i'll turn myself into a gun, because it's all i have, because i'm hungry and hollow
The motion beside him freezes him instantly, and the hand around his wrist stops even the facsimile of breath in his chest. It doesn't last long, the sound of his own name starting a tremor through his body, guilt overtaking him in a sickening matter of moments. All at once his eyes are damp and his throat is tight, emotions that he doesn't know how to feel, let alone share, rushing through him. He starts to turn, slowly, as Hotaru begins to rise, and it only seems to make everything worse. His brows pull together, and his voice shakes like a leaf when he answers. "No. I don't nee... I'm sorry." Just because he wants all of this to be someone else's problem doesn't mean he wants to inflict it on her. If it could just be distant, if he could just put on his mask and be fine, then all of this would be so much easier to bear.
Somehow, the thought that this could be easier doesn't remove the blankness invading his eyes, something he tries to hide by reaching out to pull Hotaru into his lap, and settling against the headboard of the bed. It's comfortable, he thinks. It's close, and grounding, things he thinks he might need, even if they feel wrong to seek. Even if he doesn't think he cares all that much about making himself feel better, maybe the cool weight of his arms, and the stubborn solidity of his body will help Hotaru.
Somehow, the thought that this could be easier doesn't remove the blankness invading his eyes, something he tries to hide by reaching out to pull Hotaru into his lap, and settling against the headboard of the bed. It's comfortable, he thinks. It's close, and grounding, things he thinks he might need, even if they feel wrong to seek. Even if he doesn't think he cares all that much about making himself feel better, maybe the cool weight of his arms, and the stubborn solidity of his body will help Hotaru.
and just want something to call my own
NATE
