He's got a blanket, and some food from the kitchen, and even though he's talked to a lot of people by now, seeing Asch in the cage just makes him come over with tears all over again and that's stupid.
He's trying to be stoic, and failing, as he approaches the cage. His voice breaks on his first attempt to speak and he hates it. ]
H-- ... hey. I ... I wanted to come keep you company.
[he reaches uno (1) hand through, and drags the pillow and blanket into his pile. it is nest-esque now, filled with every soft thing someone's brought him, enough comfort to make it through the night.
...
well, this is going to be on him. he can't expect the 13-year-old to drive their conversations.
[sweet. he doesn't want anything to eat! catch him saying that absolutely never, especially not in the face of Isaac trying so hard to screw on his brave face, after everything he's had to see over the past little while.]
[it's stupid. the whole thing is so stupid. everything, everything about his situation is stupid.
but there's just... something about it. the candor, the jokes, the ease of speech. the closest comparison he has is Ginji, in the quieter moments, rattling off facts about the Albiore, trying to get a laugh out of him, his face lighting up if he ever so much as made a particularly breathy exhale at a punchline.
the final descent to Eldrant, just the two of them.
this really is enough, somehow.
isn't it weird how he kept learning that too late?]
I'm sorry.
[it's weird. but the apology seems to be about a lot more than just the joke.]
It's not recent. He's been angry. Sad. Betrayed. Lost. Alone. Hurt, physically and emotionally. His voice has wavered, cracking as he hissed out the words. But he didn't cry. At some point, when he was much, much younger, he was told that boys didn't. Certainly not boys who are next in line for the throne. Certainly not kings.
So, just like everything else he was told to do, he obeyed. There wasn't a lot of room for rebellion in the Duchy.
Not for him.
How old was Isaac? Thirteen? It was definitely before that. Earlier. Younger. A scraped knee in the manor, maybe. Or a bee sting, perhaps. Maybe he'd just been told, and... hadn't. He'd always been good at keeping to the rules.
What was it like, then, to cry so openly, so freely? To be born, to be raised in a world where that was allowed? He'd hated Luke for it—but envied it, as well. It was a cage, certainly—but within it, his replica was afforded the casual liberty to break every golden rule he'd ever known. What was it like to have both? The freedom, both within and without?
...
Tentatively, he reaches through the cage with his hand—and, on discovering no resistance, gently, hesitantly, puts it on Isaac's head.]
[ Despite all appearances to the contrary in Master Blue's mansion, Isaac has never, ever in his life, been a deft hand at befriending people. He's overeager, socially clumsy; he sees people as opportunities, chances, thinks of his own feelings before theirs. It's been at least a little different here, in this place where he's positive he hurt or maybe even killed Mr. Spender; an about-face in his attitude regarding people, long overdue, has been taking place over the course of the past two weeks.
But he never would have expected it to hinge on Asch. The guy who, like two DAYS into their stay at the mansion, broke a leg off a table and basically stabbed him in the throat with it.
Why is he crying so hard for someone he barely knows?
No... no, that's not the real question, or even the right one.
Why did he only figure out that he's got an older brother that he can look up to and rely on the day before that person dies? Why did he only realize yesterday how fallible, how human, Asch ultimately was?
If you asked him, he'd say he's no better at people than Asch himself. And yet, here they both are, bound in some inextricable, inexplicable way that neither wanted nor planned for.
But Asch puts a hand on Isaac's head, a comforting gesture he would have bled to earn from literally anyone in his life back home, and...
just...
sobs. Like a kid, gasping and sniffling and hiccuping, the whole nine yards. ]
Shut up...! [ his voice is so thin and warps around his tears and he hates it. ] How could you do this? How dare you-- you're not just my friend, Asch, you're, you're like a brother to me, and I only just figured it out and you're leaving--
[ his face is beet red from the force of his emotion. He'll reach up to grip the bars of the cage, overwhelmed in the face of this torrent of grief. His own grief, so predictable yet so unexpected. ]
I don't want you to say sorry. I want you to live. That's all I want, that's all I wanted...
[What do you say, when nothing will make it better? When there's no right words to say?
Bereft of voice, throat knotted, and awash in a sea of raw emotion, both his own and shared, he flounders.
Friend? He wished he could tell him, truthfully, that if so, he was a member of a very small group—membership in the lower half of the single digits, and not because it was exclusive. People sought him for information, for the tools he wielded, not the company he kept. He was no friend.
Brother? What brother would allow their sibling to suffer like this, to sink deeper into the bottomless abyss that he was only too aware, from experience, held no bottom? A consummate only child, always looking out for himself first? He was no brother.
