[He intends to nap right here, but ofc Rean is a reasonable person so they end up napping on the couch. There's not a lot of room but that just means they have to cuddle, which Crow is completely fine with (though he wouldn't call it cuddling because that's embarrassing).
Crow's had nightmares since they got back, but he's always slept alone, and he's not loud about it, so it wasn't obvious. With Rean warm next to him, his sleep is pleasantly featureless. When he wakes up, everything is comfortable, and nice, and idyllic, and as he looks at Rean's sleeping face he thinks he could stay like that forever.
...And then he panics. It's too perfect. After dedicating himself to a suicidal goal, he wasn't supposed to get to just go home and be happy. Even when Rean chased him all the way, he died before a happy ending could happen. And that's the problem. He died. He remembers it perfectly: the pain that faded as his life slipped away from him. The dulling of the senses, the agony of regret.
And yet he's here now. He's here, and he remembers the moment his memories came back with the same vividness, as though the first breath he took again as "Crow" was revival itself. What he doesn't remember is how. Oh, he knows, in theory, what happened. He remembers a period of time where he was someone else. But there's a gap between dying and "Siegfried", and inside that gap are all the things he's terrified to face.
Like the fact that it didn't just "happen". It wasn't a spontaneous event. It was a twisting of the world's rules, imposed on him by someone else. He likes being alive, so it feels counterproductive not to be grateful -- he is grateful, but at the same time the lack of agency in that decision, and in the life he led between that and becoming himself again, is something he doesn't know how to address. He doesn't know how to address the fear that he's missing something that makes him who he is.
He doesn't know how to address the constant creeping sensation that he doesn't belong here. This happiness, the weight of Rean in his arms, must belong to someone else. To a version of him that deserves it. To a version of him that didn't die. Is he still even Crow Armbrust, or just an approximation wearing his face?
He doesn't know. He feels like he lost all the certainty he had in his identity and his goals into that gap in his memory. He's not even sure this isn't a terrible dream -- and if it was, who's dream would it even be?
All those feelings rise up in his chest at once, threatening to choke him back into the oblivion he's afraid he belongs to. But the moment is sweet, and he buries the uncertainty, staring straight up at the ceiling until he can breathe.
After that, he goes on pretending everything is fine. He picks up the house and cooks, he heaps affection (and endless teasing) on Rean, he goes out and gambles and entertains children. He gives Rean's students a run for their money and makes them question Rean's sanity in living with him. Every day it's the same -- every day he's there when Rean comes home, smiling with open arms while the cracks in his heart spider out until he feels like a broken window pane.
Until one evening, he shatters. Nothing dramatic happens to trigger it. He doesn't, honestly, need a push. He was already walking the thinnest of wires, so all it takes is a cut on his thumb to make him slip. A quick stab of pain, a drop of blood smeared on the cutting board, and suddenly he feels like he's right back in the moment his body gave up on him -- the body he was born into, anyway.
His thoughts cut out, and the next thing he knows it's been twenty minutes and something is burning. He manages to cover for it, but when Rean gets home that night Crow is a little... off. He still smiles, and laughs, and makes fun of himself for "getting distracted listening to the radio" and ruining part of dinner. But whenever he's not actively talking to Rean, he spaces out, like he's staring off at something that only exists in his own head.
The next day, Crow packs his things. He scours the house, leaving it perfectly spotless and tidy and completely lacking in any sign that he ever existed. Anything that was his is gone -- he really didn't have anything he couldn't carry with him. And then he leaves his key neatly in the center of the dining room table and walks out.
He can't be here anymore. This happiness hurts too much. It can't be real. It doesn't belong to him. It doesn't suit him and he doesn't deserve it, and Rean doesn't deserve to deal with that. He's not thinking rationally enough to acknowledge that if they were too close for Rean to let him go before, they're hopelessly entangled now. He just can't imagine being the person Rean cares about that much. He feels like he's been lying, and if he just gets away from it the illusion will evaporate and he can go be no one at all.
When Rean gets home, the house is dark and silent and empty.]
