[Every time Dirk or Bro made him cry before, it felt like breaking, like someone put too much pressure on his edge and he snapped like a cheap blade, and the emotion flooded out of him until he was empty.
This is slow, like the snowfall on Jade's silent planet. Slow like falling apart in Xion's arms, like diffusing into the air like a breath of light.]
But I won't. [There's a kind of despair that sounds almost like something funny, like he's spent so long staring his end in the face it's like an old friend whose humorless jokes have become familiar. He accepts it despondently, but desperately. But tenderly. But sadly, stubbornly proud.] It always comes down to the same thing. Even if I had the choice again, I know what I'd pick.
[He lets go of her shirt to slide his arms gently around her, to bend his neck and rest his head on her shoulder--to let Xion hold him safe.
It always comes down to this: him, or someone he loves.
He will go even if it rips him apart, because the alternative is worse. The alternative isn't even a choice, unless breathing, unless muscle memory is a choice. The alternative is unthinkable.
His voice is so small when he speaks again.]
I'm sorry.
[His breath skips like a bad record, shudders on the way out. Something warm and slow and wet traces down his cheek. His lungs jerk when he sniffs. That stubborn resignation is gone--he can only plea, now, helplessly. Please understand. Please don't take this away from him.]
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This is slow, like the snowfall on Jade's silent planet. Slow like falling apart in Xion's arms, like diffusing into the air like a breath of light.]
But I won't. [There's a kind of despair that sounds almost like something funny, like he's spent so long staring his end in the face it's like an old friend whose humorless jokes have become familiar. He accepts it despondently, but desperately. But tenderly. But sadly, stubbornly proud.] It always comes down to the same thing. Even if I had the choice again, I know what I'd pick.
[He lets go of her shirt to slide his arms gently around her, to bend his neck and rest his head on her shoulder--to let Xion hold him safe.
It always comes down to this: him, or someone he loves.
He will go even if it rips him apart, because the alternative is worse. The alternative isn't even a choice, unless breathing, unless muscle memory is a choice. The alternative is unthinkable.
His voice is so small when he speaks again.]
I'm sorry.
[His breath skips like a bad record, shudders on the way out. Something warm and slow and wet traces down his cheek. His lungs jerk when he sniffs. That stubborn resignation is gone--he can only plea, now, helplessly. Please understand. Please don't take this away from him.]
I can't--I can't do anything else.