The touch to his shoulder burns, but he can't figure out why, can't pinpoint the source. Even the sound of that name seems to cut something through him, a fear that he can't define, something that trembles inside of him and puts all of his thoughts into an uncontrollable blender. He's heard that name before, hasn't he? Is that all it's about? That name, said in a playground back home--
No, he doesn't know this person. He doesn't recognize his face. He doesn't know why he knows him. He doesn't want to be touched by him.
So why does everything in him ache for it? It feels like he's been punched in the gut; carefully, he lifts a hand, pushes Zack's palm off his shoulder with the least amount of aggression possible. He's too weak to protest, after all, too shaken to even understand. ]
I'm fine. It's--fine. [ There's a jerk of his head--his free hand lifts, still pressed against the side of his hair like he might dig his fingers into his scalp and pull out the offensive headache himself. ] Sorry. I don't know you. You're not...
[ --what a strange thing, his tongue forms the word before he understands it. ] ...Alive. I mean, no, that's not...what I mean.
[ No, it's too much. He turns on his heels, trying to put more space between them; it feels like if he doesn't leave now, his knees will buckle. ]
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The touch to his shoulder burns, but he can't figure out why, can't pinpoint the source. Even the sound of that name seems to cut something through him, a fear that he can't define, something that trembles inside of him and puts all of his thoughts into an uncontrollable blender. He's heard that name before, hasn't he? Is that all it's about? That name, said in a playground back home--
No, he doesn't know this person. He doesn't recognize his face. He doesn't know why he knows him. He doesn't want to be touched by him.
So why does everything in him ache for it? It feels like he's been punched in the gut; carefully, he lifts a hand, pushes Zack's palm off his shoulder with the least amount of aggression possible. He's too weak to protest, after all, too shaken to even understand. ]
I'm fine. It's--fine. [ There's a jerk of his head--his free hand lifts, still pressed against the side of his hair like he might dig his fingers into his scalp and pull out the offensive headache himself. ] Sorry. I don't know you. You're not...
[ --what a strange thing, his tongue forms the word before he understands it. ] ...Alive. I mean, no, that's not...what I mean.
[ No, it's too much. He turns on his heels, trying to put more space between them; it feels like if he doesn't leave now, his knees will buckle. ]
I'm sorry. I don't know you. Sorry.