#flips desk

screams

// You come in to my house and make me feel these feelings? How dare you.

He does not even know where the comment comes from, truthfully. An idle yet heartfelt breath at Bokh, or the baths that tend to come after? Somewhere in between? Perhaps it was neither, something he overhead whilst he shopped in Ul'dah. No ill intent at all.

And yet.

And yet.

He punishes his violin, unfairly so, notes harsh and unforgiving in the early hours of the morning.

It takes more courage to suffer than to die.

Uttered somewhere, anywhere. It does not matter where he heard it but he did all the same and he is very   nearly frothing at the mouth even now, hours later. He would have some pity for the rooms that neighbor his own within the clinic, were he not otherwise occupied. They have never voiced a complaint--why would they now?

Fuck courage, he thinks, teeth clenched tight while he plays.

A part of him thinks he should not be dwelling on this.

What has courage brought?

Death, that voice inside says, and his own continues--those seeking honor and glory with courage in their veins--what did they earn?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

He alone upkeeps a grave and a hopeful marker to prove as much.

A vital string of his instrument snaps.

Frustration boils and erupts before he has any true say. His notes screech, harsh, before halting entirely. The violin is tossed to the far side of the couch--he will not trash the instrument, even in his anger--the bow, however, bounces with his tantrum-inspired throw. Above the mantle, back over the couch and clattering among the bookshelves in the front section of his chambers.

He can not bring himself to care. He curls upon the couch, making himself as small as he can while his hands reach in to his hair and pull, seeking any, any kind of thing that might ground him.