![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
week 3 (tuesday night)
He dreams of Miata, actually.
He's standing at a fire, and though there are figures around the bonfire, none of them are distinct. The only face he sees is Miata's, and he simply listens, waiting to hear what she has to say. A list floats in the air, and she speaks clearly.
"...I'm sorry. By a majority vote, Gilbert Nightray has been found guilty for—"
The rest of the words fade out from there. Perhaps he doesn't hear them. Perhaps they don't matter. But Break knows what those words mean, and so he turns. It feels like he's turning incredibly slowly, like time is slowing down around him. He just needs to find one face here, and then he can save them. He just have to save one person, but as he turns, dainty, child-like hands settle over his eyes as if playing a game.
"But you can't save anyone, can you?"
He doesn't need to see her to know, because he'll never forget that voice until the day he dies. The Will of the Abyss speaks right into his ear, but as he tries to pull away, her fingers dig into his eyes. He feels pain that's familiar, but he still reaches out, groping in the darkness, because if he can just save one person, then—
Break wakes up in a cold sweat.
He feels his eyes open, but the darkness from his dream stays. It always does now. He takes a deep, rattling breath to center himself, and he hates just how much it shakes his chest now. It hadn't always been this bad. He had never quite been healthy, but it never came with this feeling of trying so hard to draw a full breath. Break reaches up and grips his chest, murmuring a bitter curse under his breath as he tries to catch it. It hurts, and at least when he's alone, he doesn't have to hide that.
Break stumbles out of bed, and as he stumbles against the corner of the second one, he remembers. Right. This isn't his home at all, so he has to reorient himself. The picture he has in his mind of the room shifts in a moment from the Rainsworth mansion to the blank image of the hotel, because he can't imagine any detail here. He's never seen it, so he only knows where furniture lies and nothing more. Still, it's difficult, and with how his chest burns with heaviness, it feels like that mental image is blurring. Perhaps it's just hard to stay concious? Ahh, sometimes it's hard to tell which it is lately.
But he manages to stumble to the bathroom all the same, and though he feels his chest settled with a familiar heaviness, he doesn't feel the need to cough immediately. He's prepared for it, since that unpleasant sensation is familiar too, but it doesn't come. It's at least calmingly cooler in here, so Break sighs and pats at the wall until he finds the broadest portion, and he sinks down against it. With every movement, he feels that weight, and at this time of the night (whatever it is), it's easier for him to just fully relax and not try and hide the strain it causes him.
This was fine.
This was what he deserved.
He repeats that to himself softly, but when he repeats those familiar words, he realizes just what this heaviness is. It wasn't strain, exactly. It was something far more dangerous than that, so far as he's concerned.
"Grief, wasn't it?" he asks to no one in particular, and he wheezes out a laugh as he relaxes against the wall. His head taps the tile, but he still reaches up to cover his mouth like he's afraid that he'll cough up blood at any time. "You don't exactly need to sell me any more of that, you know."
But it burns in his chest all the same. He had perhaps spoken too practically too soon, because being frank with Gilbert about his own mortality made this weight all the worse. He hated feeling sorry for himself. But this weight was terrifying, honestly. The next time it happened, would he be able to draw a breath at all? Would he feel strength ebb out of him? Or would it be quicker? They were all what he deserved, certainly, and yet...
He didn't want to die.
Not here. Not ever, really, but the inevitability of that was at least easier to swallow. Somehow, without even noticing, there was suddenly so much he wanted to live for. The idea of dying had been something he had welcomed not even five years ago, but now he just thinks of what that would mean. He would never be able to tell Reim that he was truly a friend that he had come to treasure. He couldn't express how grateful he was to Sheryl that she had taken a gamble by taking in the Red-Eyed Ghost. And Sharon—
Well, he wasn't sure what he would say to her at all.
Perhaps a simple "thank you"?
His chest tightens painfully at the thought, and he just chokes out a laugh because he's not sure what else to do. His unseeing gaze turns to the ceiling and he reaches out towards it, though it's just an idle gesture. He sees and feels nothing with it. Pathetic. It really is pathetic, and it sends his mind back to places it would rather not be.
