[It's easy to reply oh yes it will, because that's what it feels like. He's never going to escape this grief, this awful raw feeling of loss and loneliness and desperate need for something that won't come.
But it won't last. It hadn't with his parents, nor had it with Sherry (the first time, he has to add now, and that sends another shudder running through him). It's always there, but the pain of it lessens and lessens, until whole days can go by without thoughts of them running through his mind; until he can talk about it casually, easily, without falling face-first into despair. It had happened before, and it would happen again.
But knowing that is so much different than realizing it factually now. And right now, it doesn't matter that it won't last-- he hurts now, more than he ever wants to, hurts so bad he thinks the pain of it is going to tear him apart. He ought to stop crying-- but now that he's started he can't stop. And Jotaro doesn't care, he doesn't care-- so he cries, because he can't get the thought of slitting Sherry's throat out of his mind, because he's never allowed himself to properly mourn Abdul dying, because it's his fault they're both dead and gone.
Is it me? It would be easy to blame himself. They both died twice, his Sherry and Abdul, and it was his fault both times. I'm not going to save you, Abdul had told him, face serious and eyes dark, and it would have been vastly better if he'd had the decency to keep his damn word.
The tears abate, after a time, and when he looks up, one hand shoving roughly at his cheeks, Jotaro is still there. And that's worth more than Polnareff can ever really say.]
You keep coming into my bed like this, Kakyoin's gonna start to wonder.
[It's a weak joke, and he's still sniffing, trying like hell to pull himself together-- but it's an attempt.]
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But it won't last. It hadn't with his parents, nor had it with Sherry (the first time, he has to add now, and that sends another shudder running through him). It's always there, but the pain of it lessens and lessens, until whole days can go by without thoughts of them running through his mind; until he can talk about it casually, easily, without falling face-first into despair. It had happened before, and it would happen again.
But knowing that is so much different than realizing it factually now. And right now, it doesn't matter that it won't last-- he hurts now, more than he ever wants to, hurts so bad he thinks the pain of it is going to tear him apart. He ought to stop crying-- but now that he's started he can't stop. And Jotaro doesn't care, he doesn't care-- so he cries, because he can't get the thought of slitting Sherry's throat out of his mind, because he's never allowed himself to properly mourn Abdul dying, because it's his fault they're both dead and gone.
Is it me? It would be easy to blame himself. They both died twice, his Sherry and Abdul, and it was his fault both times. I'm not going to save you, Abdul had told him, face serious and eyes dark, and it would have been vastly better if he'd had the decency to keep his damn word.
The tears abate, after a time, and when he looks up, one hand shoving roughly at his cheeks, Jotaro is still there. And that's worth more than Polnareff can ever really say.]
You keep coming into my bed like this, Kakyoin's gonna start to wonder.
[It's a weak joke, and he's still sniffing, trying like hell to pull himself together-- but it's an attempt.]