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FFVIII: Revelation
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: He's a stranger in his own mind.
He's been thinking for a while that his feelings and thoughts are all wrong, but the thoughts are just tantalising scraps of something bigger. He knows he wouldn't normally do this -- but what would he normally do? Fujin and Raijin are like strangers, but he doesn't recall ever really knowing them anyway. He looks at them and they're like empty vessels compared to him, so full, too full, spilling over.
He understands it, in his own way, but he won't accept it and the very idea slips away. His thoughts rattle in his head like sweets in a jar, bright coloured and maybe bad for him. He pulls back from them and lets the other voice think for him. It's easier that way. It's easier not to challenge.
He can think of a time, too, when that was different. When his mind was his own and picking up Hyperion was something he did with his arm but then it was directly connected to his brain. He can feel, but he can't feel. Now it's like he's a stranger in his own body, supplanted, while someone else moves him. And yet he can't think who else it might be.
His clothes are tattered. He remembers a time, too, when that mattered. When he would have hated it. He can't think why. The clothes are just another layer that he doesn't want, like his body.
He surrenders over to her and he doesn't even know it might be bad. He can't remember why it might be. He can't remember a time when he felt connected to his body, can't remember what that felt like, but knows there was a time when his fingers flexing, touching, inside his glove wasn't a revelation, it was a simple sensation he'd almost forgotten. Everything is like new each time and each time it all slips away.
Good, that's good, she tells him. He sits in that corner of his mind for hours trying to understand what is good. Why is she praising him?
He's beyond understanding even that, now.
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: He's a stranger in his own mind.
He's been thinking for a while that his feelings and thoughts are all wrong, but the thoughts are just tantalising scraps of something bigger. He knows he wouldn't normally do this -- but what would he normally do? Fujin and Raijin are like strangers, but he doesn't recall ever really knowing them anyway. He looks at them and they're like empty vessels compared to him, so full, too full, spilling over.
He understands it, in his own way, but he won't accept it and the very idea slips away. His thoughts rattle in his head like sweets in a jar, bright coloured and maybe bad for him. He pulls back from them and lets the other voice think for him. It's easier that way. It's easier not to challenge.
He can think of a time, too, when that was different. When his mind was his own and picking up Hyperion was something he did with his arm but then it was directly connected to his brain. He can feel, but he can't feel. Now it's like he's a stranger in his own body, supplanted, while someone else moves him. And yet he can't think who else it might be.
His clothes are tattered. He remembers a time, too, when that mattered. When he would have hated it. He can't think why. The clothes are just another layer that he doesn't want, like his body.
He surrenders over to her and he doesn't even know it might be bad. He can't remember why it might be. He can't remember a time when he felt connected to his body, can't remember what that felt like, but knows there was a time when his fingers flexing, touching, inside his glove wasn't a revelation, it was a simple sensation he'd almost forgotten. Everything is like new each time and each time it all slips away.
Good, that's good, she tells him. He sits in that corner of his mind for hours trying to understand what is good. Why is she praising him?
He's beyond understanding even that, now.