IC Contact Post

[therushingsky]

"Heyyyy, you've reached the head office of the Atlas Corporation, leave a message and your number, and one of our people will get back to you."

Comments

[therushingsky]

[He wants to type a wall of abuse. He wants to round back up and argue against Jedao's previous message again.

"what do you mean, 'if the risk isn't worth it to me'?"

he wants to type

"I already took the risk and it bit me right in the neck!"

He wants to write essays about how Bill never hurt him. About how Elijah never hurt him. He wants to write about kissing Quentin under the mistletoe, and how nice it was, only hours before kissing Jedao turned his blood cold.

He wants to scream at Jedao for making this hard. For immediately being himself again. For knowing how much Rhys responds to being liked, and immediately leaning on it.

He types out and deletes a dozen messages, before finally fighting back the urge to engage, and replying with a single word:]

GOOD.

[That's all. He hopes you miss the absolute shit out of him, Jedao. He hopes you feel as much like garbage as he does.]

[ninefox]

[It does hurt. Jedao knows he means it to, and that's why; and it's still completely fair.]

Okay.

Goodbye, Rhys.

[He tilts his head back against the wall, and lets himself cry, as silently as he can. Fives will notice anyway, but hopefully he'll take the quiet as a sign that Jedao doesn't want him to draw attention to it. It hurts, but it's a terrible relief, too: to hurt over something as clean and real as sorrow and grief and regret, instead of the formless heaviness of how much he hates himself.]

[therushingsky]

[On his end, Rhys throws his communicator at the wall of the infirmary.

His throwing arm is pretty weak right now though, so it just lands in the middle of the floor.

The only comfort of being one of nearly half a dozen victims, is that no one's really paying attention to whether he's crying, or why. Anyway, weren't they all?]