[Oboro opens the door, just as Josh had hoped he would, and... Josh feels silly. Stupid, even. This is as far as his plan went; he didn't think about what he'd do, what he'd say, what the point of the visit even was, really.
He just knows his brain was screaming at him to go find the kid.
He stares down at Oboro, uncertain and hesitant. Does he go inside? Does he say no, wait, my bad, never mind...? Does he say he's sorry, like offering someone condolences over their own death is even useful at all?
His expression changes in that moment, when he has that thought and remembers what carried him here. It becomes unbelievably sad — his shoulders drop, his brow softens, and his eyes lose a little of their usual light. After that, the only thing he can think to do, the only thing that makes sense, is to throw his arms around the kid and pull him in for a tight hug. It's protective and scared all at once; it's the kind of hug you'd give someone who just survived a car crash unscathed while the wreckage is still visible and smoldering in the backdrop. It's the kind of hug that says I'm glad you're still here. It's a hug Josh has never had to give before, but wishes he had the opportunity to in a few cases, and he half-wonders if he's even any good at it.]
It doesn't work the way you think it does. [He says, dropping his head to mumble the explanation quietly.] You don't belong down here.
[Oboro felt his gut caving in as sadness grew and warped Josh's face into something he could hardly recognize.
But he didn't know why. And as his mouth opened to ask, his own expression turned somber in echo of the grief he was witnessing, his breath was swept away. Startled, instinct churning fear into his veins, Oboro locked up. His shoulders tensed and his arms raised as if to force distance between himself and the sudden constriction.
Then, his resistance vanished. Oboro recognized this grip. This frightened embrace that needed safety. To protect and to hold peace of mind close. He'd felt it from his teacher, and he was wrapped in it again. Oboro raised his hands to hold the man's shoulders and let his head rest against Josh's chest.
The embrace was warm, but Josh's words chilled Oboro's fingertips. He clenched his jaw. Oboro didn't know - didn't understand - why Josh desperately needed to tell him this. But there was something in the man's voice that told him Josh needed him to believe it.
He didn't.] But I'm here. [Oboro spoke with measured silence, an argument that wasn't meant to debate, but to pacify.]
[Josh doesn't have nieces. He doesn't have nephews. That opportunity vanished when he was just a boy, and his parents never considered bringing anyone else into the picture after Joanie was gone.
He doesn't have children of his own, either. (And now, he never will.)
Hell, he's never even babysat — in fact, he can't remember, outside of his experiences here, the last time he even talked to a kid. He's sure he's never hugged one at all, let alone like this. It's new. It's weird, in its newness. It makes Josh's chest hurt.
It makes him think of Zoe. It makes him think of Toby and the few conversations they had about fatherhood. It makes him think about his own father, also gone, and —
What's there to say? What's there to do, aside from hold Oboro close for just a few more moments before pulling away?
And in those few moments, which span the space of a few of Josh's own heavy heartbeats, he says:] For now.
[No final judgment has been passed. Oboro's lucky, in that way.]
[As warmth teetered on the edge of heat, Oboro felt his shoulders relax. His fingers stayed nestled in the fabric of Josh's shirt but they no longer clung. He shut his eyes, resting his head on the man and feeling the heavy rise and fall of his breaths.
In the time that passed between them, he almost felt comfortable. But a question throbbed in his head, and kept his chest feeling tight.
What caused this?
Maybe, he'd find a moment to ask.
But for now, Oboro stared Josh in the eye and listened to his response. For now was such a damning thing to hear. He wanted to stay. Everyone he had met, everyone who had grown important to him, was here.] Yes. [It was with a frown that he answered.]
Do you hate it here? [Was it really so bad? Oboro was living, working, and learning in this place. In this place he could be hugged with warmth and care - as he'd just been.]
[The question takes him by surprise, and it's in that moment that Josh considers why Oboro asked. He didn't think the kid liked it here — who'd enjoy taking up dangerous jobs just to scrape by? What kind of child would find comfort in a landscape like this?
