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fandomhighdorms2010-09-25 07:07 pm
whateverknight.livejournal.com) wrote in fandomhighdorms2010-09-25 07:07 pm
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Fifth Floor Common Room, Saturday Morning
Squall had come into the common room to grab a snack, sit on the couch, and stare at the floor. He was buttering a slice of toast when the gaggle of onions arrived to harass him.
"You don't really like being alone." "You're always alone because you don't know how to relate to other people." "You lie to yourself constantly." "You hate yourself." "You're going to drive Rinoa away." "Your father left you before you were even born." "You killed your mother when you were born." "Your sister was taken from you." "Your friends forgot who you were." "Everyone leaves. Everyone." "You're rude." "You're pretentious." "You're a hypocrite." "You're not even a good soldier." ... On and on and over and over and over. There must have been at least a hundred of them, all crowding around him and all talking at once.
With a roar of pain and tears in his eyes he spun around, wielding the butter knife. Within this span of a few seconds he lashed out at them again and again, cris-crossing the room many times over in the longest Renzokuken he had ever executed. The string of attacks didn't have a finishing move, this time -- he just sort of stopped and surveyed his handiwork. The silence of the no-longer speaking onions was deafening.
He breathed heavily, drawing in air in deep, painful gulps. The butter knife slipped from his suddenly limp fingers. Every single onion slowly slid apart into several pieces.
So did the table, and one of the chairs. Oops.
[Open common room is open, if you want to risk it.]
"You don't really like being alone." "You're always alone because you don't know how to relate to other people." "You lie to yourself constantly." "You hate yourself." "You're going to drive Rinoa away." "Your father left you before you were even born." "You killed your mother when you were born." "Your sister was taken from you." "Your friends forgot who you were." "Everyone leaves. Everyone." "You're rude." "You're pretentious." "You're a hypocrite." "You're not even a good soldier." ... On and on and over and over and over. There must have been at least a hundred of them, all crowding around him and all talking at once.
With a roar of pain and tears in his eyes he spun around, wielding the butter knife. Within this span of a few seconds he lashed out at them again and again, cris-crossing the room many times over in the longest Renzokuken he had ever executed. The string of attacks didn't have a finishing move, this time -- he just sort of stopped and surveyed his handiwork. The silence of the no-longer speaking onions was deafening.
He breathed heavily, drawing in air in deep, painful gulps. The butter knife slipped from his suddenly limp fingers. Every single onion slowly slid apart into several pieces.
So did the table, and one of the chairs. Oops.
[Open common room is open, if you want to risk it.]
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And a hand, reaching out oh-so-tentatively to place against his back.
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Although, if she wanted to hug him -- totally against his will -- he wouldn't object. She was comforting.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and wrinkled his nose at the smell of fresh-cut onion.
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Her hand was making small soothing motions, and she was next to him, insinuating herself into his space in a quiet, gentle way. Not at all like how she'd pushed herself into his life, or his heart, but even she realized that sometimes, bulldozers weren't the way to go.
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Which meant that Rinoa should stop touching him. Any moment now. Really. First, though, he was going to lean into her hand a little.
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That hand that he was leaning into? It was going to slide over until she had her arm around his waist. Then it was just a matter of turning towards him, and gently nudging him into facing her. Her other hand could tug lightly on his jacket, to help.
Gradual hug. He could pretend it wasn't happening.
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And if his arms accidentally went around her, and his head fell to her shoulder? It was most likely because he was tired from all the onion-slaying.
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... Or else he let her hug him because it seemed like she wanted to. That was the reason he'd admit to.
"I hate onions," he muttered. He did, too.