[ the words aren't unexpected, and andyr's braced for them, accepting it, because ronan's right. it's fucked up, he shouldn't ever do that to someone he loves, this isn't fucking hapsburg where he can turn on someone for breathing a word he doesn't like and punch them through a wall without it mattering at all. those people were never important to him. he can't just give up on the want to process a problem and dismiss it like that. it isn't just him in his little bubble of hell anymore. ]
I know, I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Adam. I didn't--
[ he doesn't even know how to explain this, what he'd done and why he'd done it and why that anger led to him just snapping, particularly at ronan, who'd never earn this kind of reaction at him before. his mouth works a moment, vague sounds coming from him in an attempt to say something, anything. in the end, he gives up, voice coming out pathetic, and weak, thick with self-loathing and guilt. ]
I tried to tell you. When we started this. I fucking tried to, Ronan, you kept saying it's fine, but it's not. [ he is not fine. not the 'not fine' that adam and ronan are, having gone through harrow experiences and facing death. he is purposefully, intentionally, created into this patched together, collage of pieces of a person, where he'd cut out holes and both andyr and the people holding him tried to fill them up with something vicious on a monolithic scale. how does he even tell them that? that he wanders this house, still, and the lack of chains on his ankles, the lack of bars on the windows and doors, makes him feel like he's crawling inside his skin, some ticking bomb left inside a goddamn daycare. ] I'm not--
I'm not just sad, or angry, or desperate. I sat in a cell, for six fucking years, and I killed everything in my head that I didn't need. [ impulse control, the little voice in the back of his head that says 'bad idea, what about consequences', the safety stop that demands he think about an action before he lets it happen. unchecked anger and fear and panic, and andyr doesn't know terms like 'PTSD' to assign to it - the harsh reactions, the backwards emotional responses, crying when he's happy, violence when he's sad, paranoia when it's too quiet. the nightmares, the flashbacks, a simple word or brush of contact or scent that reminds him of something, and then it's like his rationality shuts off. only what he'd drilled into his mind in the constant attempts to rewire his brain and body, into something like this. exactly what'd happened here - this terrifying force that would rip through whatever offended him, and leave fear and anger and disgust behind him. ] Every time I came out, someone died. This is what I do. I've tried to fix it, but it doesn't fucking work. I'm still fucked in the head, and I tried to tell you that.
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I know, I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Adam. I didn't--
[ he doesn't even know how to explain this, what he'd done and why he'd done it and why that anger led to him just snapping, particularly at ronan, who'd never earn this kind of reaction at him before. his mouth works a moment, vague sounds coming from him in an attempt to say something, anything. in the end, he gives up, voice coming out pathetic, and weak, thick with self-loathing and guilt. ]
I tried to tell you. When we started this. I fucking tried to, Ronan, you kept saying it's fine, but it's not. [ he is not fine. not the 'not fine' that adam and ronan are, having gone through harrow experiences and facing death. he is purposefully, intentionally, created into this patched together, collage of pieces of a person, where he'd cut out holes and both andyr and the people holding him tried to fill them up with something vicious on a monolithic scale. how does he even tell them that? that he wanders this house, still, and the lack of chains on his ankles, the lack of bars on the windows and doors, makes him feel like he's crawling inside his skin, some ticking bomb left inside a goddamn daycare. ] I'm not--
I'm not just sad, or angry, or desperate. I sat in a cell, for six fucking years, and I killed everything in my head that I didn't need. [ impulse control, the little voice in the back of his head that says 'bad idea, what about consequences', the safety stop that demands he think about an action before he lets it happen. unchecked anger and fear and panic, and andyr doesn't know terms like 'PTSD' to assign to it - the harsh reactions, the backwards emotional responses, crying when he's happy, violence when he's sad, paranoia when it's too quiet. the nightmares, the flashbacks, a simple word or brush of contact or scent that reminds him of something, and then it's like his rationality shuts off. only what he'd drilled into his mind in the constant attempts to rewire his brain and body, into something like this. exactly what'd happened here - this terrifying force that would rip through whatever offended him, and leave fear and anger and disgust behind him. ] Every time I came out, someone died. This is what I do. I've tried to fix it, but it doesn't fucking work. I'm still fucked in the head, and I tried to tell you that.