It's cold. It's so cold; the rain has started stabbing down with its icy force at some point during the day, and Zelos holds himself tightly, uselessly trying to regain some warmth as he paces. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This is all so stupid. What the hell, why is he--
Someone calls his name.
He freezes instinctively for a second before recognizing the voice filtering in through the pouring rain, and even when that forces him to look at the source, he still doesn't move from his spot. He can only watch as Lloyd runs up to him, his mind trying to reconcile the fact that Lloyd is here, looking at him like he's going to be sick, cupping his face in gentle, warm hands. That sparks a question; how long has Zelos been out here for? Lloyd's hands are so warm. He wants to reach up and cover his hands with his own, but stops himself before he can even fully contemplate the action. Instead, the ex-lord uselessly leans into the face touch, now shivering at the temperature change as Lloyd goes off about something or another.
There's a bubbling relief in his chest as Lloyd speaks, though. Relief, covered by something else--something sick and sad, a deep guilt glaring at what he's done, pulling his heart down to his stomach. He didn't want to send Zelos back. That's what Lloyd says. Ashamed of himself, Zelos tears his gaze off to the side, away from Lloyd's face, though still allowing the other to hold him in place as he is. All of this... it's all his fault, isn't it? The fight wouldn't have escalated this badly if he'd just backed down. The fight wouldn't even have happened if he'd just backed down and thought rationally. But he just had to go ahead and act on pure instinct instead, let his terrified anger get the best of him, and now here Lloyd is, soaked, away from the warmth of their inn room, apologizing for Zelos' own mistakes.
No, don't do that, Lloyd. Don't do that to yourself.
Please.
Apologize to him, comes a voice at the back of Zelos' mind. Apologize, apologize, apologize. But he can't--pride clamps his mouth shut, forces him to look at Lloyd in the eye again, mask weak and broken as vulnerability spills from his gaze, running down his cheeks together with the rainwater. Silence ticks, spreads. Builds. Threatens. It's frustrating. In the urgency of his inner conflict, Zelos' hands find their way to Lloyd's wrists, holding them as if to keep him here, here, here where Zelos can still see him. Please don't get frustrated and leave, Zelos thinks. He's working on it. He has to say something, he just can't decide what or how.
The apology is too thick on his tongue to come out. Desperate now, Zelos swallows hard and picks something else instead.
no subject
Someone calls his name.
He freezes instinctively for a second before recognizing the voice filtering in through the pouring rain, and even when that forces him to look at the source, he still doesn't move from his spot. He can only watch as Lloyd runs up to him, his mind trying to reconcile the fact that Lloyd is here, looking at him like he's going to be sick, cupping his face in gentle, warm hands. That sparks a question; how long has Zelos been out here for? Lloyd's hands are so warm. He wants to reach up and cover his hands with his own, but stops himself before he can even fully contemplate the action. Instead, the ex-lord uselessly leans into the face touch, now shivering at the temperature change as Lloyd goes off about something or another.
There's a bubbling relief in his chest as Lloyd speaks, though. Relief, covered by something else--something sick and sad, a deep guilt glaring at what he's done, pulling his heart down to his stomach. He didn't want to send Zelos back. That's what Lloyd says. Ashamed of himself, Zelos tears his gaze off to the side, away from Lloyd's face, though still allowing the other to hold him in place as he is. All of this... it's all his fault, isn't it? The fight wouldn't have escalated this badly if he'd just backed down. The fight wouldn't even have happened if he'd just backed down and thought rationally. But he just had to go ahead and act on pure instinct instead, let his terrified anger get the best of him, and now here Lloyd is, soaked, away from the warmth of their inn room, apologizing for Zelos' own mistakes.
No, don't do that, Lloyd. Don't do that to yourself.
Please.
Apologize to him, comes a voice at the back of Zelos' mind. Apologize, apologize, apologize. But he can't--pride clamps his mouth shut, forces him to look at Lloyd in the eye again, mask weak and broken as vulnerability spills from his gaze, running down his cheeks together with the rainwater. Silence ticks, spreads. Builds. Threatens. It's frustrating. In the urgency of his inner conflict, Zelos' hands find their way to Lloyd's wrists, holding them as if to keep him here, here, here where Zelos can still see him. Please don't get frustrated and leave, Zelos thinks. He's working on it. He has to say something, he just can't decide what or how.
The apology is too thick on his tongue to come out. Desperate now, Zelos swallows hard and picks something else instead.
"Aren't... aren't you cold...?"