Unless home was worse.
Unless he had to do worse, in his previous life, just to survive at all.]
No.
[Maybe they're the same, in this regard.
But whatever else he has to say about that gets stuck in his throat. He doesn't want to say he likes it, because that sounds crazy, even if it's a little bit true. He also can't quite find the words to explain that he's found people here he identifies with, despite the angel-demon dichotomy. He doesn't know how to say that it's taken him only a month and change to —
Love is a strong word, but Josh feels it, even here. It's the one emotion Josh has always felt the most strongly, right next to guilt.
He pulls back a bit, but his hands remain on Oboro's small shoulders.]
[Somehow, Josh's answer was a relief to hear. Oboro's frown faded, and for what felt like the first time he saw the man eye to eye. Honesty he'd seen bared in discussions and disagreements was so much more raw now.
Now he looked to Josh with something less guarded than usual - something resembling happiness.] No. I don't. [He swallowed, his mouth dry, and looked away.
Should he explain? Normally he wouldn't, but something severe had driven Josh to his door. He owed the man as much. He made eye contact.] I'm not a slave here. And I've met kind people. Like you.
[He paused, his own honesty catching in his throat. Oboro liked it here - he didn't want to leave. He desperately, desperately didn't want to leave.] My teacher is here. [They were together here.]
[Josh came down here expecting a fight. From Brimstone, from the Reform Branch, from everyone damned to eternity in Hell. He came down here a little afraid for himself. He came down thinking he might want to turn tail and run within a day — if that.
But the fights he's had have all been with people he now thinks of as friends, and they haven't so much been fights as passionate disagreements.
Despite the heat, this place feels a lot like home. (With the heat, this place feels a lot like home in summer.)
The friends he'd come to think of as family are all still alive. The family he'd lost when he was younger and then not-so-young are untraceable here — even Nico hasn't been able to locate them. This is all Josh has; these people, condemned though they may be, are all Josh has.]
I saw what you said about why you're here.
[The words are a little strained, but he owes Oboro an explanation.]
And I don't think you should believe that just because you — [No. He's not saying it.] — that just because what happened happened the way it did, you're damned. It's not... automatic.
[Oboro's lips pressed into a thin line as he connected his network conversation with Josh's explanation. When everything fell into place, he balled his hands into fists. He hadn't wanted Josh to see that.
He needed to be more careful.
With that resolution Oboro released a stale breath, his back straightening as he exhaled.
He'd done what he'd done - and what he'd done was far worse than what Josh knew, what Josh would ever know - without care for consequence. And yet, as tight-lipped as he was about his choice, he didn't regret it.
Or maybe he just couldn't afford to let himself regret it. The conflict, a familiar pit in his gut, showed on his face. He wanted to stay, he didn't hate it here, he needed to be here. To be damned. The man's words weren't as comforting as they'd been intended.] Do you say that...as a human? Or as a messenger of the heavens?
That's not what he is. He doesn't think of himself like that even a little bit — he's not Horatio; he won't, can't speak of behalf of Heaven. All he has right now is logic and what his heart's telling him.
...what his heart's hoping for, anyway.]
If it were automatic, you wouldn't be a Limbo case.
[And here it comes, something as rare as a total solar eclipse:]
I'm sorry I read your conversation. I shouldn't have done that.
[Oboro didn't know what sort of answer he was hoping for. A human's assurance meant nothing, and heaven's mandate was inescapable. Both would have been a heavy weight on his shoulders. The non-direct response suited Oboro well, he supposed, as the aching in his chapped and bandaged knuckles reminded him to relax his hands.
As a limbo case, he wasn't damned, and he knew more kind people than just Josh who wanted that for him. But as a limbo case, he was able to live in hell.
He would accept suspension forever, if only it could be guaranteed.
The apology caught Oboro off guard, and his train of thought halted.] It's okay. [His message wasn't private, it had been his mistake.] I- [Would have told you? It hadn't ever come up, but even if it had, Oboro would have avoided it.] I didn't want to upset you. [He didn't want to any more pity than he already had.]
