[DDD | 063 | Action] Evapartment - Forgetfulness can be a problem.

[redheadcarrier]

Life had been hectic for a while. In fact, she hadn't bothered to post or check the community in a long time. She didn't really have a need to. For the most part, she'd been trying to pick up the pieces of her life and make sense of what she was supposed to do here. That was the question she'd been asking herself ever since she arrived in this world. She had no desire to return to her old world, to the red sea and the ruins of Tokyo-3. But here, she was almost no one. Outside of the system and with no identity beyond what her friends had been able to cobble together for her.

At least she had a degree, still.

Those thoughts were, for the moment, gone. Life had been so hectic (especially since Shinji had come back and she still wasn't sure how she felt about that) that she'd missed something rather important to her. A particular anniversary that kept her going and prevented her from falling back into that trap of self-loathing and despair that shadowed her and reared its head at inopportune moments. So today, she'd brought home something, just to make up for the date they'd missed (almost two months ago to the day).

Asuka set the cake on the table (it wasn't anything speecial; store-bought and probably too much sugar, but better and easier than trying to make one on her own). Where was Kaworu, anyway? And Shinji for that matter.

It was going to be another awkward night in the apartment again, wasn't it?

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[eschatologist.livejournal.com]

And there is something small within him that mutes or murmurs. Something small within him that smothers or suffocates. And he can feel it burning bitterly behind teeth and upon tongue. Can feel it clawing, crooning aimlessly within his lungs. Can feel it when he draws not breath, but silence to himself. That seems to bleed or break or bend and spills forth or burbles up from some well, perhaps, that has always rested deep within him and speaks – not and always. Speaks, but has no name. But rests soundly in the fainter tightening of ribs or the curve of his fingers. In the way he seems to remember the first time she had laid her hand in his. The first time he had laid his hand in his. The first time –

And it is ineffable. And it is something without banks. And he cannot cup his hands for this. Cannot drink it down. Only feels it flowing like a river through him. Only feels it as it bypasses all attempts to distort his expression. Only – and there is a deafening stillness that holds in him. That paints something vacant in its wake. And suddenly, there is nothing at all. A void or neutrality in the way his look settles, beyond just the turn of understanding. Knowing, knowing – jealousy. Knowing, knowing – how much she had hurt. How much he had hurt. And how their hearts, once or presently weighed or weigh in his hands. How much pressure both might of withstood or withstand.

And he’s only listening to her. Only feeling the rise of syllables. The way they shake or they tremble. The sharper edge, and does not say a word. For a moment. Does not think to say a word, for a moment. Neither moving forward or moving back. Neither shifting or recoiling. Neither – and his voice carries something (too soft, almost), tangled up and impossible. Something like knowing or patience. Something like reassurance and understanding. Something like -

“Asuka.”

Silence.

[redheadcarrier.livejournal.com]

Her name. Just her name and that was all. And it went into a sudden stillness and quiet that settled over the room as Asuka stared at Kaworu, hands clenched into fists at her sides, jaw set, ready to unleash another wave of shame, of abuse, of anger. To let out everything that had ever tormented her, to focus all of her own self-loathing into a single string of rage directed at someone or something in the world. But that one word seems to deflate her, to let out some of the air and her shoulders slump and her gaze drops and suddenly she can't hold in the tension and the raw emotion anymore. Her throat feels tight, her breath catches and hitches and she sinks down onto the bed, covering her face with her hands as she starts to cry.

This wasn't how this night was supposed to be.

[eschatologist.livejournal.com]

And there is something in him that does not speak, but burns. Softer or dimmer. And there is something in him that does not answer, but breaks or crumbles. That turns to ashes on his tongue. That turns words to embers. That makes something sting and he feels it – the way her shoulders slump. The way her fists uncoil. The way all things seem to unravel. Slowly and quickly. As something that has been shoved to edge of some sorrow topples. Dominos. And nothing within him can seem to stop. Knows that nothing within him may ever stop it. Not wholly. Not entirely. (Not like this.)

And there is something in him that urges him to move. Something in him that urges him to budge as she crumples to their bed. As he feels the pull of some deep frustration and some deep sadness that is not his own. As he feels it tighten and tug. All along, knowing how much she had hurt in what ways he could. All along, remembering the way she had looked to him. The way she had remained by him. Determined and stubborn. Unable to admit. Able to deny. No death, no monster. No child left to learn to be human. No manner to leave her alone (and he had never wanted to, he had never meant to – he had never - )

And there is a quiet in the way he finally moves. In the way he finally crosses what distance seems too short and too long - and crouches down before her. A stillness in the way he dares not sit beside her, but merely before her. And does not reach to touch her, truly. Does not reach to touch her, fully. Fingers lingering upon each knee. Listening. Waiting for something. Waiting for anything. Waiting for – and there is something within him that causes him to blink. Hard. That causes him to look away, or look toward. That makes his body difficult to balance, though he balances. A sort of disjointed feeling, though he feels for himself her sobs. Feels for himself the weight of something that breaks within her. That mirrors or mimics within him, though does not ripple through him. Only drowns. Only stays. Only remains, his expression shifting to unreadable. (And he wonders how deeply the words are down, but he cannot dredge them. Cannot pull them up, feeling acutely the pain that is not his own. Feeling acutely something that is. And – )

Pulls.

And does not feel the odd tightening of his shoulders. Does not feel odd way his ribs ache. Does not – and weighs his fingers. A little heavier. A reassurance and a question. A promise or reminder. A search or offer. And listens.