[ Interest, use, utility, comrades, falsehoods and truths -- if Gaelio could hear, he might argue, might chafe.
He hears only expectations, or the lack thereof.
That chafes enough.
As it seems Gaelio had expected, despite everything of himself, because of what plummets within to hear it. Feeling that, hearing that, slaps him with the shocking realization of his own birthing expectations.
Again. Something missed, though he stared without blinking, though he strained to hear past the thunder of his heart and the gnawing, splitting in his mind. Again. His failure to reach even with contact, even with his hand long and deliriously held. That McGillis had responded to his initial conclusion of necessary avoidance with Fate, with a tantalizing and terrible suggestion of more, not quite a promise, but in the way of all marvelous declarations from that oiled tongue, feeling it.
Obliterated with such ease, as McGillis does.
McGillis had, has no expectations, but Gaelio --
He could be forced over with it, dizzy and gagging, this rush of self-hatred, a noxious fury bubbling in his veins and oozing, that he would have -- that he might have wanted it. That by countering continued separation with Fate and a missing step they alone, together, could fill, McGillis had meant to say, had truly said, would then explain -- this is how we must be together, for we cannot understand one another apart.
But McGillis's fate amounts to waiting. How Gaelio wants to crush his own heart, again, for having looked to hear different, after knowing and speaking the certainty that anything else was infeasible, unforgivable. The contradictions of his heart, though he had finally settled it, should have, had believed in that, too. Two years he has waited, made patient even as he simmered and reduced to less than fumes. Be patient again, but having seized the answer only to have it threatened, snatched away then clumsily replaced, he struggles to keep hold of patience. To wait again.
Clamp down on urge to step forward, seize his arm, wrench him out of that partial turn, keep him facing completely, keep his eyes, demand that he not look away from him, demand that he stay, but for what, when the only thing Gaelio can truly be certain of, is that to keep by him will drive Gaelio into further ruin? Sick and sadistic, that hasn't changed. He must kill him, that hasn't changed.
Nothing has changed.
Why, for a moment, had he begun to heed the siren song of impossible otherwise, one abandoned so swiftly. At least a sour reminder to keep his ears plugged with this man, lest he be smashed again against the rocks. But what could be understood with wax stoppering sound? Must he be smashed again to understand?
And if for a moment, three heartbeats too long, some of this shows on his face, then at least McGillis has already looked away. Already gazed for forest and trees, and not to the fracturing, spider cracks spreading, a mess of beseeching devastation, of want of the intangible and unattainable, and yes, of rage, of hatred, hatred born of a hurt that hasn't stopped bleeding, even as it scars over, and over.
Gaelio swallows again, tries to smother it out of his features, pulls his eyes away. A farther tree. He can do this, too. ]
There I thought you were a man who seized fate, rather than awaited it.
[ His voice not as empty, as calm as he might have liked, throbbing with the words that betray his stupid frustration even as he chokes it down. Still, heavy enough to pass for dull. ]
But I suppose you have bided your time before. Fine. We wait.
no subject
He hears only expectations, or the lack thereof.
That chafes enough.
As it seems Gaelio had expected, despite everything of himself, because of what plummets within to hear it. Feeling that, hearing that, slaps him with the shocking realization of his own birthing expectations.
Again. Something missed, though he stared without blinking, though he strained to hear past the thunder of his heart and the gnawing, splitting in his mind. Again. His failure to reach even with contact, even with his hand long and deliriously held. That McGillis had responded to his initial conclusion of necessary avoidance with Fate, with a tantalizing and terrible suggestion of more, not quite a promise, but in the way of all marvelous declarations from that oiled tongue, feeling it.
Obliterated with such ease, as McGillis does.
McGillis had, has no expectations, but Gaelio --
He could be forced over with it, dizzy and gagging, this rush of self-hatred, a noxious fury bubbling in his veins and oozing, that he would have -- that he might have wanted it. That by countering continued separation with Fate and a missing step they alone, together, could fill, McGillis had meant to say, had truly said, would then explain -- this is how we must be together, for we cannot understand one another apart.
But McGillis's fate amounts to waiting. How Gaelio wants to crush his own heart, again, for having looked to hear different, after knowing and speaking the certainty that anything else was infeasible, unforgivable. The contradictions of his heart, though he had finally settled it, should have, had believed in that, too. Two years he has waited, made patient even as he simmered and reduced to less than fumes. Be patient again, but having seized the answer only to have it threatened, snatched away then clumsily replaced, he struggles to keep hold of patience. To wait again.
Clamp down on urge to step forward, seize his arm, wrench him out of that partial turn, keep him facing completely, keep his eyes, demand that he not look away from him, demand that he stay, but for what, when the only thing Gaelio can truly be certain of, is that to keep by him will drive Gaelio into further ruin? Sick and sadistic, that hasn't changed. He must kill him, that hasn't changed.
Nothing has changed.
Why, for a moment, had he begun to heed the siren song of impossible otherwise, one abandoned so swiftly. At least a sour reminder to keep his ears plugged with this man, lest he be smashed again against the rocks. But what could be understood with wax stoppering sound? Must he be smashed again to understand?
And if for a moment, three heartbeats too long, some of this shows on his face, then at least McGillis has already looked away. Already gazed for forest and trees, and not to the fracturing, spider cracks spreading, a mess of beseeching devastation, of want of the intangible and unattainable, and yes, of rage, of hatred, hatred born of a hurt that hasn't stopped bleeding, even as it scars over, and over.
Gaelio swallows again, tries to smother it out of his features, pulls his eyes away. A farther tree. He can do this, too. ]
There I thought you were a man who seized fate, rather than awaited it.
[ His voice not as empty, as calm as he might have liked, throbbing with the words that betray his stupid frustration even as he chokes it down. Still, heavy enough to pass for dull. ]
But I suppose you have bided your time before. Fine. We wait.
Farewell, McGillis.
[ And he, too, will turn away. ]