[He doesn't go home. It's better that he doesn't. He does message Ryne and tells her his plans to be away for a few days, citing to wanting to snoop around the university campus some more. It'll just be easier, he tells her, to grab a quick nap and a bite to eat in one of the empty apartments close to the grounds, rather than going back and forth every day. It's not much of an excuse, and he doesn't try very hard to make it an impenetrable one, but she doesn't ask. Possibly she knows it's better if she doesn't.
It's not that he's outright avoiding people or trying to make himself hard to be found. It's more just that he needs a structure that isn't to be found anywhere else in the city — he doesn't want to talk, he doesn't want to discuss, he doesn't want Y'shtola's nagging voice in his head reminding him that he's doing it again. He just wants to do something that makes sense. He just wants to do something that isn't thinking about what happens to a body when a hundred thousand tonze of superheated steel falls on it.
The first day it rains. He goes for a run and regrets it, comes back wet as a dog only to remember that he doesn't have a change of clothes.
(He let Reno keep his shirt, after that night he stayed over. Likely he's still got it.)
The second day he knows better. He remembers the clothes. He showers after he works out. He's lying on his back on the borrowed apartment mattress staring up at the ceiling (waiting for it to fall) when his stomach gnaws and he remembers that he didn't eat.
(Reno always has leftovers in his fridge. It never takes more than a tenth-bell to heat them up.)
The third day it's clearer again. He goes for a run in clothes suited for it. He picks up something to eat on the way back. The sky gets dark early but there's still plenty of light left in the warm, if impersonal, apartment and he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
(Reno would be on the couch with him. Better under his arm than drunk on gin at the club, or worse, in the gutter.)
Three days is too many. His muscles ache with how hard he's pushed them, trying to forget. Trying to feel something. Trying to exhaust himself too much to feel anything at all.
(Reno does the same thing. Or maybe it's the opposite. Overdoes it just to feel, or to stop feeling, or both.)
It never goes away. The slaughter at the Waking Sands is still on his hands. The ones who died at the Praetorium, the victims of Ultima Weapon — his hands. His body, his soul, taken. Used. His fault. His burden. There is no measuring which is "worse". It's all worse. It's all death.
(Why is he acting as though if he just waits long enough, it will somehow go away?)
I'm sorry, Reno said. He looks at that text at least twenty times a day. And the more he looks at it, the less it sounds like an apology and the more it just sounds like...]
reno
[...the truth?]
turn your phone on
[It is the world's most pointless text on earth. No one ever said he was great at this.]
no subject
It's not that he's outright avoiding people or trying to make himself hard to be found. It's more just that he needs a structure that isn't to be found anywhere else in the city — he doesn't want to talk, he doesn't want to discuss, he doesn't want Y'shtola's nagging voice in his head reminding him that he's doing it again. He just wants to do something that makes sense. He just wants to do something that isn't thinking about what happens to a body when a hundred thousand tonze of superheated steel falls on it.
The first day it rains. He goes for a run and regrets it, comes back wet as a dog only to remember that he doesn't have a change of clothes.
(He let Reno keep his shirt, after that night he stayed over. Likely he's still got it.)
The second day he knows better. He remembers the clothes. He showers after he works out. He's lying on his back on the borrowed apartment mattress staring up at the ceiling (waiting for it to fall) when his stomach gnaws and he remembers that he didn't eat.
(Reno always has leftovers in his fridge. It never takes more than a tenth-bell to heat them up.)
The third day it's clearer again. He goes for a run in clothes suited for it. He picks up something to eat on the way back. The sky gets dark early but there's still plenty of light left in the warm, if impersonal, apartment and he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
(Reno would be on the couch with him. Better under his arm than drunk on gin at the club, or worse, in the gutter.)
Three days is too many. His muscles ache with how hard he's pushed them, trying to forget. Trying to feel something. Trying to exhaust himself too much to feel anything at all.
(Reno does the same thing. Or maybe it's the opposite. Overdoes it just to feel, or to stop feeling, or both.)
It never goes away. The slaughter at the Waking Sands is still on his hands. The ones who died at the Praetorium, the victims of Ultima Weapon — his hands. His body, his soul, taken. Used. His fault. His burden. There is no measuring which is "worse". It's all worse. It's all death.
(Why is he acting as though if he just waits long enough, it will somehow go away?)
I'm sorry, Reno said. He looks at that text at least twenty times a day. And the more he looks at it, the less it sounds like an apology and the more it just sounds like...]
reno
[...the truth?]
turn your phone on
[It is the world's most pointless text on earth. No one ever said he was great at this.]