( nerve disorder? fuck, late stage syphillis? fella sounds way too calm for that, but stranger things sure have happened here. he's out the door without another word, though he's got his tablet in the crook'a his arm. )
( he orients himself in that direction an' sets off at a good clip, makes it there in decent time an' steps in without knockin'. once he sees sora he'll head for him, hands held out visibly so the boy can see he ain't armed. old habits.
breathing seems all right. he ain't pale from shock or some manner of hypovolemia, though that's harder to gauge with the soft golden glow of his lantern colourin' things some. he sits down beside sora on whatever he happens to be perched on.
can't shake the fact he looks like vanitas. lordy, they could be brothers. so of course his first question becomes, )
When was the last time you ate or drank anythin' of substance?
[He feels better near the water. It's not a physical thing, but of all the things that make him feel close to home the water is the biggest one. There's something immeasurably comforting about the slushing sound it makes, when the waves come up against the wood of the pier. He hasn't been able to bring himself to leave the boathouse much but when he does it's always to go here, lantern tucked againt his side and both shoes beside them. His feet don't quite reach, just his toes. But maybe it's enough. It's hard to know.
Nothing's as bad as that first night, but he hasn't felt the same either. There's something hollow inside him that he can't figure out how to name- and it's worse without his friends around, in all the quiet. But he can't bring himself to ask them to stay either. Isn't that the problem? How desperate they'd been to stay together?
His head lifts at the sound of approaching footsteps and it follows as he sits down beside him. They're strangers to one another. But.
Sora shakes it off, brows drawn softly together.]
I had breakfast this morning. Riku made me eat the canned greenbeans too.
( okay, so it ain't a matter of the same affliction, then. he gestures for sora's wrist with one hand. no stethoscope to speak of in his bag of magic tricks, but he can take pulse an' measure breathin' the old fashioned way. )
May I?
( if sora consents to it, gene'll press the pads of his fingers in against the inside of his wrist, sussin' out his pulse an' keepin' time in the back of his mind. )
Sounds like this Riku ( fella? lady? he ain't familiar with the name. then again, he'd have thought sora was a lady's name too. ) — person's got a good head on their shoulders. When did this pain'a yours start? You said a few days ago, yeah? Can you think of an exact time an' what you were doin' then?
[Be it his trusting nature or just the peace and security he was afforded by growing up on the island- Sora offers his arm out willingly. He isn't shy about the touch even if he hasn't entirely grown out of his fear of doctors. There was a whole year before school started where Sora cried every time his parents told him he needed to get shots, but it was going with Riku and seeing him sit through them like nothing that helping him tough it out. And if he held his friend's and and squeezed so he wouldn't cry again, then nobody said anything about that either.
Still, it's hard to imagine feeling worse the he does. Not because he's in unimaginable pain but because- it's hard to feel anything at all now.
His wrist stays in hand, but Soras gaze travels to the boathouse. As if he expects it to be haunted.]
I was sleeping and it woke me up. I felt myself- [The word sticks, a beat of hesitation.
His fingers curl, a reflexive attempt to tuck in close to his body.] die.
( he raises both eyebrows, just a touch. died like that before. which means some manner of implication that he's died some other way, some other time. christ o'lordy just what is it he's dealin' with here? gene eases back from the boy an' pats him once on the shoulder, sussin' things out from what he knows.
ain't hurt. no shock, no hypovolemia, no sign of anythin' diabetic - no smell on the breath, no slurrin' his words. can't be a good judge of blood pressure with just the systolic, but. that pulse feels strong beneath the pads of his fingers, a good enough sign on its own. so, then, somethin' psychological? that sure ain't his wheelhouse, it weren't like they ever sat him down at fort bennin' an' told him to ruminate on the ills of the mind. fix bullet holes, broken wounds, shrapnel injuries, trouble yourself about lacerations an' abrasions an' trench foot an' every manner of goddamned vd under the sun, but, to the rest? he can't even begin to fathom. )
An' nobody was messin' with your lantern when this happened, yeah?
( kid seems battleworn in a way he's used to seein' in folks subsumed by war. just the way he's lookin' around, thousand yard stare if it's a damn foot. )
[His head shakes, but it feels strangely disconnected from his body. Like a gesture someone else is making, or like he's in the middle of a dream and can't be sure if any of these small movements mean anything at all. Sora's pulse is steady and strong, the rhythm of his breath doesn't betray a sense of panic. There's nothing remarkable about him at all except that he feels a little cold, especially for the heatwave.
Beyond them the boathouse is just as dark as the rest of the coast. No windows or doors flicker with moving lantern light, to betray the figures inside; instead, like the docks themselves and even the lighthouse way out east- it's one more black silhouette against a black background. As least they have the stars, and most nights even the moon.
