When Break returns to his room for the night, he finally lets the exhaustion he feels sweep over him. It weighs down on him in a way that's physical, and exhales a long, sharp breath as if he had been holding it in all day. Here, when he's alone, he finally has the chance to show it.
It still doesn't feel real. Nothing in the past twenty-four hours really does.
What he wouldn't give to react as he had to Reim's "death" now, he thinks. Turning his emotions into that finely honed rage was what he excelled at, and for each time he could cut into someone, it made these unpleasant feelings ebb away. He didn't like to think about when that had started to happen, whether it was when he had Albus at his side or if he had always been that way, but the truth had been that for a very long time. The idea of taking life or making people suffer, it dulled these sorts of feelings.
He supposes he should be happy for the surprise of last night as a result. That tiny hope was all he needed to focus and not give in to what he's feeling completely, but it's still hard. He can look into the suspects' faces and smile, but he imagines running his sword through every single one of them. Only that sliver of hope prevents him from acting on the impulse.
Break sighs again, but less heavily this time. Even if exhaustion hangs on his shoulders, there's still work to be done. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out those blank letters before he opens and smooths them onto his dresser. His fingertips linger over the indents without really thinking of the letters, because the fact that Gilbert would do this for him was unsurprising. Objectively, this is exactly the sort of ridiculously sentimental thing that Gilbert would do. Part of him feels the same sort of feeling he had when Sharon had told him just why Gilbert had learned to cook.
But far more than that, it feels like he's standing at Shelly's bedside again. It's the same sort of crisis that comes from knowing you're receiving someone's parting words. Even if he wanted to deny it, even if he felt that he didn't even deserve them at all, the warmth of those words always reaches him. It's why he's afraid to run his fingertips over these
letters.
His fingertips find the beginning of the note, and he reads each word aloud as he catches it to help him discern the meaning. They've gotten slightly out of order because of how he and Poland had flipped through them, but as he continues, he actually feels a sense of relief. With the way Gilbert is talking in these letters, Break understands that they're small records, like a diary. It gets Break's unease to calm, though he does occassionally pause over certain parts as their irony twists at his heart.
They're notes to Break written this way for privacy. With talks of their plans and all of the things that they had been quietly planning, that's a good decision, and he also understands why Gilbert would go through such lengths to hide it. If he did die, that idiot would never want to implicate Break. This is his way of being cautious, and as he realizes that, Break breathes out a laugh tinged with pride. He'd taught him well, though perhaps he shouldn't be feeling pride over that.
I feel a little hopeful he says on the second to last letter, and that twists at Break's heart though it gets him to smile sadly. He would, of course. That was just the sort of luck that surrounded him both, and he finds it all the more cruelly ironic that his life would end with a beheading of all things. Their bad luck would truly never leave them, and the thought even makes him laugh. With one more letter to go, Break isn't feeling quite so much dread. Even if they had Gilbert's soft-hearted nature throughout, it was a record. That, he can handle. Yet as he starts that last letter, Break's fingers falter very quickly.
I wouldn't be writing this letter if I did.Break falls completely silent as he continues to think through the words his fingers are feeling out, but it returns all that dread and pressure quickly. His expression falls as he bows his head forward, but he continues on. There's only the moment of his hand as he reads through this last letter, but by the time he gets to the "thank you," his hand is shaking.
"You..." he speaks softly, and even he's surprised by just how shaky it sounds, "You're cruel, Gilbert. It was supposed to be me, not—"
Break's voice trails off into nothing as his hand moves to steady himself on the dresser. His fingers curl desperately against the wood like he's trying to dig into it. His chest tightens, and he chokes out a noise that could be a sob, but it's angrier and harsher. It doesn't even sound human to his own ears, but it strikes him as soon as he says it aloud so heavily that he can't keep it inside anymore.
"I'm not the one that should still be alive, idiot."
He doesn't deserve that. It's not even something practical like a matter of his illness that pulls that thought out of him so bitterly. It's much deeper than that. Of anyone, Break doesn't feel that he deserves to continue living. For all that he's done, and for all that he
will do, he'll deserve his death when it comes to him. He had been playing this stupid game not for the idea of saving himself or that he might return home, because he didn't think he would. Instead, just saving Gilbert would be enough. He could only pray that it would be enough. He had been willing to do anything to try and secure that, but he had hesitated for the sake of trying to not get Gilbert too tangled up in his sentimentality.
Break's gaze lifts, and now he feels the sharp heat at the corner of his remaining eye, but he doesn't even acknowledge it. It hadn't been enough. That truth sinks in, and even though he's not looking at anything, the despair and anger he feels mixes together so that his expression is contorted with both. He hasn't felt this vulnerable in a long time, and his heart hammers in his ears.
In this moment, he only remembers her words.
You can't save anyone, can you?
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