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“NIGHT!” Rocket yelled back, slamming his bedroom door as he face-planted his bed; grumbling.
Nights like these were hell.
To him at least. He keeps yearning for a relationship; to put it short. It sucked. It really did. He wanted someone to hold him, he wanted to be vulnerable around someone, but at the same time? He didn’t. He didn’t know why he wanted something like that.
Gods, maybe losing two limbs made me wanna be some vulnerable shit-head.
Sighing, rocket pushed his head in his pillow, groaning in the process. His leg curled up on himself as he just kept thinking about what it would even be like to even have someone to love. The more and more he thought, the further he yearned for someone more.
Gods, he was so doomed, wasn’t he?
He moved his head to look toward a desk, one that was messy. There was a pile of washed clothes and a hoodie of that one kid that kept showing up, what was his name? . . . Sword? Pssh. He didn’t know. That idiot kid forgot about that.
. . . He should probably tell Zuka about that. Maybe he can get in contact with that weirdo tall guy that seemed to be that kid's caretaker. Whatever, the kid is annoying. He’s also so touchy and such… ’ew,’ He thought.
He rolled his eyes and he tossed over, facing the wall as his arm was under his pillow, his leg was near his chest as he thought about it again. To be held. To be loved.
. . . Bleh. This was pathetic. He should just sleep this all off but . . . He couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the heat? It was pretty hot in his room . . .
Sitting up, he tries to take his hoodie off, fumbling about for a few seconds before tossing it somewhere on his bed. He was now just in a black tank top and some stupid shorts Zuka gave to him because he kept tripping over some of his pants.
He huffed as he flopped back down on his bed, sighing with relief of getting that fucking hoodie off.
As he sighed, he thought about it again. That stupid wanting to be held and probably pampered too. It was disappointing to him, the feelings of that. Gazing to the side, and then back to wherever his hoodie went (near the end of his bed, it was slightly dangling off the bed itself).
Much odd as it is, he used his foot to pull and kick the hoodie to him—having to grip it with his foot. Becoming an amputee sucked ass, but at least he learned a few things in some way . . . Like using his foot to grab stuff his dead arm couldn’t—well, his arm was dead. It was gone. But still.
He turned on his side, weirdly holding the hoodie to his chest. He didn’t know why he did that but . . . It eased some of the thoughts.
Curling up to the hold of his hoodie he had a thought.
. . . Maybe this one time he can just pretend that he’s being held in some way. That or holding someone.
Just this ‘once’.