I cannot defend you, but I'll try and I'll be there.
All is quiet in the Kashtta lobby. You know, the way things ...probably shouldn't be, considering the Kashtta, but that's beside the point. At least it doesn't stay that way for long
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His hands ball into fists again, the anger fighting with his need to run away, the way it always does. It's the same old dance, fight or flight warring inside him while he stands there frozen, staring at the ground. He's there for a long moment, shaking hard enough that he feels like he could fall over, wingstubs twitching -- if they were wings, they'd be flexing out and then folding again, but all he can do is faintly echo the movements. Not that he ever does it on purpose; everything about them is involuntary at this point.
"I'm not fucking choosing to deny what I am," he says. "I want--I don't fucking know, okay? Whether I should be one of you again or just fucking Fall, just to--fucking get it over with, keep you from--from fucking telling me what you think I fucking am. There's no fucking us. Not unless--"
He cuts off with another gasp, curling his arms around his head for a second and leaning over. The rage boils over with a small, strangled, frustrated scream, and he turns on Robin again, flailing out, hitting him as hard as he can, over and over.
"Not unless you can give me my fucking wings back!" he yells at the other man, punctuating every other word with another hit.
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Robin doesn't say anything more. He doesn't back down. He remains standing. It's not like he's warring with the same issues. Should he remain as an angel under the control of another person or should he become human again? Human. The very idea makes him feel sick.
"You're not the only one trying to make that choice right now. Yes, your circumstances are more extreme than most, but you're not the only one," he says, still between his teeth with his jaw locked.
And then the angel attacks him. Robin doesn't bother fighting back. This is what he wanted. It feels more right than anything has since Rachel found out he wasn't honest with her. If the angel still had his wings, this would hurt much more than it does. As it is, Robin's able to remain standing for a long time through the hits. One after the other. The pain feels right. It's the punishment that he's needed for so long, for so many things that he's done wrong. It's distraction from the rage and the internal debate.
Robin groans and sinks to his knees when it finally becomes too much for him. He's leaning over his knees as he turns his head to look back up at him. Robin wipes the back of his hand across his chin, breathing heavily and wincing at the sharp pain.
"Feel better now?" Bitter, angry words.
If the angel tries attacking him again, Robin will hit back this time.
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The swings don't cut off when the words do; really, the words just cut in and out, as though he just forgets, sometimes, that he was saying anything. "I used to be a fucking angel." Hit, connect. "I'm not going--" Hit, connect. "--to fucking Fall, I already fucking lost--" Hit, connect. Hit. Connect. "Cut your fucking wings off--" Hit, connect. "--see how it fucking feels then."
He stops, after awhile, the rage suddenly exhausted. It never sticks around for long, and afterwards he always wants to curl into a ball, to hide away from the rest of the world. Instead, he just cringes away, as if expecting Robin to hit back, finally, to retaliate somehow. They always do. "No," he says, slumping against the wall, curled in against himself. He's trying not to double over or run out the door. "Don't you fuc--don't talk to me until--until you fucking know. You--you don't." The words are angry, but the delivery is just weak, the complete opposite of the confrontational he was just seconds ago.
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What more would he say?
The words that he's saying doesn't matter to Robin.
They really don't.
It's only when the angel stops that he even bothers moving. It's slow. He pushes himself up with effort, wiping his mouth and trying to catch his breath.
"So what then? You'll never talk to anyone? Because I can guarantee you that nobody knows what you're going through. Even someone else that's got their wings cut off, won't know exactly. It doesn't do any good to keep it all locked up. I can tell you that much," Robin says, pressing his hand to his jaw and wincing. "I really hope you feel better now."
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He doesn't feel better. He's just tired, which could be a substitute for feeling better if he could ever get any fucking sleep after these things. But no; he's exhausted, but his body's still in fight or flight mode, and he's the frozen rabbit in the corner, hoping that if he doesn't move, the predator will lose interest.
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Not that it helps all that much.
He's talked about the abuse that he's endured at the hands of his mother. Robin's even talked about it in detail, and the rage is still there.
It's opening himself up to relationships, to love that helped in the end. Despite the risk, opening up is the answer. It's the only one that makes sense.
He's been an ass to this random person, and he doesn't quite want to stay around him any longer.
"I'm sorry," he mutters, tiredly, and then just... walks away. Awkward exits were once common with him, and it seems like it's that way again.
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And then the other man's gone, without even waiting for his answer. He still doesn't move for awhile, staring at the door in case anyone else comes into the room -- drawn by the yelling or just passing by. But then, suddenly, he sinks to the floor again, curling into a little ball and starting to cry. Fuck. Fuck. This was just not what he needed today.
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