[There's an intensity to Wismuth that keeps catching him off guard, shortening the fuse on his temper and dragging everything else too close to the surface too quickly. Breathing hurts, like his constant undercurrent of self-loathing is somehow physically choking him, and he keeps gasping for air.
His hands fall to his lap, curling into fists with his nails digging into his palms. The pressure stings, but he doesn't want to cry, he can't cry, that isn't him anymore.
He made it pretty far.]
I can't stop.
[He should have made it further, the gentle press of Shura's embrace shouldn't make him feel like he's going to splinter into something unrecognizably broken. He needs to be stronger than this.
He's not. He's so weak, he's so pathetic, he needs to get stronger but he doesn't know how to do that without completely ruining everything he touches.]
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His hands fall to his lap, curling into fists with his nails digging into his palms. The pressure stings, but he doesn't want to cry, he can't cry, that isn't him anymore.
He made it pretty far.]
I can't stop.
[He should have made it further, the gentle press of Shura's embrace shouldn't make him feel like he's going to splinter into something unrecognizably broken. He needs to be stronger than this.
He's not. He's so weak, he's so pathetic, he needs to get stronger but he doesn't know how to do that without completely ruining everything he touches.]