whatever, vi is just clutching at strohl's arm tightly, her emotions thundercloudy and stressed, but in that sort of way where she's trying to mash them down into nothing. she's not freaked out you are!!! ]
well she's mashing her emotions down! strohl is not. his are just rancid - frustrated and angry, upset, vibrating into space. he's been like this pretty much all day, and the trauma bluescreen of the second cyoa's arrival only made it spiral from bad to worse. in a second later, it was fine, and then -
and then it wasn't. but he'd have to be stupid to not realise that it was affecting vi, that he can sort of guess why rosamund not being... rosamund is an issue, and so, tense, he'll lead them both towards the fort.
low and rumbling, he mutters: ] It'll wear off. [ for them both, for two wildly different reasons. ]
[ she shifts a little closer, leaning against him as they walk. ]
Yeah. It will. She'll be fine. [ deep breath. ] You okay?
[ she thinks she knows why he's feeling rancid - cyoa deaths are a touchy subject. and... well, she knows he missed her, too. even if it's only been a week. now that she's away from rosamund, it's a little better for her headspace, so. she focuses, glancing at him. ]
[ gruffly, a little clipped. in the way that says no.
and it's funny - there's a flash of a memory, before he realises it.
when you wake up that morning, you don't even read the announcement, because you don't have to. your side is cold. she was right next to you, leaning against your shoulder, injured, tired, but alive. and there's nothing there.
vi's not there.
the realisation hits you like thunder, and you see red. you don't even remember getting up. you don't remember moving. but the world around you goes to tunnel vision, your breath harsh, sharp pants as you storm past the pile of people in the room without paying anyone a second glance, because you can't you can't you can't
(she told you you helped her feel safe and what did you do? what did you do? you promised her and she was stolen away again, injured, hurt, someone attacked her when she was hurt again and you slept through it, useless, useless useless)
you grab your sword as the rage in you reaches a fever pitch of despair and fury. and you scream like a feral animal as you bring it down and strike - a departure screen flashing her name shatters in a cacophony of glass and electric sparks in front of you, cut wires and dead screen. dead, hurt vi. again. again, again, again.
in your shaking tunnel vision, you can see the weekly tattoo scrawling down your arm, the text getting larger and larger by the second. FAILED HER AGAIN FAILED HER AGAIN FAILED HER AGAI
-- he sucks in a breath as the memory fades, brief, and then shakes his head, hard, trying to clear it. ]
[ anyway, this. kicks her ass? it absolutely kicks her ass, devastates her. if she was ever uncertain of how much he cares about her, she sure fucking isn't now. a beat, and then she just turns and sweeps him up into a hug. sorry. sorry, she can't do anything other than that, her emotions all over the place. care, and concern, and a deep sort of touched feeling that makes her feel a little guilty.
[ AUGH swept up into vi's arms, it sort of - startles him? his emotions are a mess, a maelstrom of worry and still not quite gone grief, and guilt on his end too, a thread of it that curls through his stomach and never, ever leaves.
he's a little stiff in it, at first, but - eventually, he brings a hand up to hug her back, fisting it in the back of her clothes. it's so fucking frustrating, to be on this side and somehow still lose.
...
she'll hear him suck in a breath. it's a little wet, and there's heat burning behind his eyes as he screws them shut, tight, angry at himself, angry at the world, angry at this place, but he can keep it down. he can compose himself, he's stronger than he used to be. he's... here, this time. ]
... yeah. [ again; roughly, just as raw, and there's love there, deep and compassionate love - not in a romantic sense, but just a boundless compassion that fires his every synapse, his every good and his every bad. yeah. he'll be here. ] ...yeah. 's right.
[ she can't imagine how much worse it would've been if he hadn't been dead to welcome rosamund, really. she's kind of glad he is, past the selfish need she has for him here. yay, codependency.
she pulls him close and rests a hand on the back of his head. she doesn't mind that he's upset - she doesn't mind that he's angry. he should be. he can have the outlet with her, because she wants to give back, and so she does, her emotions quiet but coaxing. care and love, too. a bond she hasn't really felt since she stood on a roof with her little sister and promised her they'd make the city respect them. ]
Be pissed off.
[ she tells him, still muffled. ]
She'll come back, and you can be there for her, but until then, be fucking furious, man, don't push it down. It helps.
