maddest | [Accidental Audio-Video]

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[Accidental Audio-Video]

[The PCD is jostled on to audio in time for an almighty crash to register. It skitters across the ground, cracks against a stone, and the video function is triggered. Break is on his hands and knees on the street, looking more irritated than anything else. He pats his pockets, realizes the device is missing, and sighs.

Slowly, he begins the process of patting his hands along the ground, investigating with his fingers what shapes seem lighter or darker than others to his ruined eyesight. He is- for once in his life- utterly silent.

Attempt to make it to the clinic: firmly derailed. Though he was getting close, from the looks of the buildings around him.]

[ooc notes: this will be a fairly non-responsive PCD post. Break has been having trouble with his vision for months, and now the event has also taken away his ability to hear as well. He won't be able to respond to comments via PCD, but the hope is someone will realize this and come find him, be it for good or for evil. Or just to laugh at him via the feed.]

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[Break takes up much less space like this. Rather than his usual tornado of movement and mayhem, he's sitting hunched. Quiet and still, moving only to take bites of the food. To sip his tea. It feels a little like dreaming.]

[Al keeps a watchful eye over him. Break is not like this. He shouldn't be like this, acting so broken and restrained. Al wants to call his name and make him light up again, somehow.

Touch is numbed to him, and it's the only way to communicate with Break. They live in completely separate worlds right now. He'd never touched him quite so much, but right now, he doesn't want Break to lock himself in his own little corner of reality.

A hand sets on his wrist, rests there. That's all.]

[Break lets out a breath, and continues to eat. Once the food is gone, he sips what's left of his tea, careful not to dislodge Al's hand. It, as much as the food, is an anchor.]

[Al leaves it there. Warm, steady, numb. He keeps an eye on Break, making sure everything stays down. In a few hours, more food, maybe some chicken broth...

He busies himself, calms himself, thinking of questions that he realizes he doesn't need to ask. Break will be all right. That's all that matters.]

[With his free hand, he mimes holding a pen. Al won't be able to talk back, but he could write to him.]

[A squeeze, and Al gets up, finding a pencil and his notebook in his room, then comes back, sliding both under Break's hand. He picks up the plate and takes it to the sink before coming back.]

[Break has a messy scrawl at the best of times. Like this, the writing is spidery and careful. He's tried desperately not to lose his place as his hand moves, but unable to follow the lines on the page the words curve, intersect one another, sometimes jump. He's written.]

Someone once told me that going blind
was losing the world of objects, the need
to fill a home with this and that and every other thing
I have found that to be true
but
this is to lose the world of depth
the click of a teacup set down on a table
blinder than a bat without footsteps ringing back to me without breat
breathing and my own heart beat missing in my ears
I wondered briefly if I am alive?

[It's a surreal quality, to feel and to not feel -- hearing and sight were the only senses available to Alphonse for five years. To rely on the other three exclusively would be to be shut in a tiny world of darkness and silence.

To be cut from the world of touch was to be numb, but this would be something like an imprisonment, solitary and cold. His ability to speak back to Break was limited, but Al's learned well the world of touch. His finger brushes across Break's palm, doodling slowly, finding words. It takes some time.]

L-I-F-E I-S

[Pause, the brush of fingers over Break's wrist. It's hard to put it into words, to be succinct.]

N-O-T M-A-D-E O-F H-E-A-R-T-B-E-A-T-S

J-U-S-T

W-H-A-T Y-O-U-R H-E-A-R-T B-E-A-T-S F-O-R

[Break- well, it isn't listening, but he waits and thinks hard about what Al is telling him. After a moment he gives Al's fingers a squeeze. Then reaches for the pen again, tearing himself off a new page and tossing the old aside.]

I do not remember if I have ever seen you
in the litany of voice posts
or
the monotony of finger tapped written keys
I do not know what you look like, or if I will ever know
if your eyes are brown or blue or green
But I have not lost you along with the objects.
I know you. You are.

[A heartbeat, and then the old page slides across the table. Memories are sacred in this place. It's rare that Al has something to keep. Proof that someone existed, other than in his head.

There is a very long silence after that. Not only of the world, but in Al. He always thinks too much, always feels too much. Break is only rarely so serious.

"You are."

Al's hand squeezes Break's. That silence says more than anything he could trace out on Break's hand. What finally comes is much less profound.]

I-M G-L-A-D Y-O-U-R-E O-K-A-Y

[He's just as still for a moment, before nodding. He is- or will be- and he's glad too. He's fed (thank God) and relatively safe, and content to sit in this warm kitchen forever.]

How long has this event been? How long to go?

[Al will watch him like a slightly fussy hawk.]

6 D-A-Y-S

I-T-S F-R-I-D-A-Y

E-N-D-S T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W N-I-G-H-T

[Break nods. It explains a lot, that it's been this long. He's eaten- but not enough. Not much.

New paper. The old one joins the last, cast aside on the table.]

I need to rest. Home? Or-?

[Al stacks them. He'll put them away later.]

S-T-A-Y

E-X-T-R-A B-E-D-S

[A pause, and Al pats his shoulder.]

W-I-L-L W-A-K-E Y-O-U U-P T-O E-A-T A-G-A-I-N I-N 3 H-O-U-R-S

[If Al's right, Break hasn't eaten much at all this week.]

[Break doodles a smily face on the pad of paper, and climbs to his feet, nodding an agreement.

He sets the pen down, almost reluctantly.]

You could just smile at me, silly. [Al murmurs it out loud with a soft laugh. He picks up the pen and notebook and with the other hand, takes Break's to lead him down the hallway to a spare room.

It's mostly bare, with clean sheets. Al sets the pad on the bedside table, takes Break's hand to show him where it and the bed is.]

[Break topples into bed, chest constricting with something... entirely unpleasant.

He sits up. Reaches for the pad. Hesitates-]

Th-
ankyouthankyouank you

[Hand on his. If he has time, Al will nudge the pencil into it.]

ank you for your help.

[Silence. The things the Judge said dance in his mind, making it hard to accept. Instead, Al squeezes his hand, perhaps a bit too hard. Gently, he nudges him, urging him to lay down and rest.

Three hours.]

[Break flops down on the bed, and goes still. Even he isn't sure if he's sleeping or not.

He knows when he's dreaming, though. In his dreams, he can still see.]

[Three hours passes all too quickly, but by the time Al goes to wake Break, he has a tray with some hot chicken-vegetable soup. It's from a can, but it's hot and something easier to digest.

Al sets the tray on the bedside table, then lays a gentle hand on his arm, shaking it.

Perhaps a bad idea.]

[A little. Break flies upwards at the touch, but manages to catch himself just short of punching Al in the head.

Only just short of it.]

[Al's more impressed that he managed to stop himself, than how quickly he managed the punch. It would have hit, and Al would have been down, easily. He hadn't been expecting it.

Al pats Break's fist gently, cheerily.]

[Break growls at him a tiny bit, and drops his hands into his lap. Good heavens.]

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