The words sit inside him and Sora's fingers flex, curl in on themselves- and then in a very conscious decision, unspool once more. He's never thought all that much about what to say before- not like this. He knows that he wears his heart on his sleeve. He leaps in without thinking and counts on the counsel of more level-headed friends. But he doesn't talk about things like this with them. How could he?
It's easier to let the words out when his gaze lowers, when he doesn't see someone looking back at him.]
I think- [But he doesn't, really. It's not a thought. He knows, doesn't he?]
I felt somebody I know.
But even though the pain stopped- [It's reflex, the way that one hand finds its way to his chest, tightens in the fabric of his shirt.] I just feel so. Empty.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
meanwhile
Date: 2019-07-21 10:46 pm (UTC)Where're you at, son?
no subject
Date: 2019-07-21 10:49 pm (UTC)I live in the boathouse.
I didn't really know where else to go.
> action
Date: 2019-07-21 10:56 pm (UTC)breathing seems all right. he ain't pale from shock or some manner of hypovolemia, though that's harder to gauge with the soft golden glow of his lantern colourin' things some. he sits down beside sora on whatever he happens to be perched on.
can't shake the fact he looks like vanitas. lordy, they could be brothers. so of course his first question becomes, )
When was the last time you ate or drank anythin' of substance?
no subject
Date: 2019-07-21 11:20 pm (UTC)Nothing's as bad as that first night, but he hasn't felt the same either. There's something hollow inside him that he can't figure out how to name- and it's worse without his friends around, in all the quiet. But he can't bring himself to ask them to stay either. Isn't that the problem? How desperate they'd been to stay together?
His head lifts at the sound of approaching footsteps and it follows as he sits down beside him. They're strangers to one another. But.
Sora shakes it off, brows drawn softly together.]
I had breakfast this morning. Riku made me eat the canned greenbeans too.
no subject
Date: 2019-07-22 04:01 am (UTC)May I?
( if sora consents to it, gene'll press the pads of his fingers in against the inside of his wrist, sussin' out his pulse an' keepin' time in the back of his mind. )
Sounds like this Riku ( fella? lady? he ain't familiar with the name. then again, he'd have thought sora was a lady's name too. ) — person's got a good head on their shoulders. When did this pain'a yours start? You said a few days ago, yeah? Can you think of an exact time an' what you were doin' then?
no subject
Date: 2019-07-22 10:11 am (UTC)Still, it's hard to imagine feeling worse the he does. Not because he's in unimaginable pain but because- it's hard to feel anything at all now.
His wrist stays in hand, but Soras gaze travels to the boathouse. As if he expects it to be haunted.]
I was sleeping and it woke me up. I felt myself- [The word sticks, a beat of hesitation.
His fingers curl, a reflexive attempt to tuck in close to his body.] die.
...But I've never died like that before
no subject
Date: 2019-07-23 03:32 am (UTC)ain't hurt. no shock, no hypovolemia, no sign of anythin' diabetic - no smell on the breath, no slurrin' his words. can't be a good judge of blood pressure with just the systolic, but. that pulse feels strong beneath the pads of his fingers, a good enough sign on its own. so, then, somethin' psychological? that sure ain't his wheelhouse, it weren't like they ever sat him down at fort bennin' an' told him to ruminate on the ills of the mind. fix bullet holes, broken wounds, shrapnel injuries, trouble yourself about lacerations an' abrasions an' trench foot an' every manner of goddamned vd under the sun, but, to the rest? he can't even begin to fathom. )
An' nobody was messin' with your lantern when this happened, yeah?
( kid seems battleworn in a way he's used to seein' in folks subsumed by war. just the way he's lookin' around, thousand yard stare if it's a damn foot. )
that feel when you reread phone tags and die over every typo
Date: 2019-07-23 06:24 pm (UTC)Beyond them the boathouse is just as dark as the rest of the coast. No windows or doors flicker with moving lantern light, to betray the figures inside; instead, like the docks themselves and even the lighthouse way out east- it's one more black silhouette against a black background. As least they have the stars, and most nights even the moon.
The words sit inside him and Sora's fingers flex, curl in on themselves- and then in a very conscious decision, unspool once more. He's never thought all that much about what to say before- not like this. He knows that he wears his heart on his sleeve. He leaps in without thinking and counts on the counsel of more level-headed friends. But he doesn't talk about things like this with them. How could he?
It's easier to let the words out when his gaze lowers, when he doesn't see someone looking back at him.]
I think- [But he doesn't, really. It's not a thought. He knows, doesn't he?]
I felt somebody I know.
But even though the pain stopped- [It's reflex, the way that one hand finds its way to his chest, tightens in the fabric of his shirt.] I just feel so. Empty.
And I don't know how to fix it.