He crouches, so that he can look up at Oboro rather than down at him. He's not that tall, but right now, he feels like he's towering. Looming. Judging, too, probably.
Much to his own surprise, he isn't.]
I'm not upset that you did it. [Well, he is, but that's not the point.] I'm upset that whatever circumstances you found yourself in... led to that. That life wasn't kinder to you.
[Repositioning brought them closer, made Oboro wonder if Josh wanted another hug. He wasn't opposed to the idea. The comfort he'd found in that embrace was draining from him as they spoke.
The exact reasoning behind Josh's duress wasn't what Oboro was concerned about. It was that he'd given a man who had been nothing but kind to him such a burden. He couldn't help but feel guilty, and he refused to add to it any more.
Oboro wouldn't talk about his doubts. He wouldn't talk about how he'd been desperate. Useless. Frantic to give the hope of a future to his teacher - a man who couldn't have deserved it more.
He'd already decided that if he simply wasn't meant to live, then at least he could make his death worth something.]
That life is over now. [Oboro's optimism was awkward, but they both needed something other than pessimism.] I'd always thought fate was unkind, but here I think... it just requires patience.
[There he goes again, talking about fate. While Josh can appreciate the sentiment of having two lives — and he thinks about his own in the same way, even though he can't (and on some level refuses to) let go of his past — there's something he suddenly doesn't understand, as far as Oboro's belief in fate is concerned.
His brows furrow.]
Oboro...
[God, this is morbid.]
What you did, that's — that's the ultimate act of free will. A lot of people think that the whole question of life should be left in the hands of fate, or some... y'know, some higher power. Like — back home, for example, one of the things we wrestled with, one of the most challenging questions we had to try to answer was: If you're sick and you're suffering and there's no hope of getting better, do you have the right to end that suffering with the help of a physician without it being considered a crime? And you'd think, probably, of course someone has that right. Why would it be a crime, if it's their decision? But a lot of people don't think that way — they think it should be left up to fate.
[Loose though the connection may be, he thinks it fits. Kind of.
[The only part of Oboro's past he'd cared to hold on to had followed him to Hell. His teacher's smile, the man's gentle yet firm voice, the way they both learned about the world together, those things were all with him once more.
The rest could stay rotting in the dirt, for all he cared.
Oboro balked when Josh spoke. The accusation that he could do such a grand thing of his own will shook him at his core. But he stayed quiet and listened none the less, following the thread of Josh's loosely wound argument.
Rebuttals began to form in his mind. Oboro would agree that it wasn't a crime to grant a request - even one to end an anguishing life. But that didn't mean people were free. Fate had simply mandated that person to die, and the method was of no consequence.
But Oboro could feel Josh's words sinking in, through the guard of his arguments. He'd seen his teacher fighting fate, and just maybe, he'd been engulfed by that fantasy. So he couldn't bring himself to tell Josh he was wrong. But that didn't mean he could agree, either.
Oboro shook his head.] You can say that, but without fate- [His bottom lip curled into his mouth, a nameless emotion suppressed.] I wouldn't have been strong enough to do what I did without believing [His breath caught.] Knowing. That it was my fate to die.
He reaches out to squeeze Oboro's arm. Josh doesn't have it in him to keep talking about this right now — not when his feelings were so raw just a few minutes ago. This is something he wants to discuss with the kid, not argue about.]
Whatever you need from me, I'll help you.
[If his judgement day arrives anytime soon, and he winds up being granted entrance to Heaven — a possibility Josh is still rooting for, despite Oboro saying he wants to stay in Hell — then he'll make sure the kid can stay down here for as long as he likes.]
[He could feel his breath hitching, feelings he'd been trying so hard to swallow nearly overslowing. Josh's grip on his arm was like a blow to his chest - he didn't deserve this support. He knew that if he opened his mouth now, he wouldn't be able to form words.
So instead he nodded, attempting and failing a smile.
