#tabrisisms

  ▐░▒▓ ►► 「  ɴᴏ. 03 ; 」

            TO CREATE SOMETHING

                                   would be to leave a mark on the world that would, should it be accepted, live on long after he’s gone. But he’s never seen himself as someone others would want to remember.

                                   Besides, how would he go about doing it? Shinji’s never been particularly inspired to do anything like that. He’s never had anything to share, or that anyone would want to hear. There’s nothing remarkable about him, nothing that he can contribute to the world. Nothing that someone like him can do — he has no aspirations or talents. The only thing he has that may be called a talent is to fight the enemy, fight the enemy, fight the enemy.

                                   But even that’s only dumb luck and following orders.

►► PROMPT.

▐░▒▓ ►► 「  ɴᴏ. 03 ; 」

        IT SHOCKS HIM.

                                 A voice that normally lilts in such silvery tones suddenly jumps to a jarring fortissimo; once a lullaby, now a marcato call for his attention.

                                For several long moments that drag on like hours, Shinji has nothing in the way of response. His back is against the wall, his eyes wide with some emotion he can’t put a name to. Bewilderment? Devastation? He swallows hard. He doesn’t know. But he feels as though Kaworu has looked straight through him like rain-streaked glass. He doesn’t know if that’s relieving or terrifying.

                                    ❝ …I’m sorry — ❞ Shinji’s voice breaks. ❝ Kaworu-kun — ❞

                                      He tenses, realizing that he’s vulnerable, feet rooted to the ground despite the stirring in his chest that he hates feeling whenever someone knows something about him that he doesn’t even want to know about himself. He can say that he’s fine —

                                   ❝ …I’m alright, please — I just don’t want any more of this. Please — ❞

  ▐░▒▓ ►► 「  ɴᴏ. 03 ; 」

            ❝ THAT’S RIGHT — ❞

                                   Cerulean follows the slender hand to the walls above them, looking briefly at the speakers before refocusing on Kaworu again. ❝ ...Right. You’re right. ❞ A smile flickers across his visage, though a sheepish one.