[ His hands crawl, like wicked things, wrapping around his throat, his jaw. Fingers digging in, as though he's prepared to strangle himself to prevent this raw, unfettered emotion from overtaking him. He's known his mother to place pins in her shoes, to grind her heel upon them when she feels tears prick at her eyes, so that she would instead bare her fangs against those who came to besmirch her reputation.
Instead, he clutches at the front of his uniform - Audentes-issued black, over the well-kept remains of the clothes he had brought from his own world. He clings to it, as Jin drags his stiff-shouldered, shaking form into an embrace.
The
The sound
He makes such a sound.
Shrill, rasping. A weak little cry, as his entire body curls in around itself, his head bowing and shoulders rising sharply, face pressed against Jin's sternum sharply. The girl, Caladbolg's agent, had held him like this, moments before he had tumbled through the rift and out of her grasp. She had told him there, there in the wake of his world's crumbling around him. Dead assassins, speared on blood-slick ice. The knowledge that he could never, ever go home upon pain of death, now. His father's final rejection (and oh, how that wound had opened when he had been rejected once more, by one who he had told resembled his father, foolishly, stupidly -- rejected for choosing Hayame, for defending her the way he had defended Siana; such a weak, stupid prince ).
He sobs for some time, a building thing that chokes him throughout every rasping cry. Undone, by the most simple act of kindness.
When he finally seems to settle, his hands hold Jin's shirt, his face pressed into the material ( sorry ) and he begins to uncurl from the knot of misery that he'd become. When he looks up, he -- he hasn't stopped crying, but the tears are silent now. They just won't stop flowing; it's been a lifetime of hurt, building and building. ]
Jin.
[ He says his name, and sounds impossibly young. Small. More the boy that he is than the adult he's expected to me. ]
no subject
Instead, he clutches at the front of his uniform - Audentes-issued black, over the well-kept remains of the clothes he had brought from his own world. He clings to it, as Jin drags his stiff-shouldered, shaking form into an embrace.
The
The sound
He makes such a sound.
Shrill, rasping. A weak little cry, as his entire body curls in around itself, his head bowing and shoulders rising sharply, face pressed against Jin's sternum sharply. The girl, Caladbolg's agent, had held him like this, moments before he had tumbled through the rift and out of her grasp. She had told him there, there in the wake of his world's crumbling around him. Dead assassins, speared on blood-slick ice. The knowledge that he could never, ever go home upon pain of death, now. His father's final rejection (and oh, how that wound had opened when he had been rejected once more, by one who he had told resembled his father, foolishly, stupidly -- rejected for choosing Hayame, for defending her the way he had defended Siana; such a weak, stupid prince ).
He sobs for some time, a building thing that chokes him throughout every rasping cry. Undone, by the most simple act of kindness.
When he finally seems to settle, his hands hold Jin's shirt, his face pressed into the material ( sorry ) and he begins to uncurl from the knot of misery that he'd become. When he looks up, he -- he hasn't stopped crying, but the tears are silent now. They just won't stop flowing; it's been a lifetime of hurt, building and building. ]
Jin.
[ He says his name, and sounds impossibly young. Small. More the boy that he is than the adult he's expected to me. ]
I want my mom.