[ A long stretch of silence follows, punctuated only by the unnaturally slow sounds of Dokja breathing. Like he's trying to keep it together. Like if he inhales a little too quickly or exhales a little too shakily, he'll fall apart.
No, Gen isn't wrong. In fact, he's exactly right. This is a trauma he's carried with him throughout his school years and then some. He'd always thought it was behind him, but hearing it like this, spoken to him like this, dredges up old memories that had long been buried. He's supposed to be an adult now, long past those years of torment, but who is he fooling? He'll carry that trauma with him for the rest of his long, long life.
And what a long life it's been.
Maybe that's what has him blinking the focus back to his eyes. Maybe that's why, when he thinks about it in the grand scheme of how much fucked up shit he's experienced, his troubled past feels like a speck of dust in comparison. Yes, he was bullied. Yes, he whined, cried, and cowered. And so what if it's easier to feel sorry for himself than accept help? So what if that had resulted in abandoning all the people he loves and cares about, leaving him to spend thousands of years on his own in an attempt to selfishly keep them alive? He had saved them. He had used his meaningless life to fight for everyone but himself, because they were worth every single drop of blood he'd personally dug into his skin for. Every tear that he'd cried, every death that he'd beckoned to him.
He had saved them.
A burst of anger ignites in his chest, his poised exterior threatening to melt away as his expression twists with indignation. He wants so badly to hurt Gen the way the boy has done to him, and he grips the table under him so hard that it fractures, a thin crack running almost halfway across. Not enough to snap the table in two, but nearly there, and turning heads in the process. ]
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No, Gen isn't wrong. In fact, he's exactly right. This is a trauma he's carried with him throughout his school years and then some. He'd always thought it was behind him, but hearing it like this, spoken to him like this, dredges up old memories that had long been buried. He's supposed to be an adult now, long past those years of torment, but who is he fooling? He'll carry that trauma with him for the rest of his long, long life.
And what a long life it's been.
Maybe that's what has him blinking the focus back to his eyes. Maybe that's why, when he thinks about it in the grand scheme of how much fucked up shit he's experienced, his troubled past feels like a speck of dust in comparison. Yes, he was bullied. Yes, he whined, cried, and cowered. And so what if it's easier to feel sorry for himself than accept help? So what if that had resulted in abandoning all the people he loves and cares about, leaving him to spend thousands of years on his own in an attempt to selfishly keep them alive? He had saved them. He had used his meaningless life to fight for everyone but himself, because they were worth every single drop of blood he'd personally dug into his skin for. Every tear that he'd cried, every death that he'd beckoned to him.
He had saved them.
A burst of anger ignites in his chest, his poised exterior threatening to melt away as his expression twists with indignation. He wants so badly to hurt Gen the way the boy has done to him, and he grips the table under him so hard that it fractures, a thin crack running almost halfway across. Not enough to snap the table in two, but nearly there, and turning heads in the process. ]
No. [ Breathe. ] You're not wrong.