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[He intends to nap right here, but ofc Rean is a reasonable person so they end up napping on the couch. There's not a lot of room but that just means they have to cuddle, which Crow is completely fine with (though he wouldn't call it cuddling because that's embarrassing).
Crow's had nightmares since they got back, but he's always slept alone, and he's not loud about it, so it wasn't obvious. With Rean warm next to him, his sleep is pleasantly featureless. When he wakes up, everything is comfortable, and nice, and idyllic, and as he looks at Rean's sleeping face he thinks he could stay like that forever.
...And then he panics. It's too perfect. After dedicating himself to a suicidal goal, he wasn't supposed to get to just go home and be happy. Even when Rean chased him all the way, he died before a happy ending could happen. And that's the problem. He died. He remembers it perfectly: the pain that faded as his life slipped away from him. The dulling of the senses, the agony of regret.
And yet he's here now. He's here, and he remembers the moment his memories came back with the same vividness, as though the first breath he took again as "Crow" was revival itself. What he doesn't remember is how. Oh, he knows, in theory, what happened. He remembers a period of time where he was someone else. But there's a gap between dying and "Siegfried", and inside that gap are all the things he's terrified to face.
Like the fact that it didn't just "happen". It wasn't a spontaneous event. It was a twisting of the world's rules, imposed on him by someone else. He likes being alive, so it feels counterproductive not to be grateful -- he is grateful, but at the same time the lack of agency in that decision, and in the life he led between that and becoming himself again, is something he doesn't know how to address. He doesn't know how to address the fear that he's missing something that makes him who he is.
He doesn't know how to address the constant creeping sensation that he doesn't belong here. This happiness, the weight of Rean in his arms, must belong to someone else. To a version of him that deserves it. To a version of him that didn't die. Is he still even Crow Armbrust, or just an approximation wearing his face?
He doesn't know. He feels like he lost all the certainty he had in his identity and his goals into that gap in his memory. He's not even sure this isn't a terrible dream -- and if it was, who's dream would it even be?
All those feelings rise up in his chest at once, threatening to choke him back into the oblivion he's afraid he belongs to. But the moment is sweet, and he buries the uncertainty, staring straight up at the ceiling until he can breathe.
After that, he goes on pretending everything is fine. He picks up the house and cooks, he heaps affection (and endless teasing) on Rean, he goes out and gambles and entertains children. He gives Rean's students a run for their money and makes them question Rean's sanity in living with him. Every day it's the same -- every day he's there when Rean comes home, smiling with open arms while the cracks in his heart spider out until he feels like a broken window pane.
Until one evening, he shatters. Nothing dramatic happens to trigger it. He doesn't, honestly, need a push. He was already walking the thinnest of wires, so all it takes is a cut on his thumb to make him slip. A quick stab of pain, a drop of blood smeared on the cutting board, and suddenly he feels like he's right back in the moment his body gave up on him -- the body he was born into, anyway.
His thoughts cut out, and the next thing he knows it's been twenty minutes and something is burning. He manages to cover for it, but when Rean gets home that night Crow is a little... off. He still smiles, and laughs, and makes fun of himself for "getting distracted listening to the radio" and ruining part of dinner. But whenever he's not actively talking to Rean, he spaces out, like he's staring off at something that only exists in his own head.
The next day, Crow packs his things. He scours the house, leaving it perfectly spotless and tidy and completely lacking in any sign that he ever existed. Anything that was his is gone -- he really didn't have anything he couldn't carry with him. And then he leaves his key neatly in the center of the dining room table and walks out.
He can't be here anymore. This happiness hurts too much. It can't be real. It doesn't belong to him. It doesn't suit him and he doesn't deserve it, and Rean doesn't deserve to deal with that. He's not thinking rationally enough to acknowledge that if they were too close for Rean to let him go before, they're hopelessly entangled now. He just can't imagine being the person Rean cares about that much. He feels like he's been lying, and if he just gets away from it the illusion will evaporate and he can go be no one at all.
When Rean gets home, the house is dark and silent and empty.]