[An issue that's mutual, it seems. Too long the air hangs thick between them, Kylo's breath rasping heavy through electronic sensors where he feels his jaw flex tight. The words don't come-- any of them: all the things he regretted, all the pain he caused (for all his excuses he knew it, he's always known how much a hand he had in driving them away) seeping in through his own pores until it's drowning, stifling.
I'm not your son.
And his own gloved fingertips find the latches of his mask, prying it loose with ease once automatic switches peel back. It's so heavy. More than metal, dragging down across his palm as if straining for the artificial beating heart of a star housed in generators and byways beneath their feet. His eyes burn red at the corners, and he realizes then the tears he's already wearing. Remorse the only white flag some long-forgotten part of him has left to wave.
He grits his teeth; he hates-- and he pleads-- wordless in that dying light.]
no subject
I'm not your son.
And his own gloved fingertips find the latches of his mask, prying it loose with ease once automatic switches peel back. It's so heavy. More than metal, dragging down across his palm as if straining for the artificial beating heart of a star housed in generators and byways beneath their feet. His eyes burn red at the corners, and he realizes then the tears he's already wearing. Remorse the only white flag some long-forgotten part of him has left to wave.
He grits his teeth; he hates-- and he pleads-- wordless in that dying light.]