The first message is messy. Pointless. Guy isn't even sure what it's supposed to be, and he closes it almost instantly.
But then a second pops up. A third. A fourth. Multiple messages a day, in a barely legible scrawl.
Questions.
Pleas.
Short, half-winded attempts at light-hearted comments, followed quickly by earnest statements... by brokenhearted apologies...
All from the same person.
All from Luke.
By the end of the comments from the 16th, Guy's reading becomes a little shakier, his attempts to flip through the comments quickly not as fueled. The tightness in his expression, the burn in his chest... it aches the more and more he reads. He needs to close it, he needs to close it, he doesn't have to read all this--
He--
Please...
He doesn't--
I'm lonely.
You're still my best friend.
...he--
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry
I'm sorry.
...
He doesn't hear the door open. He doesn't turn to recognize whoever might have just poked their way into the room.
No.
His head is busy being buried into the crook of his elbow, a hand clenched into his hair while the other presses a palm against his face, his shoulders tense and shaking.
The burning in his chest has erupted into something deeper; a painful, out-of-control frustration; a fear, an anger, an unquenchable hurt that he can just barely contain, it seems, within the confines of his body, every muscle shaking and taut.
And something else. Something that he hated to even recognize. Something that he couldn't quite place, amidst everything else. Not due to unfamiliarity, but just, perhaps, to an incredibly long absence.
That bitter, burning touch of anguish.
That never-forgiving knaw of guilt.
...
Dammit. DAMMIT ALL, why had he waited...
He was so stupid.
Luke was stupid for saying all that, for thinking all that, for trying too hard for something that just wasn't worth it...
Let's just pretend for a minute that Nik is just never ready for anything ever (spoilers: she isn't)
The first message is messy. Pointless. Guy isn't even sure what it's supposed to be, and he closes it almost instantly.
But then a second pops up. A third. A fourth. Multiple messages a day, in a barely legible scrawl.
Questions.
Pleas.
Short, half-winded attempts at light-hearted comments, followed quickly by earnest statements... by brokenhearted apologies...
All from the same person.
All from Luke.
By the end of the comments from the 16th, Guy's reading becomes a little shakier, his attempts to flip through the comments quickly not as fueled. The tightness in his expression, the burn in his chest... it aches the more and more he reads. He needs to close it, he needs to close it, he doesn't have to read all this--
He--
Please...
He doesn't--
I'm lonely.
You're still my best friend.
...he--
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry
I'm sorry.
...
He doesn't hear the door open. He doesn't turn to recognize whoever might have just poked their way into the room.
No.
His head is busy being buried into the crook of his elbow, a hand clenched into his hair while the other presses a palm against his face, his shoulders tense and shaking.
The burning in his chest has erupted into something deeper; a painful, out-of-control frustration; a fear, an anger, an unquenchable hurt that he can just barely contain, it seems, within the confines of his body, every muscle shaking and taut.
And something else. Something that he hated to even recognize. Something that he couldn't quite place, amidst everything else. Not due to unfamiliarity, but just, perhaps, to an incredibly long absence.
That bitter, burning touch of anguish.
That never-forgiving knaw of guilt.
...
Dammit. DAMMIT ALL, why had he waited...
He was so stupid.
Luke was stupid for saying all that, for thinking all that, for trying too hard for something that just wasn't worth it...
That idiot.
That...
...
Dammit.]