Even pitched into his hands so forcefully, the words, the sentiment, the pure feeling behind them—still felt undeserved. Didn't he start this off by beating the shit out of him? Friend? Brother? There had to be some mistake. Isaac just wasn't thinking clearly.
Or maybe, he was just scared. Scared of the responsibilities inherent in the titles—and just how quickly he was going to fuck them up.
How do you comfort someone, when you're afraid, too?
Slowly, carefully, he leans forward, ignoring the screaming pain of his ribs, back, the fried nerve remains of his right arm—and wraps his left all the way around Isaac's sob-racked shoulders, in what he hopes like hell is somewhere in the neighborhood of a comforting embrace.]
Asch's arm around his shoulders, the bars of the cage making this awkward and strange, a gesture that's come too late for either of them to truly appreciate its significance, or at least live with the consequence of it--
Because Asch will stop living pretty soon, and Isaac just can't deal with it at all.
It's not much, but it's something, and Isaac huddles even closer to the cage if possible, tries to make it even a little easier on Asch when he knows this must hurt since the guy is still so injured. But if anything he cries even harder, the kind of crying that makes you feel like you might throw up, that makes your face hurt.
Eventually Isaac manages to gasp a breath and he says: ]
I will...! I'll live for both of us, so...
I-I'll look for you, okay? Whatever it takes... I'll find an answer...!
[There's a stuttering exhale of breath at the statement, and Asch finds himself twitching a smile, despite everything.
This damn kid. Where was he going to find him?]
Okay.
[With a last shoulder grip of pressure, Asch lets go, his arm sliding back into the containment. It takes a moment for him to re-arrange himself amongst the restraints, to find the position the is the least uncomfortable. The result is somewhat of him sagging, exhausted, against the invisible chains, pillows and blankets askew. Still, somehow or other, his expression towards Isaac is light, even if it's a.]
Then... I'll leave the rest up to you.
[The face of a man who has made peace with his life expectancy—and now only regrets the people they have to leave behind.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
WEEK ONE: POST-TRIAL, LATE NIGHT
He's got a blanket, and some food from the kitchen, and even though he's talked to a lot of people by now, seeing Asch in the cage just makes him come over with tears all over again and that's stupid.
He's trying to be stoic, and failing, as he approaches the cage. His voice breaks on his first attempt to speak and he hates it. ]
H-- ... hey. I ... I wanted to come keep you company.
no subject
this poor kid he keeps tricking into giving a shit about him somehow
say. say something comforting, asch. be nice, for ONCE!!!]
...Thanks.
[oh
it's just that easy.]
no subject
... here. Do you need help?
[ He's got a blanket and a pillow does Asch need help betting them through the bars of the cage ]
no subject
[he reaches uno (1) hand through, and drags the pillow and blanket into his pile. it is nest-esque now, filled with every soft thing someone's brought him, enough comfort to make it through the night.
...
well, this is going to be on him. he can't expect the 13-year-old to drive their conversations.
okay.
small talk.]
...How are you doing?
[that probably could've gone better.]
no subject
[ it's the pale ghost of humor, here to haunt us all. ]
You don't get to ask me that. [ rubs his nose with the back of his arm. ] Jerk. Idiot. Asking people to vote for you.
no subject
...Well, it worked.
[humor! we're still doing that, right buddy??]
no subject
[ isaac is smiling, but he also looks like he wants to cry, so who really won, here ]
no subject
but there's just... something about it. the candor, the jokes, the ease of speech. the closest comparison he has is Ginji, in the quieter moments, rattling off facts about the Albiore, trying to get a laugh out of him, his face lighting up if he ever so much as made a particularly breathy exhale at a punchline.
the final descent to Eldrant, just the two of them.
this really is enough, somehow.
isn't it weird how he kept learning that too late?]
I'm sorry.
[it's weird. but the apology seems to be about a lot more than just the joke.]
no subject
Asch apologizes, actually, genuinely apologizes, and Isaac just
loses it.
He lets his forehead rest against the cage and just dissolves into hiccupy tears. ]
Stupid. [ whispered, so asch can’t hear his voice crack. ] Now is when you finally say sorry to me?
[ ah, even in tears the child can still sass. ]
no subject
It's not recent. He's been angry. Sad. Betrayed. Lost. Alone. Hurt, physically and emotionally. His voice has wavered, cracking as he hissed out the words. But he didn't cry. At some point, when he was much, much younger, he was told that boys didn't. Certainly not boys who are next in line for the throne. Certainly not kings.
