[ This happened to him in the days after she died the first time, coming in waves of minutes at a time when he'd simply stop, a broken engine stuttering into a grinding lock. Being gathered up and urged along coaxes motion back into him, so that by the time they're in front of the sink he only wants to crash back down into the tile, instead of it seeming impossible to keep standing under the black gravity of loss.
Sometimes he hates that he can get back up. He hates that this doesn't last, that nothing in him really breaks for how much it hurts. It'd be better if there was something tangible. If his chest opened up to spill into the basin of warm water whose lip he clutches as he smothers his crying one shallow inhale at a time.
When he looks in the mirror, he's not disoriented. He's too familiar with the slick, ugly mess there for it to untether him again. He just hates it, loathing welling up to twist his reflection into sickened contempt for the face that casts it.
It's catching Hannibal's reflection that unbalances him. The lines of building fury collapse into muddled shame, and he drops his chin to stare at the vague, broken outline of his shadow captured there. ]
I'm sorry. [ He shakes his head, tightening his grip on the sink, leaning into Hannibal's support like leaning into a bruise. ] I'm sorry. I fucked up.
[ Who is he even apologizing to? What does he think it's going to do, exactly? Who does he expect to care? ]
no subject
Sometimes he hates that he can get back up. He hates that this doesn't last, that nothing in him really breaks for how much it hurts. It'd be better if there was something tangible. If his chest opened up to spill into the basin of warm water whose lip he clutches as he smothers his crying one shallow inhale at a time.
When he looks in the mirror, he's not disoriented. He's too familiar with the slick, ugly mess there for it to untether him again. He just hates it, loathing welling up to twist his reflection into sickened contempt for the face that casts it.
It's catching Hannibal's reflection that unbalances him. The lines of building fury collapse into muddled shame, and he drops his chin to stare at the vague, broken outline of his shadow captured there. ]
I'm sorry. [ He shakes his head, tightening his grip on the sink, leaning into Hannibal's support like leaning into a bruise. ] I'm sorry. I fucked up.
[ Who is he even apologizing to? What does he think it's going to do, exactly? Who does he expect to care? ]