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fandomhighdorms2010-04-04 12:53 pm
puppy_fair) wrote in fandomhighdorms2010-04-04 12:53 pm
Entry tags:
Outside the Weapons Locker, Sunday Afternoon
Zack was putting one foot in front of the other on his way across the causeway. There was no thought involved in this, only motion, only the one-two rhythm of his legs working, of the soles of his boots hitting the ground ahead of him again and again in quick, steady succession. He walked. Across the causeway, across the island. Back toward the dorms. He walked.
There was a weight on his back. Habit informed Zack's feet that when there was weight like that, then they were going to have to steer the rest of Zack this way before he could go that way, and so Zack's feet did just that. And, once they reached one doorway in particular, Zack's feet ever-so-helpfully notified Zack's hand that now it was time to reach backward, to close around the hilt of the sword that was resting there, because it was time to put it away.
That was about the point that Zack's brain informed Zack's eyes that it was time to look around. First at the door that they, the whole amalgamation of parts that was Zack, were standing in front of. It took Zack's eyes a minute to successfully relay to his brain that they were standing at the weapons locker.
With a blank expression on his face as he worked on turning the sum of his parts back into one cohesive unit all over again, Zack then turned his gaze to his sword. It wasn't the sword that he usually carried with him. It was larger, heavier. In some haze a million miles away, the side of his face ached and his chest hitched and he was choking down another hiccup of a sob as the situation caught up with him.
He was about to turn the Buster Sword over to the weapons locker.
He was about to turn Angeal's sword over to the weapons locker.
And that was when Zack and all of his codependently functioning parts all sagged to the ground at once. And right there was probably where he would stay for a while, with a sword that was nearly the same size as he was resting in his lap, eyes fixed on the weapon and his mind lost in a haze, screaming silent defiance in his head somewhere a million miles away.
He couldn't do this.
[Open, if anyone wants. Fair warning, threads with Zack aren't liable to be particularly sunshiney for a little while.]
There was a weight on his back. Habit informed Zack's feet that when there was weight like that, then they were going to have to steer the rest of Zack this way before he could go that way, and so Zack's feet did just that. And, once they reached one doorway in particular, Zack's feet ever-so-helpfully notified Zack's hand that now it was time to reach backward, to close around the hilt of the sword that was resting there, because it was time to put it away.
That was about the point that Zack's brain informed Zack's eyes that it was time to look around. First at the door that they, the whole amalgamation of parts that was Zack, were standing in front of. It took Zack's eyes a minute to successfully relay to his brain that they were standing at the weapons locker.
With a blank expression on his face as he worked on turning the sum of his parts back into one cohesive unit all over again, Zack then turned his gaze to his sword. It wasn't the sword that he usually carried with him. It was larger, heavier. In some haze a million miles away, the side of his face ached and his chest hitched and he was choking down another hiccup of a sob as the situation caught up with him.
He was about to turn the Buster Sword over to the weapons locker.
He was about to turn Angeal's sword over to the weapons locker.
And that was when Zack and all of his codependently functioning parts all sagged to the ground at once. And right there was probably where he would stay for a while, with a sword that was nearly the same size as he was resting in his lap, eyes fixed on the weapon and his mind lost in a haze, screaming silent defiance in his head somewhere a million miles away.
He couldn't do this.
[Open, if anyone wants. Fair warning, threads with Zack aren't liable to be particularly sunshiney for a little while.]
no subject
... She could see right through him. That was easy to forget until moments like this. Zack tended to keep it up all of the time regardless, but she'd seen him hit lows before. She knew that he preferred to hide.
And with that in mind, he kind of inched forward a little, so that he could watch her from the heap of blankets and pillows that he'd fallen into. There was no smile on his face. There was just... Zack. Or whatever was left. Watching Ino fuss with blankets.
"... Come here?"
no subject
It was her back that was straight, though. Her eyes that were steady and calm despite the absolute sink of worry she felt for him. Care. She was allowed to care. He was hurt.
Ino would be strong for that. Even if she wasn't as strong as she'd like to be.
"Hey," she said softly.
no subject
He contented himself to hold her hands in his for a moment, and then he was lifting one of her hands to his face, pressing his lips against her fingers for a moment before guiding her fingertips to his cheek. The cheek that hadn't been gouged at, yesterday.
Touch.
no subject
What did he want from her? If she could give it, she would. Her fingertips gently stroked his cheek. She was here.
no subject
... Right now, he'd settle for another hug. And would she mind if he started to thank her again, in little whispery mumbles? Because he really, really was that thankful. He sort of felt like he had to.
no subject
"I know," she said, finally. Almost as quiet as he was but not nearly as broken. "I know."
He didn't owe her anything. Not even thanks.