a manner?). It had followed them both around the time he had tried to nurse the cat back to health, assumedly because they both kept disappearing from supervision. But...
Akira is silent for a long moment, his tears slowing. Then he speaks up, his voice raw from the crying.] You - didn't have to.
[It's quiet, a simple statement. There's nothing accusatory in it, nothing to insinuate that Akira was upset by what he had done. It was just a fact. Ryo had never needed to do any of the things he'd done to help him in their childhood, and yet he had. It stretched on throughout the years to now, his hand supporting the back of his head, the hum of his words sinking through his senses to rest against his bones.]
Thanks.
[Said as he nuzzles his way closer toward Ryo's core, his breath warm against what part of his neck emerged from the thick coat. He sniffs, though his sobbing has died and his tears are about to go the same way.]
no subject
But the world that they had left behind was something thoroughly out of reach, so much so that it barely stood to exist anymore. No matter what he did, his strength and speed and fury and pain were all minuscule and meaningless, a single hoarse shout into the silent vacuum of space. So he finds himself torn between what he has always done and what his newfound strength had encouraged him to do, feeling it necessary to everything that he felt but feeling utterly stymied that there was not a single thing he could do about it.
So he cried. It was the only thing he could do about it, grasping at nothing constructive but instead only just pursuing outlet, providing some way that the sorrows circuitously trapped inside his chest could find some way to escape.
He could have easily anticipated what Ryo would do because he had done it perhaps a dozen or more times before - the easy and almost automatic pathing of his hand to the back of his neck, to hold him behind his head, fingers sinking into the haphazard locks of his hair. It's immediately soothing to at least a piece of him, unable to affect the deeper root of his distress but at the very least alleviating what rested on the surface. Some of the manic aimlessness that came with exhaustion slows and fades, making the energy about Akira's demeanor at least calm as he leans into Ryo, into the embrace of his arm and the resting of his head over his own, crying and yet drinking in his presence as panacea to his own concerns and doubts.
It makes it easier to listen to him despite the noise from the loudspeakers, feeling the resonance of the words in his chest. He almost doesn't need to clarify; the familiarity of them clinging to one another like this and how it stretched back throughout their history with one another made it already clear to him, painted as plainly as if it had happened just a few days ago rather than years and years. But it also reminded him of the time they had first met - though the clouds had been thick, heavy with the promise of rain, they hadn't yet broken. But they might as well have. He had felt the gloom and ennui of the rain trapped within Ryo even then, coloring that moment with a similar shade.
He blinks his eyes open at the admission; it's not something Ryo has ever told him, though it makes sense. Adults' ire had always ended up finding its way to him, regardless of whether or not it was correctly-placed (and even if it was, was it ever right to hold frustrations against a child in such a manner?). It had followed them both around the time he had tried to nurse the cat back to health, assumedly because they both kept disappearing from supervision. But...
Akira is silent for a long moment, his tears slowing. Then he speaks up, his voice raw from the crying.] You - didn't have to.
[It's quiet, a simple statement. There's nothing accusatory in it, nothing to insinuate that Akira was upset by what he had done. It was just a fact. Ryo had never needed to do any of the things he'd done to help him in their childhood, and yet he had. It stretched on throughout the years to now, his hand supporting the back of his head, the hum of his words sinking through his senses to rest against his bones.]
Thanks.
[Said as he nuzzles his way closer toward Ryo's core, his breath warm against what part of his neck emerged from the thick coat. He sniffs, though his sobbing has died and his tears are about to go the same way.]