So, just like everything else he was told to do, he obeyed. There wasn't a lot of room for rebellion in the Duchy.
Not for him.
How old was Isaac? Thirteen? It was definitely before that. Earlier. Younger. A scraped knee in the manor, maybe. Or a bee sting, perhaps. Maybe he'd just been told, and... hadn't. He'd always been good at keeping to the rules.
What was it like, then, to cry so openly, so freely? To be born, to be raised in a world where that was allowed? He'd hated Luke for it—but envied it, as well. It was a cage, certainly—but within it, his replica was afforded the casual liberty to break every golden rule he'd ever known. What was it like to have both? The freedom, both within and without?
...
Tentatively, he reaches through the cage with his hand—and, on discovering no resistance, gently, hesitantly, puts it on Isaac's head.]
You're right.
I should have said it sooner.
no subject
But he never would have expected it to hinge on Asch. The guy who, like two DAYS into their stay at the mansion, broke a leg off a table and basically stabbed him in the throat with it.
Why is he crying so hard for someone he barely knows?
No... no, that's not the real question, or even the right one.
Why did he only figure out that he's got an older brother that he can look up to and rely on the day before that person dies? Why did he only realize yesterday how fallible, how human, Asch ultimately was?
If you asked him, he'd say he's no better at people than Asch himself. And yet, here they both are, bound in some inextricable, inexplicable way that neither wanted nor planned for.
But Asch puts a hand on Isaac's head, a comforting gesture he would have bled to earn from literally anyone in his life back home, and...
just...
sobs. Like a kid, gasping and sniffling and hiccuping, the whole nine yards. ]
Shut up...! [ his voice is so thin and warps around his tears and he hates it. ] How could you do this? How dare you-- you're not just my friend, Asch, you're, you're like a brother to me, and I only just figured it out and you're leaving--
[ his face is beet red from the force of his emotion. He'll reach up to grip the bars of the cage, overwhelmed in the face of this torrent of grief. His own grief, so predictable yet so unexpected. ]
I don't want you to say sorry. I want you to live. That's all I want, that's all I wanted...
no subject
[What do you say, when nothing will make it better? When there's no right words to say?
Bereft of voice, throat knotted, and awash in a sea of raw emotion, both his own and shared, he flounders.
Friend? He wished he could tell him, truthfully, that if so, he was a member of a very small group—membership in the lower half of the single digits, and not because it was exclusive. People sought him for information, for the tools he wielded, not the company he kept. He was no friend.
Brother? What brother would allow their sibling to suffer like this, to sink deeper into the bottomless abyss that he was only too aware, from experience, held no bottom? A consummate only child, always looking out for himself first? He was no brother.
Even pitched into his hands so forcefully, the words, the sentiment, the pure feeling behind them—still felt undeserved. Didn't he start this off by beating the shit out of him? Friend? Brother? There had to be some mistake. Isaac just wasn't thinking clearly.
Or maybe, he was just scared. Scared of the responsibilities inherent in the titles—and just how quickly he was going to fuck them up.
How do you comfort someone, when you're afraid, too?
Slowly, carefully, he leans forward, ignoring the screaming pain of his ribs, back, the fried nerve remains of his right arm—and wraps his left all the way around Isaac's sob-racked shoulders, in what he hopes like hell is somewhere in the neighborhood of a comforting embrace.]
Then I want you to live for me.
Okay?
no subject
Asch's arm around his shoulders, the bars of the cage making this awkward and strange, a gesture that's come too late for either of them to truly appreciate its significance, or at least live with the consequence of it--
Because Asch will stop living pretty soon, and Isaac just can't deal with it at all.
It's not much, but it's something, and Isaac huddles even closer to the cage if possible, tries to make it even a little easier on Asch when he knows this must hurt since the guy is still so injured. But if anything he cries even harder, the kind of crying that makes you feel like you might throw up, that makes your face hurt.
Eventually Isaac manages to gasp a breath and he says: ]
I will...! I'll live for both of us, so...
I-I'll look for you, okay? Whatever it takes... I'll find an answer...!
no subject
This damn kid. Where was he going to find him?]
Okay.
[With a last shoulder grip of pressure, Asch lets go, his arm sliding back into the containment. It takes a moment for him to re-arrange himself amongst the restraints, to find the position the is the least uncomfortable. The result is somewhat of him sagging, exhausted, against the invisible chains, pillows and blankets askew. Still, somehow or other, his expression towards Isaac is light, even if it's a.]
Then... I'll leave the rest up to you.
[The face of a man who has made peace with his life expectancy—and now only regrets the people they have to leave behind.]