Breathe In(to Me)

There is blood in his mouth.

(Six seconds, and an eye blink. Six seconds, and his bottom lip is caught between his teeth. Clamping down. Hard.)

And it is not fear. (Iron, and the tang of copper.) And it is not loneliness. (He can almost see his breath. His breath. His--) It is not the way the fog curls off the water so early in the morning, like fingers. Like ghosts. Like the emptiness of air that fills the shells of freed cicadas. Like--(Like the soft, gray strands of hair. Wrapped around another's neck. And how he had wanted it. To press his nose against it. The soft shadows. The warm, boyish flesh. Something so base, and low, and quiet. And how it was not him, but he who mirrored it. That thought, that narrow reaction. As though--)

It makes sense. It makes no sense.

(--He had seen straight into him. Dissected him. Laid him out delicately. Fingers brushing each fragile inch. Each joint and bone. As warm and as naked as each stuttered reflex. Each flicker of heat and part of his lips. Each formless word, jammed fast between the gap of his ribs. So full and so heavy, he wanted to--)

His fingers are numb as he gingerly rolls up his slacks. Pale skin, bruised near the ankle. Accidents. Clumsiness. (Had he always been like this?) To the knee. To the knee and--

(He can hear the waves roll in, murmuring in a foreign tongue. Something so ancient. Something so instinctive. He knows the words. He knows the words. He knows--)

--His sleeves. Short enough. (Barefoot. Sand rubbing raw. between his toes. Angry. Irritated. And he can feel the shiver of blessed relief as his body shifts forward on its own accord. As the cool of the water brushes over and under the aching arch of his feet.)

And he wonders the density. The buoyancy of clothes. His body. What his fingers hold now. (Old surfaces. Old cities. Dead cities.) He wonders if Misato is awake, yet. (If there is movement in her bedroom. If she realizes he has disappeared, yet. If--)

And he can hear it. Like the dull rush of water greeting his chest. The under-side of his chin. His--

(And he takes a breath. Water stinging his eyes. Mouth filled with salt. The words. And the quiet hum of lies. Like the inactive telephone wires. Like Kaworu's fingers pressing against the back of his hand and--)

There is nothing more than emptiness.

(--Dulled motions. Dulled responses. His eyes shut tight. Water raging around his ears. Stirring his hair. Weighted, and weightless.)

There is nothing more than--

(There is no future. There are no motivations. There are no dreams.)

There is nothing more than--

(--"It is what you live for.")

--this.

--

It is only later that he finds himself at the shore, again. Body too weak to budge. To brush his bangs from his eyes. To pull in another sharp, hitched breath. To open his mouth, and murmur of failure. (His lungs burning and the morning light cutting in, bright--)

He feels nothing when he hears the sound of debris. The reminiscent splash.

(The faint hum of cicadas. The faint hum of laughter. The faint hum of lingering wires--)

Nothing at all.