There is a stillness. There is a hesitance. (And it spreads, slow. It spreads, quiet. And he can feel the way it spreads beneath muscle. Skin. Into bone. He can feel the softer stirring of something. Deeper. Can feel the ineffable cold of some ages. Can feel the way each syllable and sound. Burns through. Burns through. Touches upon what has already been greeted with hands that are not his own. Not Asuka's own. That have already been greeted with sharp words and sharper sentences. And he encases himself, behind it. Without thought. Without notion of it. He holds himself behind it. He listens to her, but his body makes no sound.)
His breath is bottled. And he can feel the pressure of his lungs. He can feel the numbness of the eventual and slow exhale. He can feel the foreign taste of words upon his tongue. And his eyes flicker down. His head turns, not away. Not toward. And he can feel the fissure that has been opened, even now. Can see the brightness of something that singes. That razes. Through and through.
Down.
"I am sorry, Asuka."
And the following comes without willingness. Words. It comes without wanting to. The fainter intonation of his voice. Filled with notes he cannot identify. Cannot seek to identify. (And he can feel something slipping. As he coaxes himself to raise his head. As he nudges himself to look to her. As something within his expression settles or stills, nameless.)
And he can feel the balance of his palms fall to the side. He can feel the duller ache, there. Remembering -- and the beat is slow.
no subject
His breath is bottled. And he can feel the pressure of his lungs. He can feel the numbness of the eventual and slow exhale. He can feel the foreign taste of words upon his tongue. And his eyes flicker down. His head turns, not away. Not toward. And he can feel the fissure that has been opened, even now. Can see the brightness of something that singes. That razes. Through and through.
Down.
"I am sorry, Asuka."
And the following comes without willingness. Words. It comes without wanting to. The fainter intonation of his voice. Filled with notes he cannot identify. Cannot seek to identify. (And he can feel something slipping. As he coaxes himself to raise his head. As he nudges himself to look to her. As something within his expression settles or stills, nameless.)
And he can feel the balance of his palms fall to the side. He can feel the duller ache, there. Remembering -- and the beat is slow.
"... What is it that you wish to ask of me?"