[Deoxys remains hunched in the centre of one the the nearby rooms, the twisting knot in his stomach tightening as he listens to his wife enter and call out that question the the house. How can he possibly tell her? He doesn't even understand this himself, he—
He doesn't move to meet her nor open his mouth to answer her, twisting his fingers tighter into his hair and pulling until his scalp screams with pain. He doesn't care, not focusing on anything than the black-hole of emptiness ripping his insides to shreds. His girl...his little girl...this shouldn't be happening, can't, wouldn't, isn't. Sh-she should be here with her sisters! She should have strolled through that door, dodging his classic 'welcome home hug' that she'd learned by now was more of a sneaky attempt to steal her journal to see what delightful new things she'd imagined and sculpted so painstakingly out of words in the mere space of a lunch hour.
Once, he'd succeeded. Prose was new to him—everything flowed and linked together in the most flowery and complex ways—it wasn't structured and to the letter like a script. But the description, and the characters, the whole worlds— Jirachi had been furious, snatched back her book and yelled and ranted at him about privacy and how he was a cruel and terrible dad. But the satisfaction about his approval had been etched far too obviously onto her face; the way however much she shouted at him, all the while she couldn't stop her eyes gleaming and the corners of her mouth twitching upward. From then on, more fleshed-out, carefully revised drafts had sneaked their way among Deoxys' own possessions—though his daughter would always fume when her work was returned covered in red markings on how to write scripts and how to change the plot so it would be better suited for theatrical production.
His whole body shakes as memories of her swarm him, and the need to laugh, cry, or scream fight each other and cancel each other out, dying in his throat in a choked sob. He's hoping and praying for Arceus not to find him, not yet, but as silent as his body is being, he can't stop the psychic outpouring of grief. The screaming in his head breaks loose into telepathy. It's not voice, nor coherent words—there is no translatable meaning to speak of—what comes is raw channelled emotion. Like the electric drone of static from a TV that has been robbed of reception.]
no subject
He doesn't move to meet her nor open his mouth to answer her, twisting his fingers tighter into his hair and pulling until his scalp screams with pain. He doesn't care, not focusing on anything than the black-hole of emptiness ripping his insides to shreds. His girl...his little girl...this shouldn't be happening, can't, wouldn't, isn't. Sh-she should be here with her sisters! She should have strolled through that door, dodging his classic 'welcome home hug' that she'd learned by now was more of a sneaky attempt to steal her journal to see what delightful new things she'd imagined and sculpted so painstakingly out of words in the mere space of a lunch hour.
Once, he'd succeeded. Prose was new to him—everything flowed and linked together in the most flowery and complex ways—it wasn't structured and to the letter like a script. But the description, and the characters, the whole worlds— Jirachi had been furious, snatched back her book and yelled and ranted at him about privacy and how he was a cruel and terrible dad. But the satisfaction about his approval had been etched far too obviously onto her face; the way however much she shouted at him, all the while she couldn't stop her eyes gleaming and the corners of her mouth twitching upward. From then on, more fleshed-out, carefully revised drafts had sneaked their way among Deoxys' own possessions—though his daughter would always fume when her work was returned covered in red markings on how to write scripts and how to change the plot so it would be better suited for theatrical production.
His whole body shakes as memories of her swarm him, and the need to laugh, cry, or scream fight each other and cancel each other out, dying in his throat in a choked sob. He's hoping and praying for Arceus not to find him, not yet, but as silent as his body is being, he can't stop the psychic outpouring of grief. The screaming in his head breaks loose into telepathy. It's not voice, nor coherent words—there is no translatable meaning to speak of—what comes is raw channelled emotion. Like the electric drone of static from a TV that has been robbed of reception.]