[ The boy in his arms, the boy too small for his arms, the boy in his hands. His hands soaked red and soaking bloodier. Gaelio's words stream, inflection earth splitting from a landmine's eruption, shrapnel everywhere. Hysteria bubbling like blood, like his blood, like the boy in his hands, not his arms.
This exceeds him, this swallows him, this a tearing and a tearing and a tearing down his whole. Those green eyes blaze against the blood, against the pallor of dying and death. Those green eyes as fingers flutter, weak, not yet perching, spotting and seeping along Gaelio's arm, this touch, a searching boy's hand and a frantic man's delirious, frenzied grasp.
Crying, he isn't, shakes his head, but he cannot retrieve his hands for the confirmation, for horror or denial, and they cannot surge and fit within the chaos of his head. His breath hitches with a sob, choked back, and a small hand presses wet and red to his cheek. They break, then. Hot streaks, tears, spilling against those fingers.
McGillis apologizes, the boy dying in his hands, the child sacrifice, and he breaks, too. His scar pulses, flared too hot, then opens. ]
Not no not no no not from you, McGillis --
[ And a tearing and a tearing and a tearing and driven into two, and four, and eight, and sixteen, and nothing that blasts through him feels like satisfaction, nothing. He cannot accept this, cannot understand or accept, the boy for whom he'd reached who theorizes true affection before smiling and slitting himself on an altar, the boy for whom he'd reached, with whom every memory confused and shrouded and distorted yet retained, stupidly but inextricably, a precious core, the boy for whom he'd reached who kills him, who kills himself, who kills him, he can't see through the tears must see must stop this not like this but how what answer in this what truth in this in fingers that curled for his no too long on his hand no traversed sleeve cupped scar wished it away gaelio wishes too wishes no
gaelio pleading in wrecked, wrecking sobs holding not shaking only shaking with the shivers through him again the boy dies from his hands and again gaelio claws himself apart but inward out flesh bubbles no worms writhing thick protrusions no five pointed amorphous bulging out moving beneath skin pushing again skin until hooking in the sutures tearing the scars that divide him more of burning metal than gouged flesh but they open so neatly so horribly as if cut as if once stitched as if keeping the thread as if laceration and clawing and thrusting through another hand in the blood another small hand bloodied or clean he falls back collapses back as it pushes past snapping ribs as it emerges as it a boy crawls out of pulp and splintered corpse or he sits still hunched as the boy flickers unmarred beside as the boy shoves him aside or looks at him what did you do or he is the boy and asks himself ringing through his ears piercing through,
it's my fault.
Torn apart for another to breathe or insensibly forced away, or unmoved but shrinking, or his hands are large and they are small, he hulks or cowers as a small boy with violet hair, holds McGillis in his arms, because his are the right size, but he's sobbing, too. His horror straightforward, and his terror, and his inability to understand.
And even as a boy, especially as a boy, Gaelio doesn't know how to love him selflessly. He hugs him frantic against his chest, smearing blood down his white front, red front, white front, clutches needing, begs needing. ]
Why -- why, don't go, don't leave me. I -- [ a hiccuping whimper ] -- want to be with you, please --
[ two sets of eyes one set two hands four hands bigger smaller shattered shell twitching in the grass bent still over dead dying boy pushed aside still bent boy sobbing man sobbing just sobbing has to kill him but not like this can't comprehend killing the boy his heart sings to sit beside and lean as close as he dares then closer but not like this.
no subject
[ The boy in his arms, the boy too small for his arms, the boy in his hands. His hands soaked red and soaking bloodier. Gaelio's words stream, inflection earth splitting from a landmine's eruption, shrapnel everywhere. Hysteria bubbling like blood, like his blood, like the boy in his hands, not his arms.
This exceeds him, this swallows him, this a tearing and a tearing and a tearing down his whole. Those green eyes blaze against the blood, against the pallor of dying and death. Those green eyes as fingers flutter, weak, not yet perching, spotting and seeping along Gaelio's arm, this touch, a searching boy's hand and a frantic man's delirious, frenzied grasp.
Crying, he isn't, shakes his head, but he cannot retrieve his hands for the confirmation, for horror or denial, and they cannot surge and fit within the chaos of his head. His breath hitches with a sob, choked back, and a small hand presses wet and red to his cheek. They break, then. Hot streaks, tears, spilling against those fingers.
McGillis apologizes, the boy dying in his hands, the child sacrifice, and he breaks, too. His scar pulses, flared too hot, then opens. ]
Not no not no no not from you, McGillis --
[ And a tearing and a tearing and a tearing and driven into two, and four, and eight, and sixteen, and nothing that blasts through him feels like satisfaction, nothing. He cannot accept this, cannot understand or accept, the boy for whom he'd reached who theorizes true affection before smiling and slitting himself on an altar, the boy for whom he'd reached, with whom every memory confused and shrouded and distorted yet retained, stupidly but inextricably, a precious core, the boy for whom he'd reached who kills him, who kills himself, who kills him, he can't see through the tears must see must stop this not like this but how what answer in this what truth in this in fingers that curled for his no too long on his hand no traversed sleeve cupped scar wished it away gaelio wishes too wishes no
gaelio pleading in wrecked, wrecking sobs holding not shaking only shaking with the shivers through him again the boy dies from his hands and again gaelio claws himself apart but inward out flesh bubbles no worms writhing thick protrusions no five pointed amorphous bulging out moving beneath skin pushing again skin until hooking in the sutures tearing the scars that divide him more of burning metal than gouged flesh but they open so neatly so horribly as if cut as if once stitched as if keeping the thread as if laceration and clawing and thrusting through another hand in the blood another small hand bloodied or clean he falls back collapses back as it pushes past snapping ribs as it emerges as it a boy crawls out of pulp and splintered corpse or he sits still hunched as the boy flickers unmarred beside as the boy shoves him aside or looks at him what did you do or he is the boy and asks himself ringing through his ears piercing through,
it's my fault.
Torn apart for another to breathe or insensibly forced away, or unmoved but shrinking, or his hands are large and they are small, he hulks or cowers as a small boy with violet hair, holds McGillis in his arms, because his are the right size, but he's sobbing, too. His horror straightforward, and his terror, and his inability to understand.
And even as a boy, especially as a boy, Gaelio doesn't know how to love him selflessly. He hugs him frantic against his chest, smearing blood down his white front, red front, white front, clutches needing, begs needing. ]
Why -- why, don't go, don't leave me. I -- [ a hiccuping whimper ] -- want to be with you, please --
[ two sets of eyes one set two hands four hands bigger smaller shattered shell twitching in the grass bent still over dead dying boy pushed aside still bent boy sobbing man sobbing just sobbing has to kill him but not like this can't comprehend killing the boy his heart sings to sit beside and lean as close as he dares then closer but not like this.
This isn't the answer.
Just sobbing. ]
McGillis.