There isn't a whole lot he can say in response to that, is there? Words have only failed him every time he's dealt with Prince Ninurrta, and the offer of a fight-- to release your anger, Jin thinks, make you amendable to reason.)-- has fallen just as flat.
Maybe this'll work. Maybe it'll do better, even if he knows it's a risk. Jin reaches for the younger boy's shoulder, his grip steady but not firm. A reassuring presence, he hopes.]
You misunderstand. If I think of her as a friend, I will fail in my duties as her lord.
[ it's difficult, everything is poised on the edge of a knife and he's already cutting himself to ribbons, trying to hold onto it. trying to prevent dangerous and hurts, and coming to make them worse. this is ruinous.
( what is even worse, is the way his body traitorously leans into jin's touch. ) ]
What, so you're just going to keep yourself from feeling?
[Duty nothing. Friendship is friendship. Jin squeezes Ninurrta's arm gently, his body leaning in closer and turning inward-- he's listening carefully, as if all of him's focused on the younger boy.]
Being a leader and caring aren't mutually exclusive. She can be both. You won't fail her.
[Nin seems to only curl into himself. Jin tries again, now supporting both of his arms with his hands. His voice drops in volume, quiet, tentative. It's almost childish. But he needs it, Jin figures.]
Feeling means fracturing, and Ninurrta has been fracturing over and over, barely holding himself together. His arrival to Oska had been on the heels of such terrible knowledge, shaking his foundations to their core. That he is no prince, that worse yet, he is a traitor to his father and to the Merkavan throne. He saved her. That girl, Caladbolg's agent who held him against his will, who he should have killed. He had been... so close, nearly able to go through with it. Such a weak-hearted boy.
There had been the smallest chance; he could have gone home. He'd failed himself, and his father. He'd failed others, even here. Turned them aside, lost whatever had been growing between them. However fragile it had been. ]
I just --
[ He falters, and seems prepared to wrench himself out of Jin's hands. But. It's just... it's been so long. ]
[The boy hesitates in Jin's grasp, seeming to pull away but stopping, waiting. The answer's all in the negative space-- a cry for help, however feebly voiced, deserves some answer. Some action. (He'd been angry years ago. Raiden had allowed him to fight, let loose his muscles wound up tight like springs, feel the harsh strikes of real combat-- but he had also stopped to listen. He'd been there, a solid presence when there was little else for a teenage runaway to hang onto.)
And, well, what else is he supposed to do with Ninurrta breaking down in front of him?]
Hey. C'mon.
[Jin pulls Ninurrta in closer, holding the younger boy in a tight embrace.]
[ 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. ]
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no subject
There isn't a whole lot he can say in response to that, is there? Words have only failed him every time he's dealt with Prince Ninurrta, and the offer of a fight-- to release your anger, Jin thinks, make you amendable to reason.)-- has fallen just as flat.
Maybe this'll work. Maybe it'll do better, even if he knows it's a risk. Jin reaches for the younger boy's shoulder, his grip steady but not firm. A reassuring presence, he hopes.]
... And you're a good friend to her.
no subject
[ it's difficult, everything is poised on the edge of a knife and he's already cutting himself to ribbons, trying to hold onto it. trying to prevent dangerous and hurts, and coming to make them worse. this is ruinous.
( what is even worse, is the way his body traitorously leans into jin's touch. ) ]
The consequences of failing her would be... dire.
no subject
[Duty nothing. Friendship is friendship. Jin squeezes Ninurrta's arm gently, his body leaning in closer and turning inward-- he's listening carefully, as if all of him's focused on the younger boy.]
Being a leader and caring aren't mutually exclusive. She can be both. You won't fail her.
[Nin seems to only curl into himself. Jin tries again, now supporting both of his arms with his hands. His voice drops in volume, quiet, tentative. It's almost childish. But he needs it, Jin figures.]
You know--
I'm your friend, too.
no subject
I don't want to --
[ Feel.
Feeling means fracturing, and Ninurrta has been fracturing over and over, barely holding himself together. His arrival to Oska had been on the heels of such terrible knowledge, shaking his foundations to their core. That he is no prince, that worse yet, he is a traitor to his father and to the Merkavan throne. He saved her. That girl, Caladbolg's agent who held him against his will, who he should have killed. He had been... so close, nearly able to go through with it. Such a weak-hearted boy.
There had been the smallest chance; he could have gone home. He'd failed himself, and his father. He'd failed others, even here. Turned them aside, lost whatever had been growing between them. However fragile it had been. ]
I just --
[ He falters, and seems prepared to wrench himself out of Jin's hands. But. It's just... it's been so long. ]
I just want to be liked. I want...
[ ? ]
no subject
And, well, what else is he supposed to do with Ninurrta breaking down in front of him?]
Hey. C'mon.
[Jin pulls Ninurrta in closer, holding the younger boy in a tight embrace.]
You're gonna be fine.
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.