[There's so much to process, and to her eyes, it seems like somehow it all happens so fast.
She jumps, of course, when Heaven's Door comes hurtling out, and what hits her like a second punch on the heels of the first is the way the tension simmering in Rohan looks so wrong when it's reflected through his Stand's more childlike appearance. And for a second it's all wrong, both halves of him, because for a second he's right — for a second, it's like she doesn't really know either half of him, the adult or the child, the user or the Stand.
But then he's hurt, and it startles her with how unexpectedly devastating it is to see him this hurt. It's there in the words, of course, beneath the anger, but it's even moreso in the gestures — the rough sweep of his arm in the direction of Heaven's Door, the hand over his heart like she's just dug a knife into it. And every bit of it, every sentence, every bit of truth he flings at her, it's all a flurry of knives in return, and every one is a hit.
Because of course, she's thought that.
How many times, now, has she thought how did the sweet boy I remember grow up into someone like this?
But then he's advancing on her, and even made taller by the wheels of her skates he's taller still, and every word keeps landing, every one keeps making another burst of pain flare up because he's still not wrong, but now it's like he's finally decided to show her who he is, finally letting her see inside, but he's going to do it by wrenching open his ribs and tearing his heart out to throw at her feet.
The word that undoes her is anymore.
Because she knows that word too well, knows what it means, what it carries with it. She's ranted and raged against it in her own time, when telling her own secrets; it means you had something once and now it's gone, gone, and it's not coming back, like the life she was supposed to be living, like the chance to be normal that's been taken away.
But even then he's not done.
It's not for her own sake that her tears well up and spill over at the last of it. It's not for her own pain that her whole expression shatters. It's the recognition of how much anger and frustration and self-loathing he's managed to encompass into just a few short sentences, I don't know you, I can't remember, I forgot about you.
And maybe, just a little bit, it's the realization that on some level she hadn't been wrong. She is what he's been afraid of, and he has been afraid. She just didn't know why.
Not until you died for me and I forgot about you.
But he's right there, and she's glad for it, because it means she doesn't have to fuss with the cobblestones or her skates; she can just lunge and get her arms around him as fast and as tight as she can, and hold on like she's never going to let go.]
I'm sorry —
[Like her own personal Heaven's Door, that gets ripped out of her mouth, out of her chest; Arnold, distressed at her distress, is starting to hover in anxious, uncertain circles, unable to work out what's wrong.]
I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry, I — stop it, stop it, I didn't, maybe I did, maybe I did everything you said but I never stopped believing in you. I'm never going to stop believing in you, I don't care if I live a hundred more years in an alley or this stupid city or Heaven or anywhere else, you're everything to me!
[And she's crying again, and she doesn't even know what from anymore, sadness or pain or sympathy or empathy or anything else in between.]
I didn't die for you because I wanted you to remember me. I did it so you'd be alive, I just wanted you to be alive and h-happy and —
[She pulls back, just enough to shake her head roughly from side to side, resisting the irrational urge to pound weakly on him with trembling fists.]
And, so, so look at me and see somebody who loved you and still does and isn't going to stop, and maybe I'm all of those other things too, but I'm still always that, don't you get it? I'm always that!
no subject
She jumps, of course, when Heaven's Door comes hurtling out, and what hits her like a second punch on the heels of the first is the way the tension simmering in Rohan looks so wrong when it's reflected through his Stand's more childlike appearance. And for a second it's all wrong, both halves of him, because for a second he's right — for a second, it's like she doesn't really know either half of him, the adult or the child, the user or the Stand.
But then he's hurt, and it startles her with how unexpectedly devastating it is to see him this hurt. It's there in the words, of course, beneath the anger, but it's even moreso in the gestures — the rough sweep of his arm in the direction of Heaven's Door, the hand over his heart like she's just dug a knife into it. And every bit of it, every sentence, every bit of truth he flings at her, it's all a flurry of knives in return, and every one is a hit.
Because of course, she's thought that.
How many times, now, has she thought how did the sweet boy I remember grow up into someone like this?
But then he's advancing on her, and even made taller by the wheels of her skates he's taller still, and every word keeps landing, every one keeps making another burst of pain flare up because he's still not wrong, but now it's like he's finally decided to show her who he is, finally letting her see inside, but he's going to do it by wrenching open his ribs and tearing his heart out to throw at her feet.
The word that undoes her is anymore.
Because she knows that word too well, knows what it means, what it carries with it. She's ranted and raged against it in her own time, when telling her own secrets; it means you had something once and now it's gone, gone, and it's not coming back, like the life she was supposed to be living, like the chance to be normal that's been taken away.
But even then he's not done.
It's not for her own sake that her tears well up and spill over at the last of it. It's not for her own pain that her whole expression shatters. It's the recognition of how much anger and frustration and self-loathing he's managed to encompass into just a few short sentences, I don't know you, I can't remember, I forgot about you.
And maybe, just a little bit, it's the realization that on some level she hadn't been wrong. She is what he's been afraid of, and he has been afraid. She just didn't know why.
Not until you died for me and I forgot about you.
But he's right there, and she's glad for it, because it means she doesn't have to fuss with the cobblestones or her skates; she can just lunge and get her arms around him as fast and as tight as she can, and hold on like she's never going to let go.]
I'm sorry —
[Like her own personal Heaven's Door, that gets ripped out of her mouth, out of her chest; Arnold, distressed at her distress, is starting to hover in anxious, uncertain circles, unable to work out what's wrong.]
I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry, I — stop it, stop it, I didn't, maybe I did, maybe I did everything you said but I never stopped believing in you. I'm never going to stop believing in you, I don't care if I live a hundred more years in an alley or this stupid city or Heaven or anywhere else, you're everything to me!
[And she's crying again, and she doesn't even know what from anymore, sadness or pain or sympathy or empathy or anything else in between.]
I didn't die for you because I wanted you to remember me. I did it so you'd be alive, I just wanted you to be alive and h-happy and —
[She pulls back, just enough to shake her head roughly from side to side, resisting the irrational urge to pound weakly on him with trembling fists.]
And, so, so look at me and see somebody who loved you and still does and isn't going to stop, and maybe I'm all of those other things too, but I'm still always that, don't you get it? I'm always that!