i don't know where home is, but i suppose it's anywhere i go that's any good at all
A lot has changed. A lot has changed, in a very short amount of time, but nothing really feels different. It fucks with Nate's head. Somehow, between painful, poignant, overdue confessions along with something like wedding vows and the new, grating presence in his mind that seemed to only mistrust and needle at him, he had stayed steady. Kept himself together. Sunjata getting stabbed changed things again. It let in this helpless, useless feeling, even as he stitches up the wound, even as he gives strict instructions in an iron voice.
It's another thing not helped by his ascension, the hours of nothing, nothing but thinking, worrying, hating the time that he would otherwise be sleeping, or drunk, or worse. A feedback loop that takes a trip through Pemota, crystallizing the regret, the subconscious imputation of the Voice, and dribbles back into his own head, a fierce beast he can't hope to contain for as long as he's grasped in it's cycle.
Before, when he'd gotten like this, when he'd begun to turn in this direction, Nate would go for walks. Wander the beach, the streets of Haulani, along the cliffs, anything to fill in the time where he was with himself, when Sunjata was sleeping. Maybe thats part of why he's the way he is now, making laps of the kitchen, not wanting to bother the other man with whatever it is he's working through, but not wanting to leave completely either, an echo of what if what if what if in his head. Maybe if he knew what his problem was, it would be different, but.
But.
Maybe breakfast is in order. They have enough stored up in the kitchen to make something worthwhile, and it’s a good use of his hands, instead of twisting them into worried shreds and dragging his knuckles against counters, trying to feel it. A window is thrown open, to give Pemota the option of spending time with him (she immediately ventures outside, floating peacefully through the last bunches of purple flowers), and Nate gets to work, pulling things out almost at random as he tries to make up his mind.
It's another thing not helped by his ascension, the hours of nothing, nothing but thinking, worrying, hating the time that he would otherwise be sleeping, or drunk, or worse. A feedback loop that takes a trip through Pemota, crystallizing the regret, the subconscious imputation of the Voice, and dribbles back into his own head, a fierce beast he can't hope to contain for as long as he's grasped in it's cycle.
Before, when he'd gotten like this, when he'd begun to turn in this direction, Nate would go for walks. Wander the beach, the streets of Haulani, along the cliffs, anything to fill in the time where he was with himself, when Sunjata was sleeping. Maybe thats part of why he's the way he is now, making laps of the kitchen, not wanting to bother the other man with whatever it is he's working through, but not wanting to leave completely either, an echo of what if what if what if in his head. Maybe if he knew what his problem was, it would be different, but.
But.
Maybe breakfast is in order. They have enough stored up in the kitchen to make something worthwhile, and it’s a good use of his hands, instead of twisting them into worried shreds and dragging his knuckles against counters, trying to feel it. A window is thrown open, to give Pemota the option of spending time with him (she immediately ventures outside, floating peacefully through the last bunches of purple flowers), and Nate gets to work, pulling things out almost at random as he tries to make up his mind.
NATE