In that moment, he understands with clarity just how tempting this motive was meant to be.
He's standing at a fire, and though there are figures around the bonfire, none of them are distinct. The only face he sees is Miata's, and he simply listens, waiting to hear what she has to say. A list floats in the air, and she speaks clearly.
"...I'm sorry. By a majority vote, Gilbert Nightray has been found guilty for—"
The rest of the words fade out from there. Perhaps he doesn't hear them. Perhaps they don't matter. But Break knows what those words mean, and so he turns. It feels like he's turning incredibly slowly, like time is slowing down around him. He just needs to find one face here, and then he can save them. He just have to save one person, but as he turns, dainty, child-like hands settle over his eyes as if playing a game.
"But you can't save anyone, can you?"
He doesn't need to see her to know, because he'll never forget that voice until the day he dies. The Will of the Abyss speaks right into his ear, but as he tries to pull away, her fingers dig into his eyes. He feels pain that's familiar, but he still reaches out, groping in the darkness, because if he can just save one person, then—
Break wakes up in a cold sweat.
He feels his eyes open, but the darkness from his dream stays. It always does now. He takes a deep, rattling breath to center himself, and he hates just how much it shakes his chest now. It hadn't always been this bad. He had never quite been healthy, but it never came with this feeling of trying so hard to draw a full breath. Break reaches up and grips his chest, murmuring a bitter curse under his breath as he tries to catch it. It hurts, and at least when he's alone, he doesn't have to hide that.
Break stumbles out of bed, and as he stumbles against the corner of the second one, he remembers. Right. This isn't his home at all, so he has to reorient himself. The picture he has in his mind of the room shifts in a moment from the Rainsworth mansion to the blank image of the hotel, because he can't imagine any detail here. He's never seen it, so he only knows where furniture lies and nothing more. Still, it's difficult, and with how his chest burns with heaviness, it feels like that mental image is blurring. Perhaps it's just hard to stay concious? Ahh, sometimes it's hard to tell which it is lately.
But he manages to stumble to the bathroom all the same, and though he feels his chest settled with a familiar heaviness, he doesn't feel the need to cough immediately. He's prepared for it, since that unpleasant sensation is familiar too, but it doesn't come. It's at least calmingly cooler in here, so Break sighs and pats at the wall until he finds the broadest portion, and he sinks down against it. With every movement, he feels that weight, and at this time of the night (whatever it is), it's easier for him to just fully relax and not try and hide the strain it causes him.
This was fine.
This was what he deserved.
He repeats that to himself softly, but when he repeats those familiar words, he realizes just what this heaviness is. It wasn't strain, exactly. It was something far more dangerous than that, so far as he's concerned.
"Grief, wasn't it?" he asks to no one in particular, and he wheezes out a laugh as he relaxes against the wall. His head taps the tile, but he still reaches up to cover his mouth like he's afraid that he'll cough up blood at any time. "You don't exactly need to sell me any more of that, you know."
But it burns in his chest all the same. He had perhaps spoken too practically too soon, because being frank with Gilbert about his own mortality made this weight all the worse. He hated feeling sorry for himself. But this weight was terrifying, honestly. The next time it happened, would he be able to draw a breath at all? Would he feel strength ebb out of him? Or would it be quicker? They were all what he deserved, certainly, and yet...
He didn't want to die.
Not here. Not ever, really, but the inevitability of that was at least easier to swallow. Somehow, without even noticing, there was suddenly so much he wanted to live for. The idea of dying had been something he had welcomed not even five years ago, but now he just thinks of what that would mean. He would never be able to tell Reim that he was truly a friend that he had come to treasure. He couldn't express how grateful he was to Sheryl that she had taken a gamble by taking in the Red-Eyed Ghost. And Sharon—
Well, he wasn't sure what he would say to her at all.
Perhaps a simple "thank you"?
His chest tightens painfully at the thought, and he just chokes out a laugh because he's not sure what else to do. His unseeing gaze turns to the ceiling and he reaches out towards it, though it's just an idle gesture. He sees and feels nothing with it. Pathetic. It really is pathetic, and it sends his mind back to places it would rather not be.
In that moment, he understands with clarity just how tempting this motive was meant to be.