[ 'It's hollow,' Amos says, and it's not like he doesn't get it. He'll never fully understand the magnitude to which Amos has been damaged, but he has some inkling of how meaningless a lot of things can feel in the wake of monumental pain. He can at least start to see how Amos might struggle to understand his own emotions, but still ... has it really been meaningless? Surely not. It would have mattered, had Amos died alongside everyone else in his world. It would have mattered if he hadn't ended up catapulted into this strange other world so they could cross paths, right?
His expression had slowly growing tighter with traces of discomfort, struggling to find a way to put his thoughts into words; the connection between them, too, had been growing prickly with something hot and confrontational, a desire to argue that hadn't yet found a form to take. Hand clenched to a fist hard enough for his nails to dig into his palm, he hesitates for a moment too long before managing to mutter, ]
It would've mattered ...
[ Only to lose that train of thought entirely at what Amos says next.
The way he gives a wide-eyed blink, brow furrowed and pointy ears canted back, makes it clear he's taken aback by that request, both by its content and the way it's delivered. Ergo, it's completely honest when he responds, flatly: ]
Zenith isn't my home. [ But there's only the briefest pause before he looks aside, adding more quietly, ] Not that this place is my home, either. Meridian.
[ 'Home.' It's a weird concept for him. Sure, he'd had a 'home' back in his hometown, but he can't really remember a time where he'd felt fully comfortable there. Even before his stepmother had come into the picture, followed by his half-sister -- two people who'd barely tolerated his presence -- he'd always felt a disconnect between himself and his home. He'd always known that he'd been made wrong in the first place, and no matter how well he camouflaged himself, the expectant stares from his father and the rest of the townsfolk would always feel like needles in his back.
He's not sure if that platonic ideal of a 'home' is even attainable for him.
As if the gentle waves of something morose pulsing through their thoughts isn't indication enough, Gen's ears are flattened back when he looks down into his hands, then at the hand resting at his knee. He knows the gravity of it, knows that Amos wouldn't say something like that to him lightly. And it's not like he's rejecting that request, either. When he speaks again, it's soft and resigned. ]
I thought things would be different this time, if I didn't just go where people expect me to be. I'm sick of it, of just doing what I'm expected to, and things never seem to go right. So I'm here right now, but -- ... [ 'I thought,' he says. So he's already accepted the contrary. ] ... I know I don't belong on this side.
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His expression had slowly growing tighter with traces of discomfort, struggling to find a way to put his thoughts into words; the connection between them, too, had been growing prickly with something hot and confrontational, a desire to argue that hadn't yet found a form to take. Hand clenched to a fist hard enough for his nails to dig into his palm, he hesitates for a moment too long before managing to mutter, ]
It would've mattered ...
[ Only to lose that train of thought entirely at what Amos says next.
The way he gives a wide-eyed blink, brow furrowed and pointy ears canted back, makes it clear he's taken aback by that request, both by its content and the way it's delivered. Ergo, it's completely honest when he responds, flatly: ]
Zenith isn't my home. [ But there's only the briefest pause before he looks aside, adding more quietly, ] Not that this place is my home, either. Meridian.
[ 'Home.' It's a weird concept for him. Sure, he'd had a 'home' back in his hometown, but he can't really remember a time where he'd felt fully comfortable there. Even before his stepmother had come into the picture, followed by his half-sister -- two people who'd barely tolerated his presence -- he'd always felt a disconnect between himself and his home. He'd always known that he'd been made wrong in the first place, and no matter how well he camouflaged himself, the expectant stares from his father and the rest of the townsfolk would always feel like needles in his back.
He's not sure if that platonic ideal of a 'home' is even attainable for him.
As if the gentle waves of something morose pulsing through their thoughts isn't indication enough, Gen's ears are flattened back when he looks down into his hands, then at the hand resting at his knee. He knows the gravity of it, knows that Amos wouldn't say something like that to him lightly. And it's not like he's rejecting that request, either. When he speaks again, it's soft and resigned. ]
I thought things would be different this time, if I didn't just go where people expect me to be. I'm sick of it, of just doing what I'm expected to, and things never seem to go right. So I'm here right now, but -- ... [ 'I thought,' he says. So he's already accepted the contrary. ] ... I know I don't belong on this side.