[ his sleep has been troubled, nightmares plucking at him, his arm - the lack of his arm - sending the occasional quake of pain through him.
the wave of heat spreads through his dream, and all of a sudden he's back in that village, wood splintering around him, the flame like a living presence, hands pressed to the ceiling of the sky. rin wakes with a gasp. his skin is dotted with sweat, his shoulder aching bright. for a moment, he thinks he's back in australia in the height of summer, ready for another practice, missing japan as one would miss a phantom limb --
--ha. funny how that works.
it takes a moment for the fire to resolve into more than an afterimage of the dream he's sloughed off. he lurches to his feet, ungracefully three-limbed. he hesitates, the reality of his situation much worse than a lost swimming dream, his phantom right hand clutched into a fist that doesn't exist.
but he follows, eventually. the flame at his heels gives him little choice. maybe this is all a dream, a dream tucked into a dream, matroyshka-doll dreams, japan and haru and the olympics waiting for him once he finally awakens to the real world.
he's still blinking into awareness when he stumbles into the clearing. it's worse now in the bruise-dark of night time, ardeo's flames setting the destruction into stark relief. rin had done this, somehow. these hands, one torn away in recompense.
rin swallows, and swallows. ]
Yeah.
[ his voice is like stone dragging over stone, sleep-rough, exhausted. he tries again: ]
I'm here.
[ no attempt at an apology, not yet. but here is his sloping spine, his forehead dotted with sweat. rin matsuoka isn't good with apologies; never has been. but here, confronted again with the end result of an accident: he's the personification of an apology. ]
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the wave of heat spreads through his dream, and all of a sudden he's back in that village, wood splintering around him, the flame like a living presence, hands pressed to the ceiling of the sky. rin wakes with a gasp. his skin is dotted with sweat, his shoulder aching bright. for a moment, he thinks he's back in australia in the height of summer, ready for another practice, missing japan as one would miss a phantom limb --
--ha. funny how that works.
it takes a moment for the fire to resolve into more than an afterimage of the dream he's sloughed off. he lurches to his feet, ungracefully three-limbed. he hesitates, the reality of his situation much worse than a lost swimming dream, his phantom right hand clutched into a fist that doesn't exist.
but he follows, eventually. the flame at his heels gives him little choice. maybe this is all a dream, a dream tucked into a dream, matroyshka-doll dreams, japan and haru and the olympics waiting for him once he finally awakens to the real world.
he's still blinking into awareness when he stumbles into the clearing. it's worse now in the bruise-dark of night time, ardeo's flames setting the destruction into stark relief. rin had done this, somehow. these hands, one torn away in recompense.
rin swallows, and swallows. ]
Yeah.
[ his voice is like stone dragging over stone, sleep-rough, exhausted. he tries again: ]
I'm here.
[ no attempt at an apology, not yet. but here is his sloping spine, his forehead dotted with sweat. rin matsuoka isn't good with apologies; never has been. but here, confronted again with the end result of an accident: he's the personification of an apology. ]