[ falco swallows, swallows, and keeps swallowing, feeling hotness slither down his throat and the aches intensifying if he tried to sniff and adjust the back of his throat that . . . was chafing on something. bolts of metal lodged into his skull to keep these things in place. he tried to touch them again, but retreats his small hands into compressed, trembling fists when his stomach flipped so sickeningly at the thought— not of what it looked like, but what was done and why. he couldn't find an answer, he couldn't find an answer that didn't hurt him more than surgical soreness. what would compel anyone . . . to do this? why take his human jaws? because he was the "jaw" titan? it didn't make sense beyond wicked irony—
sayori, that was sayori talking, and it saves him the extra moment of dwelling on his questions to turn to her as if desperate for a light. her hand is so close but every single time he tries to extend his— even when his ears compress against the cool metal bars, he doesn't stretch too far. the pain keeps him from trying more, as does common sense that he'd only waste more energy. his fingers span and crawl at the stupid green tile and there'd always be an extra hand's worth of space keeping them apart. but he keeps it where he could, to show that if they were close enough, he'd definitely take her hand and hold it tight, just as tight as he's holding some balled fabric of his shirt, in hopes of tricking his mind into believing it was what he was reaching for.
silence is the warning that follows before he truly begins to bawl, even if it's only for a few seconds. falco brings his knees to his chest and leans into the bars as if begging it to hug him in sayori's place. he's never asked for much, he's never sought much of it because that's how things were but he'd always be fighting to see things different. he's always had hope. every time he opens his eyes now, it's as if the difference never existed and that hurt so fucking much. through his hics and sniffs comes a groan, and through the groan, a strained attempt at words.
why would someone, the words sound like. he tries again, but the muttered garbling is too arduous to make clearer, feeling like his lips, or what used to be of them, would tear at the slightest attempt to split them apart: it hurts miss sayori. ]
no subject
sayori, that was sayori talking, and it saves him the extra moment of dwelling on his questions to turn to her as if desperate for a light. her hand is so close but every single time he tries to extend his— even when his ears compress against the cool metal bars, he doesn't stretch too far. the pain keeps him from trying more, as does common sense that he'd only waste more energy. his fingers span and crawl at the stupid green tile and there'd always be an extra hand's worth of space keeping them apart. but he keeps it where he could, to show that if they were close enough, he'd definitely take her hand and hold it tight, just as tight as he's holding some balled fabric of his shirt, in hopes of tricking his mind into believing it was what he was reaching for.
silence is the warning that follows before he truly begins to bawl, even if it's only for a few seconds. falco brings his knees to his chest and leans into the bars as if begging it to hug him in sayori's place. he's never asked for much, he's never sought much of it because that's how things were but he'd always be fighting to see things different. he's always had hope. every time he opens his eyes now, it's as if the difference never existed and that hurt so fucking much. through his hics and sniffs comes a groan, and through the groan, a strained attempt at words.
why would someone, the words sound like. he tries again, but the muttered garbling is too arduous to make clearer, feeling like his lips, or what used to be of them, would tear at the slightest attempt to split them apart: it hurts miss sayori. ]