[ The Unversed pushes up over itself, finds a shape— it rises up on four short legs, a bulky mass like a rock given form, emblazoned with his symbol. Long red eyes curve down what must be the front of it, two slashes that seem to give it an expression of deep pain and sorrow, and it totters off toward the wall of the shed, where it curls up in the darkest corner. ]
I said can take it. I can take it.
[ He doesn't shout it, not the way he was yelling at Quentin minutes ago, his whole body alight with adrenalin and pain. He repeats it like a mantra, almost to himself. Some of it is wearing off now, the rapid hammer of his heart against his ribcage stuttering as it tries to find a new rhythm.
Vanitas has been run through, ripped apart. He's been beaten unconscious and had his heart shattered— but he can't measure this against any of those things. It hurts so badly that some parts of him have almost gone numb with it, this real flesh-and-blood body in these moments seems a far cry from the darkness-given-shape that he had been in his own universe.
Distantly, he can feel the thumb moving on the back of his neck through the solid shape of his armor. Some small, injured part of his heart longs for it to be more than just that— the piece of him that had fallen apart in the church in that spirit's hands and cried all over her until the pressure of her presence had knocked him out. He has always been without kindness in this life, but the buried part of him that knows what he was before he'd been split from Ventus aches for it. He doesn't reach for the vodka. His hand stays on Quentin's bare shoulder, but the bruising grip of it has given way to the tremor wracking his entire frame. ]
no subject
I said can take it. I can take it.
[ He doesn't shout it, not the way he was yelling at Quentin minutes ago, his whole body alight with adrenalin and pain. He repeats it like a mantra, almost to himself. Some of it is wearing off now, the rapid hammer of his heart against his ribcage stuttering as it tries to find a new rhythm.
Vanitas has been run through, ripped apart. He's been beaten unconscious and had his heart shattered— but he can't measure this against any of those things. It hurts so badly that some parts of him have almost gone numb with it, this real flesh-and-blood body in these moments seems a far cry from the darkness-given-shape that he had been in his own universe.
Distantly, he can feel the thumb moving on the back of his neck through the solid shape of his armor. Some small, injured part of his heart longs for it to be more than just that— the piece of him that had fallen apart in the church in that spirit's hands and cried all over her until the pressure of her presence had knocked him out. He has always been without kindness in this life, but the buried part of him that knows what he was before he'd been split from Ventus aches for it. He doesn't reach for the vodka. His hand stays on Quentin's bare shoulder, but the bruising grip of it has given way to the tremor wracking his entire frame. ]
I can take it.