there's really only so many times you can wake up from a nightmare before you begin to grow tired of it. cold sweat, forcing your eyes open, laying in the dark, staring at the ceiling — wondering where did the time go, what could i have done to prevent it? that kind of guilt sitting heavy in your chest, burying itself into your lungs, finding a place in your ribs to settle in — deep, crushing, drowning, is hard to ignore. it's like having an anchor placed right where your heart should be, and you're trying to swim — but that guilt, it keeps dragging you under.
there's only so many times you can wake up from a nightmare before you begin to grow tired of that feeling. where instead of just shame, it turns into frustration. it undergoes metamorphosis, splitting open the delicate fabric of the cocoon, breaching as ugly strands of moisture cling to its newborn body. and after a moment of delicate, beautiful silence in the dark, where it seems the whole world comes to a halt in awe of its beauty — it rears its ugly, newborn head into the world with a flutter of its wings, still wet with tears and regret. but it has changed, and it has been born, and its name is anger.
around the lamppost, the moths flap their wings, circling around the source of the light, unable to reach the source due to a barrier of glass. cigarette smoke, in the deeper parts of certain cities, sometimes is so strong in the midst of back alleyways that it feels like he's trying to see through a haze — and what makes it even worse is the smell. nero can't stand the smell of smoke, and yet inhales it anyways. second-hand smoke is no joke, or at least that's what they used to preach at the church before tossing the cigarette pack onto the ground in front of another kid who'd gotten caught for having it on him. he'd been shamed, that day, during prayer, in front of the whole crowd of people, all wearing hoods over their faces like they'd been ashamed and afraid to be alive.
the great sparda died for you, sanctus says, in his memories, in his dreams, the words bouncing around in his head. he knows that isn't true. nobody knows what happened to sparda. and you repay his kindness like this? he knows the tone so well that he can recite it in his sleep. it's bitter, with resentment, helplessness, disappointment. nero has always been a lost cause — too loud, too opinionated, too curious, too wrong and too different. and so even when he'd hated the smell of smoke, he'd tried, once, with that kid who'd gotten caught for it.
he'd gotten glared at. even among outcasts, nero is still an outcast — and this sentiment will ring true until the end of time, he feels.
so, nero hates the smell of cigarette smoke, and stands it anyways, because he can't afford to be picky. affording to be picky would be like saying he lives in luxury. nero has never lived in luxury. (too-small clothes until he'd gotten his uniform for working for the knights, too-small beds to sleep in, shitty hand-me-downs, a fucked up mp3 player — everything is fought for, in his life. even to live; that is a battle.) he waves it out of the way of his face with a disgruntled wrinkle of his nose, bumps into a man in the middle of the darkness who turns. the stranger's face contorts into something ugly.
nero can't hear what he says over the screaming of music in his ears, and instead chooses to raise his middle finger before kicking at a stray rock on the ground, ignoring whatever insults would have been thrown at him in favour of moving forwards. moving forwards, isn't that what everyone does, in the end? (even if it means leaving everything behind? even if it means leaving himself behind?)
so, it starts like this. nero has a nightmare, and he gets out of bed in the middle of night to take a train to the outskirts of downtown that costs too much — not that he cares about the cost right now — and walks down streets until he comes to the heart of the city. it's bright, and surely he'd note the absurdity of the loudness if he didn't have his headphones in at nearly full volume. people stumble by him, drunk, laughing, arms wrapped around one another — warm breaths, warm bodies, alive and happy. (nero turns his gaze away to curb the disgust rising in his throat. whether that sort of emotion has wormed its way into his esophagus like a parasite was placed there by the church, or because of jealousy, he does not know. he does not care.)
the singer in his ears screams something, but nero can't make out the words — not that he really cares to. the sound of music is there to only drown out his overly-loud thoughts, and is the only thing that remotely even comes close to comforting or therapeutic. a woman and her boyfriend walk by him, and one of them exhales cigarette smoke again, and nero just—
without thinking, he pushes open the door to the nearest shop, which thankfully has its lights on and seems to be open at this godawful time in the very early morning. even as he slides his headphones off to rest around his neck, he can still vaguely hear the drums and the guitar. if you don't listen to music at full volume, what's even the point?
nero's eyes scan over the interior of the shop without really taking in any of the details, eyes landing on the menu choices hanging from the ceiling. so, he's walked into a ramen shop to get the cigarette smell out of his face. he might as well order something to eat — his stomach feels empty from the fact that he skipped dinner yesterday to just sit and listen to music in nico's van. she hadn't asked about what the hell was going on in his mind (thank sparda for her), and had just been content to let her lay on the couch in her van and exist. (it's hard to do that. 'exist'.)
the whole place seems to be empty, save for the presence of one other guy, who nero doesn't really pay attention to. he clears his throat, and walks up to the register — where a very tired-looking, middle-aged man asks him for his order. nero orders the first thing he sees on the menu that's in his budget, and with his free hand that isn't wrapped in a sling, goes to fumble his wallet out of his pocket. his hands feel shaky; cons of having a nightmare just about an hour ago — and with the fact that he's using his non-dominant hand to fish his wallet out of his pocket, it only takes a little bit of a fumble for his grip to loosen. nero's wallet goes tumbling from his hands, slipping through his fingers and onto the floor — even then having the audacity to actually slide across the floor away from him.
frustration immediately settles deep in his chest. really, just when his night couldn't get any worse. “ shit. you have got to be fucking kidding me. ”
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