[ He is angry. It swells inside at all times. He lets that one point sit, although it surprises him that Gaelio can name it.
He can't speak for his future self. Or he can try, with guesswork involved. His eyes narrow further on the grassy path ahead, going nowhere. Perhaps he does come to hate Gaelio. They co-exist with entirely different mindsets, upbringings. Dreams.
Perhaps that finally came between them. It's not as if he can hold tight to some childish notion that Gaelio is an exception. That he will be allowed one. That he can keep one, without drowning in the role of Fareed heir and losing himself to it completey. Laid out on puppet strings, forced to move in sync, but holding onto a will to resist the incessant tugging --
Until, one day, he'll have the strength to burn those strings. And all the rest.
Except he is a child. Right now, he knows only this about Gaelio: safety, warmth, the first person to show him that his heart rate can increase for reasons beyond survival and fear. A fascinating world exists on the inside with him, a comforting presence graciously showing him glimpses of a normal childhood. Gaelio shares that with him, continues to, even though McGillis can't always grasp it correctly.
It's precious to him. He has so few precious things like that. He lets his chin droop, too, but slower, the grief in his eyes unfolding in waves. To learn, at this age, that he's destined to lose him, and that it will be his own fault when he does...
It's almost too much to bear. He hasn't the years to buffer himself from this blow.
McGillis scoots back against the tree to keep it from encroaching on him, meshing clothes and skin into bark. He brings his knees in to hug his arms around them. ]
I think you must have meant too much to him.
[ Guesswork. Carving out an easier path, that's something he might do.
Not that it can stand to comfort this man. The hurt radiates off of Gaelio like hot gusts of air. A pause, his body tensing with the next question, the surprise of it startling him (and it tumbles into his response) -- ]
no subject
He can't speak for his future self. Or he can try, with guesswork involved. His eyes narrow further on the grassy path ahead, going nowhere. Perhaps he does come to hate Gaelio. They co-exist with entirely different mindsets, upbringings. Dreams.
Perhaps that finally came between them. It's not as if he can hold tight to some childish notion that Gaelio is an exception. That he will be allowed one. That he can keep one, without drowning in the role of Fareed heir and losing himself to it completey. Laid out on puppet strings, forced to move in sync, but holding onto a will to resist the incessant tugging --
Until, one day, he'll have the strength to burn those strings. And all the rest.
Except he is a child. Right now, he knows only this about Gaelio: safety, warmth, the first person to show him that his heart rate can increase for reasons beyond survival and fear. A fascinating world exists on the inside with him, a comforting presence graciously showing him glimpses of a normal childhood. Gaelio shares that with him, continues to, even though McGillis can't always grasp it correctly.
It's precious to him. He has so few precious things like that. He lets his chin droop, too, but slower, the grief in his eyes unfolding in waves. To learn, at this age, that he's destined to lose him, and that it will be his own fault when he does...
It's almost too much to bear. He hasn't the years to buffer himself from this blow.
McGillis scoots back against the tree to keep it from encroaching on him, meshing clothes and skin into bark. He brings his knees in to hug his arms around them. ]
I think you must have meant too much to him.
[ Guesswork. Carving out an easier path, that's something he might do.
Not that it can stand to comfort this man. The hurt radiates off of Gaelio like hot gusts of air. A pause, his body tensing with the next question, the surprise of it startling him (and it tumbles into his response) -- ]
You've never asked that before.