And then he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the man not to give another hug, but to receive one. Oboro let his face press into the fabric of Josh's shirt and squeezed his eyes shut. To keep himself together.
After the rise and fall of his chest calmed, he'd reply.] Thank you.
[Josh knows that look. He's seen it on his own face, watery eyes staring back at him in the mirror; he's felt the same twist and pull in his own chest, that very same inability to speak.
He hates it.
He hates seeing Oboro wear it even more.
His arms are out as soon as the kid leans toward him, and the embrace that follows is strong, firm, and warm, both sympathetic and reassuring. It's then that his memory flashes, lights up like a summer storm and lands him back in the living room of his childhood home, back in his mother's arms, the scene exactly like this one right here, right now. Except he was younger than Oboro is now, and he hadn't yet learned the fine art of keeping himself together, and he hadn't understood what death even meant aside from that his sister wouldn't be around anymore.]
Yeah.
[Josh tilts his head to lean his cheek against Oboro's hair and does the same: breathes until the pang in his chest has dulled, until his eyes don't feel quite so wet.]
[The gentle reassurances, the tight grip, the place to nestle his head - Oboro clung to it all with aching shoulders. He was selfish, languishing in such a gesture. But, despite the guilt, it helped.
Maybe Oboro had just wanted the chance to cry. Maybe he'd just needed to feel like it was okay, to have a strong embrace keeping him upright in case his knees buckled. It was strange - the one moment he was safe to sob was also the moment it was easiest to calm himself down.
As time passed and the throbbing behind his eyes dulled, Oboro pulled away with a deep breath. His second attempt at a smile was more successful than the first.]
I'm happy- [He knew he didn't look it, but even though his smile was bittersweet, he found it easy to wear.] -that you came. [That he met you.]
[It's almost a surprise to Josh, how this scene unfolds. Despite the familiarity, despite him doing almost exactly the same thing as his mother held him in their old living room, he's still taken aback by the tears.
Not in a bad way, though. It's almost a relief. He'd probably have walked away from this encounter thinking, otherwise, that Oboro didn't trust him anymore, that he thought Josh was possibly a creep, that he'd take this as his sign to build a wall between them just to protect himself.
So Josh is happy, too, even if he feels incredibly sad.]
[When Oboro raised a hand to wipe at his irritated eye, he felt something wet. He looked down at Josh's shirt, and even though he knew, it was still strange to see the dark splotches he'd left behind.
He couldn't quite put together how he felt-] Mmhm. [Oboro nodded, because through the haze of regret and guilt and companionship and warmth, he felt lighter.
Oboro had never wanted to rely on anyone. The walls he'd built up were there to protect others, not himself. He wasn't ready to tear them down, but he knew - through hiding in his office and being held in his arms - that Josh would be there for him.
[If Oboro noticed anything different about Josh's eyes, he didn't show it. He breathed a deep, comfortable sigh when Josh squeezed his shoulders, and watched the man stand. From here, he couldn't quite make out the little wet spots.
Maybe they'd started to dry.]
Yes. [Oboro nodded. Josh was a busy man, and there was nothing left to say - they'd understood each other.] I am too. [Glad, and appreciative. He didn't want to over saturate Josh with gratitude, though, so he swallowed his thanks.]
Have a good evening. [Taking the doorknob into his hand, Oboro moved just a few small steps back into his hotel room. He wanted to see Josh leave before he shut the door.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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He just knows his brain was screaming at him to go find the kid.
He stares down at Oboro, uncertain and hesitant. Does he go inside? Does he say no, wait, my bad, never mind...? Does he say he's sorry, like offering someone condolences over their own death is even useful at all?
His expression changes in that moment, when he has that thought and remembers what carried him here. It becomes unbelievably sad — his shoulders drop, his brow softens, and his eyes lose a little of their usual light. After that, the only thing he can think to do, the only thing that makes sense, is to throw his arms around the kid and pull him in for a tight hug. It's protective and scared all at once; it's the kind of hug you'd give someone who just survived a car crash unscathed while the wreckage is still visible and smoldering in the backdrop. It's the kind of hug that says I'm glad you're still here. It's a hug Josh has never had to give before, but wishes he had the opportunity to in a few cases, and he half-wonders if he's even any good at it.]
