[ The all too charming wink enters his vision like a net, an unexpected cage of webbing. It captures; McGillis pauses, finding it difficult to look away.
As always, finding it difficult to look away. He'll wake to none of this, a voice pesters -- won't he? Does he truly dream? Is it dreaming that encases the smooth skin in front of him in that soft light, or is it the strange draw of Gaelio's expressive features heightened in his mind's eye, tugged into the warmth of them whenever he allows himself too long a glance? The light in them, the life in them.
The gilded promises in them. And how -- even if there was something real for him beneath that gold casing, that same voice pesters, oh, you would ruin it.
The tilt of his mouth turns soft while he listens to Gaelio ponder his dilemma. Sadder, but gently appreciative. His dilemma of honor over this game of sweets.
It evens out entirely once the atmosphere changes.
The fog of distress creeps in, timed with McGillis daring to tread and test the water, giving him further pause. He watches it flicker over those brilliant features. That same voice hisses and pesters, reminding him of past dreams where he dared to touch, only to spread rot and gangrene. It adds to the weight in the air. He removes the contact, pulling back from the shape his heel had landed against, and adjusts his seat. McGillis searches for the well-worn professional and the impassive persona to wear.
A thread of wariness remains. A thread of tension weaving through him.
Any moment now, something terrible will rise up from this atmosphere and rear its monstrous head.
Gaelio's eyes, endless blue oceans, are back on him now, the surface of the water twinkling. He feels as blundered in the brain by the sight of them as he would be from a sinister development. After another moment of staring, his own eyes too intense and too bright -- he scatters himself out of the water, tilting his head at an angle to watch the ground.
A tired exhale, muted smile returning. ]
Fated?
[ Murmured musing over the word. He lifts his fingers to engage in the introspective habit of twirling his bang. ]
What of free will? You made the choice that seemed right to you. Perhaps, instinctively, you understood that the first sweet was not as sweet as you'd prefer. You never bit into it -- did you know better? Did sense and intuition guide you?
[ The low lilt of his voice, pouring out like velvet, disguising gloom. ]
Does anything matter more than grasping the freedom to design your own fate?
no subject
As always, finding it difficult to look away. He'll wake to none of this, a voice pesters -- won't he? Does he truly dream? Is it dreaming that encases the smooth skin in front of him in that soft light, or is it the strange draw of Gaelio's expressive features heightened in his mind's eye, tugged into the warmth of them whenever he allows himself too long a glance? The light in them, the life in them.
The gilded promises in them. And how -- even if there was something real for him beneath that gold casing, that same voice pesters, oh, you would ruin it.
The tilt of his mouth turns soft while he listens to Gaelio ponder his dilemma. Sadder, but gently appreciative. His dilemma of honor over this game of sweets.
It evens out entirely once the atmosphere changes.
The fog of distress creeps in, timed with McGillis daring to tread and test the water, giving him further pause. He watches it flicker over those brilliant features. That same voice hisses and pesters, reminding him of past dreams where he dared to touch, only to spread rot and gangrene. It adds to the weight in the air. He removes the contact, pulling back from the shape his heel had landed against, and adjusts his seat. McGillis searches for the well-worn professional and the impassive persona to wear.
A thread of wariness remains. A thread of tension weaving through him.
Any moment now, something terrible will rise up from this atmosphere and rear its monstrous head.
Gaelio's eyes, endless blue oceans, are back on him now, the surface of the water twinkling. He feels as blundered in the brain by the sight of them as he would be from a sinister development. After another moment of staring, his own eyes too intense and too bright -- he scatters himself out of the water, tilting his head at an angle to watch the ground.
A tired exhale, muted smile returning. ]
Fated?
[ Murmured musing over the word. He lifts his fingers to engage in the introspective habit of twirling his bang. ]
What of free will? You made the choice that seemed right to you. Perhaps, instinctively, you understood that the first sweet was not as sweet as you'd prefer. You never bit into it -- did you know better? Did sense and intuition guide you?
[ The low lilt of his voice, pouring out like velvet, disguising gloom. ]
Does anything matter more than grasping the freedom to design your own fate?