[ it helps her, anyway. maybe she can fight him. maybe that'll help both of them, honestly, she's thinking about it. ]
[ the anger doesn't quite go away, even through this - it's always there, pulsing somewhere under the surface, and when vi says the actual words, he scoffs a little, but it's not at her - just at the idea, in general. ]
Trust me, it's gone nowhere.
[ and it hasn't - and there's more to it than that. the frustration is more than just at this moment, it's bone deep and angry. it's the same ancient fury that drives him relating to home, to halia, the same fury he felt at louis, no matter the horrifying fact that they were similar, no matter the moment of brief, shattering empathy. it's buried in every piece of muscle and tissue of his body, in every line of sinew no matter how mature he gets, no matter how much learns to bite his tongue.
he's still tense, near vibrating, even, as he finally pulls back a little from the gesture, jittering in place, a pile of pent up energy and anger and grief (grief, sharp as a glass shard, grief that never goes away either) with nowhere to go. trapped on this side, trapped in this place, trapped, trapped, trapped. ] Place never takes enough, does it? Always has to get worse.
[ he pulls back, and she can see the jittery, horrible energy. ]
... She'll be fine. It's bad, but it could've been way worse.
[ maybe she sees things differently as someone who has been dead forever, but the deaths here are almost a relief, for her. it's one more person that remembers she exists. it's one more connection she can reignite. she's unhappy that rosamund died, that she went through the pain of it, but. now she doesn't have to suffer the living side anymore, and vi thinks that's almost more of a blessing than not.
still. she can feel the frustration in him, the fury, and she can match that. she knows that grief, too. and so instead of dragging him off to get drunk first, she pulls back the rest of the way, and shoves him a little. just to see. just to provoke. ]
If it hasn't gone anywhere, then let me see it, jackass.
[ if he wants - she won't press him to fight if he doesn't want to, but there's a goading emotion in her. c'mon. get that pent up energy out? ]
[ it's less the death than it is the helplessness. it's less the death than it is watching. it's the same as waking up in the aftermath of thursday nights knowing your best friend died when she was right next to you, the night before, and you were lulled into some forceful sleep and unable to do anything about it, knowing it happened twice. there's something so visceral about having to watch from a distance, and then to make it worse, the person returns all wrong, mind messed with beyond all belief. it's hard, for strohl. he's never once in his life been a passive observer, and he hates feeling powerless, because - well. it's a reminder of the past, of how worthless he actually is when it comes to protecting anyone he cares for.
all of those awful, rancid thoughts are swirling when she shoves him - they startle, a crystallised ! and he turns to look at her, scowling a little.
...
and then huffs, sets his hand on his shoulder, cracks his neck. ]
Show me the cage, then.
[ because in the end, he doesn't want to wallow. he's not the kind of person to wallow, either. maybe doing something will help, and - under all of that, there's this thread of gratitude. ]
[ she elbows him - bumps their shoulders together. she gets it. she really does. watching is torture, but she's learned how to deal with it through drinking herself to sleep and getting the shit beat out of her in a cage match, so. she gives him what she knows. it's certainly not talking about it. ]
Gotta fight me first.
[ she says, brushing at her mouth with her arm, before turning and leading him off towards the cage. she's not one for weapons, but with her gauntlets? it'll just be like weeks ago, after boothill's trial.
there's a familiarity there that she clings to. that she feels, so strongly. in fact, she echos it a little, as they're walking: ]
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w5, THURSDAY
whatever, vi is just clutching at strohl's arm tightly, her emotions thundercloudy and stressed, but in that sort of way where she's trying to mash them down into nothing. she's not freaked out you are!!! ]
no subject
well she's mashing her emotions down! strohl is not. his are just rancid - frustrated and angry, upset, vibrating into space. he's been like this pretty much all day, and the trauma bluescreen of the second cyoa's arrival only made it spiral from bad to worse. in a second later, it was fine, and then -
and then it wasn't. but he'd have to be stupid to not realise that it was affecting vi, that he can sort of guess why rosamund not being... rosamund is an issue, and so, tense, he'll lead them both towards the fort.
low and rumbling, he mutters: ] It'll wear off. [ for them both, for two wildly different reasons. ]
no subject
Yeah. It will. She'll be fine. [ deep breath. ] You okay?