It doesn't work the way you think it does. [He says, dropping his head to mumble the explanation quietly.] You don't belong down here.
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But he didn't know why. And as his mouth opened to ask, his own expression turned somber in echo of the grief he was witnessing, his breath was swept away. Startled, instinct churning fear into his veins, Oboro locked up. His shoulders tensed and his arms raised as if to force distance between himself and the sudden constriction.
Then, his resistance vanished. Oboro recognized this grip. This frightened embrace that needed safety. To protect and to hold peace of mind close. He'd felt it from his teacher, and he was wrapped in it again. Oboro raised his hands to hold the man's shoulders and let his head rest against Josh's chest.
The embrace was warm, but Josh's words chilled Oboro's fingertips. He clenched his jaw. Oboro didn't know - didn't understand - why Josh desperately needed to tell him this. But there was something in the man's voice that told him Josh needed him to believe it.
He didn't.] But I'm here. [Oboro spoke with measured silence, an argument that wasn't meant to debate, but to pacify.]
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He doesn't have children of his own, either. (And now, he never will.)
Hell, he's never even babysat — in fact, he can't remember, outside of his experiences here, the last time he even talked to a kid. He's sure he's never hugged one at all, let alone like this. It's new. It's weird, in its newness. It makes Josh's chest hurt.
It makes him think of Zoe. It makes him think of Toby and the few conversations they had about fatherhood. It makes him think about his own father, also gone, and —
What's there to say? What's there to do, aside from hold Oboro close for just a few more moments before pulling away?
And in those few moments, which span the space of a few of Josh's own heavy heartbeats, he says:] For now.
[No final judgment has been passed. Oboro's lucky, in that way.]
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In the time that passed between them, he almost felt comfortable. But a question throbbed in his head, and kept his chest feeling tight.
What caused this?
Maybe, he'd find a moment to ask.
But for now, Oboro stared Josh in the eye and listened to his response. For now was such a damning thing to hear. He wanted to stay. Everyone he had met, everyone who had grown important to him, was here.] Yes. [It was with a frown that he answered.]
Do you hate it here? [Was it really so bad? Oboro was living, working, and learning in this place. In this place he could be hugged with warmth and care - as he'd just been.]
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Unless home was worse.
Unless he had to do worse, in his previous life, just to survive at all.]
No.
[Maybe they're the same, in this regard.
But whatever else he has to say about that gets stuck in his throat. He doesn't want to say he likes it, because that sounds crazy, even if it's a little bit true. He also can't quite find the words to explain that he's found people here he identifies with, despite the angel-demon dichotomy. He doesn't know how to say that it's taken him only a month and change to —
Love is a strong word, but Josh feels it, even here. It's the one emotion Josh has always felt the most strongly, right next to guilt.
He pulls back a bit, but his hands remain on Oboro's small shoulders.]
I'm guessing you don't, either.
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Now he looked to Josh with something less guarded than usual - something resembling happiness.] No. I don't. [He swallowed, his mouth dry, and looked away.
Should he explain? Normally he wouldn't, but something severe had driven Josh to his door. He owed the man as much. He made eye contact.] I'm not a slave here. And I've met kind people. Like you.
[He paused, his own honesty catching in his throat. Oboro liked it here - he didn't want to leave. He desperately, desperately didn't want to leave.] My teacher is here. [They were together here.]
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But the fights he's had have all been with people he now thinks of as friends, and they haven't so much been fights as passionate disagreements.
Despite the heat, this place feels a lot like home. (With the heat, this place feels a lot like home in summer.)
The friends he'd come to think of as family are all still alive. The family he'd lost when he was younger and then not-so-young are untraceable here — even Nico hasn't been able to locate them. This is all Josh has; these people, condemned though they may be, are all Josh has.]
