["Can't" go back is a somewhat inaccurate way to put it, actually. Brook can go back. It's easy to assume he has to, eventually. Functionally immortal or not, kidnapped to another dimension or not, he made a deal with the devil himself with an unspeakable sentence on the line.
What Brook's remembered is a taste of what the rest of his eternity might have in store for him--or something like it. Satan had nothing to do with it. His own overconfidence collided with the vilest, most dispassionate, cold-blooded ingenuity humanity had to offer, and as a result--
As a result--
Brook can go back. He just can't take what he believes awaits him on the other side of that cold table.
The fierce squeeze of Ai's arms around him does a lot to assure Brook that he's here. The pressure of them defines the solidity of his back; the fabric of her top is a different texture against his eyelids. The softness of her voice is a stark, stark contrast to the clinical part-narration, part-interrogation that accompanied his waking nightmare, and he only smells cloth and human being and shampoo, not--there's no smell of his own--none of those sharper smells are here. What is here is a Hoshino Ai, a sparkling young woman, holding him and holding him up--eschewing songs and stage lights to support him with something real. Promising that here, now, and in the future can be real again, for him.]
Your... world?
[His words still come broken up with small, hiccupping sobs. One hand lets go of her so he can ball it up and wipe at his eyes.]
Wh-what would I... do there...
[That's not a no. It's a question. A plea for direction.]
no subject
What Brook's remembered is a taste of what the rest of his eternity might have in store for him--or something like it. Satan had nothing to do with it. His own overconfidence collided with the vilest, most dispassionate, cold-blooded ingenuity humanity had to offer, and as a result--
As a result--
Brook can go back. He just can't take what he believes awaits him on the other side of that cold table.
The fierce squeeze of Ai's arms around him does a lot to assure Brook that he's here. The pressure of them defines the solidity of his back; the fabric of her top is a different texture against his eyelids. The softness of her voice is a stark, stark contrast to the clinical part-narration, part-interrogation that accompanied his waking nightmare, and he only smells cloth and human being and shampoo, not--there's no smell of his own--none of those sharper smells are here. What is here is a Hoshino Ai, a sparkling young woman, holding him and holding him up--eschewing songs and stage lights to support him with something real. Promising that here, now, and in the future can be real again, for him.]
Your... world?
[His words still come broken up with small, hiccupping sobs. One hand lets go of her so he can ball it up and wipe at his eyes.]
Wh-what would I... do there...
[That's not a no. It's a question. A plea for direction.]