[Aches and pains and stings and knowing but not knowing settles into an odd, disconnected numbness. Distantly, there's the realization that it's all too much. That he's feeling overwhelmed, along with everything else.
And then Idia's hand is on his arm.
It's not a trespass like it was before. It's warm, now, after everything. The touch is light enough that if he wanted to, he could shrug it off and have the confidence that Idia would actually let him.
He'd lashed out, and Idia reassured him in return, not with platitudes, but with an acknowledgement that he would have done something similar.
It's more of a comfort than it has any right to be, and finally, finally, the tears start to fall in big drops that make his vision blur and his eyes sting, even as he hurriedly rubs at his eyes with his sleeves to try and force it away.
There's being seen, and then there's being Known, and if this small bit of affection is enough to make him sob, then Idia is one step closer to Knowing him, much as that ship may have already sailed.]
W-we're really not, are we? [A sniff, a hitch of breathing, and finally, at the quiet assurance that Idia won't tell anyone about this? He breaks. He doubles over entirely, allows himself to just sob, because even now there's that worry, that fear of being known, that that's the final push to topple the remaining shreds of his composure.
It's not cute. It's raw and open and before long there's a hand clutching far too tightly at the hem of Idia's hoodie in some feeble reach to reciprocate some kind of connection.]
no subject
And then Idia's hand is on his arm.
It's not a trespass like it was before. It's warm, now, after everything. The touch is light enough that if he wanted to, he could shrug it off and have the confidence that Idia would actually let him.
He'd lashed out, and Idia reassured him in return, not with platitudes, but with an acknowledgement that he would have done something similar.
It's more of a comfort than it has any right to be, and finally, finally, the tears start to fall in big drops that make his vision blur and his eyes sting, even as he hurriedly rubs at his eyes with his sleeves to try and force it away.
There's being seen, and then there's being Known, and if this small bit of affection is enough to make him sob, then Idia is one step closer to Knowing him, much as that ship may have already sailed.]
W-we're really not, are we? [A sniff, a hitch of breathing, and finally, at the quiet assurance that Idia won't tell anyone about this? He breaks. He doubles over entirely, allows himself to just sob, because even now there's that worry, that fear of being known, that that's the final push to topple the remaining shreds of his composure.
It's not cute. It's raw and open and before long there's a hand clutching far too tightly at the hem of Idia's hoodie in some feeble reach to reciprocate some kind of connection.]