I saw what you said about why you're here.
[The words are a little strained, but he owes Oboro an explanation.]
And I don't think you should believe that just because you — [No. He's not saying it.] — that just because what happened happened the way it did, you're damned. It's not... automatic.
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He needed to be more careful.
With that resolution Oboro released a stale breath, his back straightening as he exhaled.
He'd done what he'd done - and what he'd done was far worse than what Josh knew, what Josh would ever know - without care for consequence. And yet, as tight-lipped as he was about his choice, he didn't regret it.
Or maybe he just couldn't afford to let himself regret it. The conflict, a familiar pit in his gut, showed on his face. He wanted to stay, he didn't hate it here, he needed to be here. To be damned. The man's words weren't as comforting as they'd been intended.] Do you say that...as a human? Or as a messenger of the heavens?
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Josh would laugh at that if he weren't so sad.
That's not what he is. He doesn't think of himself like that even a little bit — he's not Horatio; he won't, can't speak of behalf of Heaven. All he has right now is logic and what his heart's telling him.
...what his heart's hoping for, anyway.]
If it were automatic, you wouldn't be a Limbo case.
[And here it comes, something as rare as a total solar eclipse:]
I'm sorry I read your conversation. I shouldn't have done that.
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As a limbo case, he wasn't damned, and he knew more kind people than just Josh who wanted that for him. But as a limbo case, he was able to live in hell.
He would accept suspension forever, if only it could be guaranteed.
The apology caught Oboro off guard, and his train of thought halted.] It's okay. [His message wasn't private, it had been his mistake.] I- [Would have told you? It hadn't ever come up, but even if it had, Oboro would have avoided it.] I didn't want to upset you. [He didn't want to any more pity than he already had.]
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He crouches, so that he can look up at Oboro rather than down at him. He's not that tall, but right now, he feels like he's towering. Looming. Judging, too, probably.
Much to his own surprise, he isn't.]
I'm not upset that you did it. [Well, he is, but that's not the point.] I'm upset that whatever circumstances you found yourself in... led to that. That life wasn't kinder to you.
[He's twelve.
What pushes a twelve-year-old to that point?]
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The exact reasoning behind Josh's duress wasn't what Oboro was concerned about. It was that he'd given a man who had been nothing but kind to him such a burden. He couldn't help but feel guilty, and he refused to add to it any more.
Oboro wouldn't talk about his doubts. He wouldn't talk about how he'd been desperate. Useless. Frantic to give the hope of a future to his teacher - a man who couldn't have deserved it more.
He'd already decided that if he simply wasn't meant to live, then at least he could make his death worth something.]
That life is over now. [Oboro's optimism was awkward, but they both needed something other than pessimism.] I'd always thought fate was unkind, but here I think... it just requires patience.
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His brows furrow.]
Oboro...
[God, this is morbid.]
What you did, that's — that's the ultimate act of free will. A lot of people think that the whole question of life should be left in the hands of fate, or some... y'know, some higher power. Like — back home, for example, one of the things we wrestled with, one of the most challenging questions we had to try to answer was: If you're sick and you're suffering and there's no hope of getting better, do you have the right to end that suffering with the help of a physician without it being considered a crime? And you'd think, probably, of course someone has that right. Why would it be a crime, if it's their decision? But a lot of people don't think that way — they think it should be left up to fate.
[Loose though the connection may be, he thinks it fits. Kind of.
Or illustrates his point, at least.
Kind of.]
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The rest could stay rotting in the dirt, for all he cared.
Oboro balked when Josh spoke. The accusation that he could do such a grand thing of his own will shook him at his core. But he stayed quiet and listened none the less, following the thread of Josh's loosely wound argument.
Rebuttals began to form in his mind. Oboro would agree that it wasn't a crime to grant a request - even one to end an anguishing life. But that didn't mean people were free. Fate had simply mandated that person to die, and the method was of no consequence.
