#lagush

Why isn’t he stronger?

His fingernails dig into his hands, cutting ridges into the skin as he feels liquid cover his palms. It takes him a few moments to realize he’s bleeding. When he does realize that, he doesn’t stop, only curls himself into a tighter ball, biting his lip to keep tears from falling from the corners of his eyes.

He can’t wake anyone up, after all.

If he woke someone up he knew they’d fret over him, from the circles under his eyes to the tears in his lids to the cuts in his hands to the unspoken scream on his lips. So he lies there instead, shaking, biting his lip harder and harder to keep himself quiet.

Everything he’d done was to get stronger.

He’d tried, over and over, built bombs and made his weapon stronger and trained harder, more often, anything to protect them.  He protected them when he could, but it wasn’t enough, was he ever good enough, really, would he ever be able to keep anything he loved safe?

He’s trying to be quiet but a muffled sob slips out anyway, cutting into the still night air, and he bites his cheek, tasting iron. Dammit, no, they can’t hear, if he can’t protect their health he has to help them be happy.

He hears mumbling and he stiffens, rolling over, trying to put good thoughts into his mind and hide the blood and tears.  But it’s only Elsword, mumbling in his sleep, and he lets out a relieved sigh.