īŧ he sees it. the attempt, the shift, the dam that cracks, and cracks, and breaks, and he's not surprised when sasuke cleaves in against him, pressed in close. tears come, but sobs don't follow — a learned reflex, from a world that has beaten it into him: any weakness you have, any kindness you show is only a knife you give an enemy to hold at your throat.
how long did it take him to perfect the art of crying without a fucking sound? doubtless it was done to revoke even the faintest possibility of being heard, of being hurt.
cy traces the line of the boy's legs, back to his hips, up against his back. he just holds him. no cracks, no quips, no commentary. just patient and understanding, one hand lifted a little higher just to stroke at his hair. he holds him until his breath steadies, until the tremble of his thighs is keyed down to nearly nothing, until the salt-slick tears have dried with a bit of an itchy sheen against his skin.
when he does speak, it's a quiet murmur of sound, barely audible even in the hush of the room. īŧ
I used to think I could never lay my hands on myself, on another person ever again. The thought of coming made me sick. Every time I closed my eyes I saw — īŧ well, that part doesn't matter. there is a brief, winnowing meadow of silence and then he carries on: īŧ — it took a long time to get me there. Even the thought of seeing the contrast of my hand on someone's skin, it just — īŧ he exhales. it's not steady. īŧ I think I could've gone the rest of my life without finding solace in someone else if I hadn't met the right person at the right time for me. He'd been a prisoner of war. īŧ that fucking thing, again. war, like a drumbeat in his head, in his heart, stitched into his soul. there is a spike of howling rage in him, because he hates it so much it has almost consumed him, burnt him down to ash, and somehow it hasn't been enough. īŧ He'd been hurt in ways I was familiar with. Everything that'd been done to him, I'd done to someone else. The scars were fucking awful, and I used to have nightmares that I was the one that put them there. But he'd had — time to live with himself after, and I was still so raw with it. I don't know how else to explain it, except to say he put me back in my body. He wouldn't let me hate myself. He made me face it down. The shame, the horror, the hate, and he broke something in me doing that. And then he fixed it.
īŧ he buffets sasuke just a little closer, because he can feel the nascent pressure of tears building behind his eyes, and while he doesn't take issue with crying he still wants to wipe his eyes. he's lost fragments of that love over the years, but the grief of its loss is still a wound. īŧ
I don't remember his name. But I remember what he did for me. īŧ lightly: īŧ Long winded way of saying I did my fair share of crying too. It's okay, Sasuke. Every step forward echoes, and builds, and ripples outwards.
đđđ (also, uh, cw: war horrors/torture/gore allusions)
how long did it take him to perfect the art of crying without a fucking sound? doubtless it was done to revoke even the faintest possibility of being heard, of being hurt.
cy traces the line of the boy's legs, back to his hips, up against his back. he just holds him. no cracks, no quips, no commentary. just patient and understanding, one hand lifted a little higher just to stroke at his hair. he holds him until his breath steadies, until the tremble of his thighs is keyed down to nearly nothing, until the salt-slick tears have dried with a bit of an itchy sheen against his skin.
when he does speak, it's a quiet murmur of sound, barely audible even in the hush of the room. īŧ
I used to think I could never lay my hands on myself, on another person ever again. The thought of coming made me sick. Every time I closed my eyes I saw — īŧ well, that part doesn't matter. there is a brief, winnowing meadow of silence and then he carries on: īŧ — it took a long time to get me there. Even the thought of seeing the contrast of my hand on someone's skin, it just — īŧ he exhales. it's not steady. īŧ I think I could've gone the rest of my life without finding solace in someone else if I hadn't met the right person at the right time for me. He'd been a prisoner of war. īŧ that fucking thing, again. war, like a drumbeat in his head, in his heart, stitched into his soul. there is a spike of howling rage in him, because he hates it so much it has almost consumed him, burnt him down to ash, and somehow it hasn't been enough. īŧ He'd been hurt in ways I was familiar with. Everything that'd been done to him, I'd done to someone else. The scars were fucking awful, and I used to have nightmares that I was the one that put them there. But he'd had — time to live with himself after, and I was still so raw with it. I don't know how else to explain it, except to say he put me back in my body. He wouldn't let me hate myself. He made me face it down. The shame, the horror, the hate, and he broke something in me doing that. And then he fixed it.
īŧ he buffets sasuke just a little closer, because he can feel the nascent pressure of tears building behind his eyes, and while he doesn't take issue with crying he still wants to wipe his eyes. he's lost fragments of that love over the years, but the grief of its loss is still a wound. īŧ
I don't remember his name. But I remember what he did for me. īŧ lightly: īŧ Long winded way of saying I did my fair share of crying too. It's okay, Sasuke. Every step forward echoes, and builds, and ripples outwards.