But Oboro could feel Josh's words sinking in, through the guard of his arguments. He'd seen his teacher fighting fate, and just maybe, he'd been engulfed by that fantasy. So he couldn't bring himself to tell Josh he was wrong. But that didn't mean he could agree, either.
Oboro shook his head.] You can say that, but without fate- [His bottom lip curled into his mouth, a nameless emotion suppressed.] I wouldn't have been strong enough to do what I did without believing [His breath caught.] Knowing. That it was my fate to die.
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He reaches out to squeeze Oboro's arm. Josh doesn't have it in him to keep talking about this right now — not when his feelings were so raw just a few minutes ago. This is something he wants to discuss with the kid, not argue about.]
Whatever you need from me, I'll help you.
[If his judgement day arrives anytime soon, and he winds up being granted entrance to Heaven — a possibility Josh is still rooting for, despite Oboro saying he wants to stay in Hell — then he'll make sure the kid can stay down here for as long as he likes.]
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So instead he nodded, attempting and failing a smile.
And then he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the man not to give another hug, but to receive one. Oboro let his face press into the fabric of Josh's shirt and squeezed his eyes shut. To keep himself together.
After the rise and fall of his chest calmed, he'd reply.] Thank you.
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He hates it.
He hates seeing Oboro wear it even more.
His arms are out as soon as the kid leans toward him, and the embrace that follows is strong, firm, and warm, both sympathetic and reassuring. It's then that his memory flashes, lights up like a summer storm and lands him back in the living room of his childhood home, back in his mother's arms, the scene exactly like this one right here, right now. Except he was younger than Oboro is now, and he hadn't yet learned the fine art of keeping himself together, and he hadn't understood what death even meant aside from that his sister wouldn't be around anymore.]
Yeah.
[Josh tilts his head to lean his cheek against Oboro's hair and does the same: breathes until the pang in his chest has dulled, until his eyes don't feel quite so wet.]
...yeah.
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Maybe Oboro had just wanted the chance to cry. Maybe he'd just needed to feel like it was okay, to have a strong embrace keeping him upright in case his knees buckled. It was strange - the one moment he was safe to sob was also the moment it was easiest to calm himself down.
As time passed and the throbbing behind his eyes dulled, Oboro pulled away with a deep breath. His second attempt at a smile was more successful than the first.]
I'm happy- [He knew he didn't look it, but even though his smile was bittersweet, he found it easy to wear.] -that you came. [That he met you.]
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Not in a bad way, though. It's almost a relief. He'd probably have walked away from this encounter thinking, otherwise, that Oboro didn't trust him anymore, that he thought Josh was possibly a creep, that he'd take this as his sign to build a wall between them just to protect himself.
So Josh is happy, too, even if he feels incredibly sad.]
Me too. You okay?
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He couldn't quite put together how he felt-] Mmhm. [Oboro nodded, because through the haze of regret and guilt and companionship and warmth, he felt lighter.
Oboro had never wanted to rely on anyone. The walls he'd built up were there to protect others, not himself. He wasn't ready to tear them down, but he knew - through hiding in his office and being held in his arms - that Josh would be there for him.
It made him feel safe.]
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[He pulls away himself, finally, and gives Oboro's shoulders one final squeeze before the contact is fully broken.
Josh will ignore the wet spots on his shirt if Oboro ignores the fact that Josh's eyes are a little redder than they were when he showed up.
He stands.]
I need to head back to the office, but — I'm, uh... glad we had this talk.
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Maybe they'd started to dry.]
Yes. [Oboro nodded. Josh was a busy man, and there was nothing left to say - they'd understood each other.] I am too. [Glad, and appreciative. He didn't want to over saturate Josh with gratitude, though, so he swallowed his thanks.]
Have a good evening. [Taking the doorknob into his hand, Oboro moved just a few small steps back into his hotel room. He wanted to see Josh leave before he shut the door.]
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[Josh offers one last small smile before turning on his heel and heading back the way he came, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he goes.]