[ she thinks she knows why he's feeling rancid - cyoa deaths are a touchy subject. and... well, she knows he missed her, too. even if it's only been a week. now that she's away from rosamund, it's a little better for her headspace, so. she focuses, glancing at him. ]
no subject
[ gruffly, a little clipped. in the way that says no.
and it's funny - there's a flash of a memory, before he realises it.
-- he sucks in a breath as the memory fades, brief, and then shakes his head, hard, trying to clear it. ]
no subject
no subject
silence, for a moment, and then: ]
It's not gonna happen again.
[ muffled, raw, pressed against his shoulder. ]
You're here this time.
no subject
he's a little stiff in it, at first, but - eventually, he brings a hand up to hug her back, fisting it in the back of her clothes. it's so fucking frustrating, to be on this side and somehow still lose.
...
she'll hear him suck in a breath. it's a little wet, and there's heat burning behind his eyes as he screws them shut, tight, angry at himself, angry at the world, angry at this place, but he can keep it down. he can compose himself, he's stronger than he used to be. he's... here, this time. ]
... yeah. [ again; roughly, just as raw, and there's love there, deep and compassionate love - not in a romantic sense, but just a boundless compassion that fires his every synapse, his every good and his every bad. yeah. he'll be here. ] ...yeah. 's right.
no subject
she pulls him close and rests a hand on the back of his head. she doesn't mind that he's upset - she doesn't mind that he's angry. he should be. he can have the outlet with her, because she wants to give back, and so she does, her emotions quiet but coaxing. care and love, too. a bond she hasn't really felt since she stood on a roof with her little sister and promised her they'd make the city respect them. ]
Be pissed off.
[ she tells him, still muffled. ]
She'll come back, and you can be there for her, but until then, be fucking furious, man, don't push it down. It helps.
[ it helps her, anyway. maybe she can fight him. maybe that'll help both of them, honestly, she's thinking about it. ]
no subject
Trust me, it's gone nowhere.
[ and it hasn't - and there's more to it than that. the frustration is more than just at this moment, it's bone deep and angry. it's the same ancient fury that drives him relating to home, to halia, the same fury he felt at louis, no matter the horrifying fact that they were similar, no matter the moment of brief, shattering empathy. it's buried in every piece of muscle and tissue of his body, in every line of sinew no matter how mature he gets, no matter how much learns to bite his tongue.
he's still tense, near vibrating, even, as he finally pulls back a little from the gesture, jittering in place, a pile of pent up energy and anger and grief (grief, sharp as a glass shard, grief that never goes away either) with nowhere to go. trapped on this side, trapped in this place, trapped, trapped, trapped. ] Place never takes enough, does it? Always has to get worse.
no subject
... She'll be fine. It's bad, but it could've been way worse.
[ maybe she sees things differently as someone who has been dead forever, but the deaths here are almost a relief, for her. it's one more person that remembers she exists. it's one more connection she can reignite. she's unhappy that rosamund died, that she went through the pain of it, but. now she doesn't have to suffer the living side anymore, and vi thinks that's almost more of a blessing than not.
still. she can feel the frustration in him, the fury, and she can match that. she knows that grief, too. and so instead of dragging him off to get drunk first, she pulls back the rest of the way, and shoves him a little. just to see. just to provoke. ]
If it hasn't gone anywhere, then let me see it, jackass.
[ if he wants - she won't press him to fight if he doesn't want to, but there's a goading emotion in her. c'mon. get that pent up energy out? ]
no subject
all of those awful, rancid thoughts are swirling when she shoves him - they startle, a crystallised ! and he turns to look at her, scowling a little.
...
and then huffs, sets his hand on his shoulder, cracks his neck. ]
Show me the cage, then.
[ because in the end, he doesn't want to wallow. he's not the kind of person to wallow, either. maybe doing something will help, and - under all of that, there's this thread of gratitude. ]
no subject
Gotta fight me first.
[ she says, brushing at her mouth with her arm, before turning and leading him off towards the cage. she's not one for weapons, but with her gauntlets? it'll just be like weeks ago, after boothill's trial.
there's a familiarity there that she clings to. that she feels, so strongly. in fact, she echos it a little, as they're walking: ]
Or try to, at least.