[Akira's used to feeling the ground shift beneath his feet. It'd almost become rote back home, to come to a startling conclusion that changed almost everything he'd assumed to be the way of the world. His perception of planet Earth had been the thin shell of an egg, and Ryo had crashed back into his life with an expensive car and an automatic rifle and plunged him into the dangerous unknown beneath the surface. When you felt that, and then the even stranger paradigm shift of feeling your entire body and everything about you change on every given point from what you once knew it to be, you'd probably feel pretty ready for whatever else could be thrown your way.
But this was different.
It's different because it's Ryo. He was his anchor, the one immovable and dependable point he had to rely on. He always had the answers. He always had the guidance. He always had something. But where Akira holds him now he has nothing, he says nothing, and that's terrifying to him. A few moments ago he might've been flying on adrenaline and impulse but now those things are lapsing and leaving him behind, washed up on a foreign shore where he's alone and with no frame of reference, left to fend for himself.
Except he's not. Not entirely. He mostly expected Venus to leave — and why wouldn't she? Not when he'd acted like that. He'd been frightening and threatening, and he'd meant it; he'd mean it to anyone he thought might've hurt Ryo. But that had ebbed away just as rapidly as it arisen in him, a tide come and gone, and now he's left feeling frustrated and guilty, the bitter taste of her own hurt metallic in the back of his throat.
When she speaks, his shoulders jump up a little bit. He just hadn't expected it, or the way her tone had grown subdued, diminished. It was good advice — a bit obvious, sure, but with as frayed as his mind is right now, he certainly would've suffered without the guidance. He glances to the counter, imagining where the first-aid kit could be, and then he nods dumbly. He's silent a moment, still unmoving, before he registers that it's a call to action instead of mere inert words.]
Yeah. [Slowly powering back up, like an old machine finally booting after careful repair.] Yeah. You're right.
[About the first aid. Her compliment — well. It prickles along the back of his neck like gooseflesh, falling into a yawning chasm of doubt, of endless questions as to the construction of who he is that he keeps at arm's length simply because they were questions he knew he didn't have the mind to answer properly.
But he does receive it. And maybe later he'll accept it better than he does now.]
Ryo. [He clutches the shoulder under his hand a little tighter, shaking him a little bit.] We gotta go back to the room. Can you stand? And — put your arm over, like this. [As he says it he gently tries to guide his friend's arm over the line of his shoulders, so he can properly support him when they move to stand. If he can. If not, he'll just have to carry him.
He's quiet a moment after maneuvering this, but then he does speak up again, though he doesn't turn to face her, too preoccupied with Ryo.] Thanks, Venus.
[For being much cooler about this than she probably should've been.]
no subject
But this was different.
It's different because it's Ryo. He was his anchor, the one immovable and dependable point he had to rely on. He always had the answers. He always had the guidance. He always had something. But where Akira holds him now he has nothing, he says nothing, and that's terrifying to him. A few moments ago he might've been flying on adrenaline and impulse but now those things are lapsing and leaving him behind, washed up on a foreign shore where he's alone and with no frame of reference, left to fend for himself.
Except he's not. Not entirely. He mostly expected Venus to leave — and why wouldn't she? Not when he'd acted like that. He'd been frightening and threatening, and he'd meant it; he'd mean it to anyone he thought might've hurt Ryo. But that had ebbed away just as rapidly as it arisen in him, a tide come and gone, and now he's left feeling frustrated and guilty, the bitter taste of her own hurt metallic in the back of his throat.
When she speaks, his shoulders jump up a little bit. He just hadn't expected it, or the way her tone had grown subdued, diminished. It was good advice — a bit obvious, sure, but with as frayed as his mind is right now, he certainly would've suffered without the guidance. He glances to the counter, imagining where the first-aid kit could be, and then he nods dumbly. He's silent a moment, still unmoving, before he registers that it's a call to action instead of mere inert words.]
Yeah. [Slowly powering back up, like an old machine finally booting after careful repair.] Yeah. You're right.
[About the first aid. Her compliment — well. It prickles along the back of his neck like gooseflesh, falling into a yawning chasm of doubt, of endless questions as to the construction of who he is that he keeps at arm's length simply because they were questions he knew he didn't have the mind to answer properly.
But he does receive it. And maybe later he'll accept it better than he does now.]
Ryo. [He clutches the shoulder under his hand a little tighter, shaking him a little bit.] We gotta go back to the room. Can you stand? And — put your arm over, like this. [As he says it he gently tries to guide his friend's arm over the line of his shoulders, so he can properly support him when they move to stand. If he can. If not, he'll just have to carry him.
He's quiet a moment after maneuvering this, but then he does speak up again, though he doesn't turn to face her, too preoccupied with Ryo.] Thanks, Venus.
[For being much cooler about this than she probably should've been.]