"It is a lonely road, sometimes, seeing what we see. Knowing what we know."
Why is his vision so blurry? Why do his insides feel like mush all over, destroyed and disintegrated into a hundred pieces in a way he never really let anyone else perceive? Not until today, before this doll who claims not to have a heart and yet, understands him like she has one.
A beautiful, impossible being, delicate and deliberate, who comprehends what it means to try, and try, and try again—only to feel the world fall apart in your hands like ash and saltwater.
She sees him.
All of him.
Maybe it would take a thousand years to count the cost of everything he's lost. Maybe longer.
But somehow... it feels like he could bear it now.
With her.
"I'm here."
With the quiet, gentle warmth from Azathoth-so unlike its usual consuming cold. Even the vast silence in his mind stirs, broken not by terror but by a single, trembling piano note. Something human. Something tender.
A miracle. His heart can create miracles.
And she's...accepting it. All of it. The ruin. The tremors. The vulnerability. She doesn’t flinch from his wreckage. Doesn’t pity him. Doesn’t recoil. She meets his eyes without judgment, as though she’s been waiting to carry this with him all along.
He freezes as her arms come around him-an instinctive disbelief that such grace could be meant for him. Pretence flickers, that old habit to hold himself at a distance. But it crumbles. He lets go.
Like fate had once again fought against him and failed, and he held her like he had hoped he would. Residing in a place inside her chest where he belonged.
He abandoned all pretence. All the walls that threatened to pull him away as he broke into pieces, knowing Kuon would catch him on the other side.
His knee bumped against hers, shoulders broad and open as his arms curled around Kuon's waist. Tall as he is, it takes nothing at all to close the space between them. To let her feel how deeply he wants this.
He holds her with purpose, with promise, with gratitude so large it aches.
And as his breath shudders and the tears fall freely, Rumi’s laughter echoes softer, more distant in his memory.
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Why is his vision so blurry? Why do his insides feel like mush all over, destroyed and disintegrated into a hundred pieces in a way he never really let anyone else perceive? Not until today, before this doll who claims not to have a heart and yet, understands him like she has one.
A beautiful, impossible being, delicate and deliberate, who comprehends what it means to try, and try, and try again—only to feel the world fall apart in your hands like ash and saltwater.
She sees him.
All of him.
Maybe it would take a thousand years to count the cost of everything he's lost. Maybe longer.
But somehow... it feels like he could bear it now.
With her.
"I'm here."
With the quiet, gentle warmth from Azathoth-so unlike its usual consuming cold. Even the vast silence in his mind stirs, broken not by terror but by a single, trembling piano note. Something human. Something tender.
A miracle. His heart can create miracles.
And she's...accepting it. All of it. The ruin. The tremors. The vulnerability. She doesn’t flinch from his wreckage. Doesn’t pity him. Doesn’t recoil. She meets his eyes without judgment, as though she’s been waiting to carry this with him all along.
He freezes as her arms come around him-an instinctive disbelief that such grace could be meant for him. Pretence flickers, that old habit to hold himself at a distance. But it crumbles. He lets go.
Like fate had once again fought against him and failed, and he held her like he had hoped he would. Residing in a place inside her chest where he belonged.
He abandoned all pretence. All the walls that threatened to pull him away as he broke into pieces, knowing Kuon would catch him on the other side.
His knee bumped against hers, shoulders broad and open as his arms curled around Kuon's waist. Tall as he is, it takes nothing at all to close the space between them. To let her feel how deeply he wants this.
He holds her with purpose, with promise, with gratitude so large it aches.
And as his breath shudders and the tears fall freely, Rumi’s laughter echoes softer, more distant in his memory.