Shouldn't he find safety in it? McGillis can't understand, not the lamentable look on his face, not when he shakes his head against a visible truth, tears breaking and pooling hot and wet against the outline of his hand. So much older and so incredibly broken by whatever McGillis has done to him, why does he still sob like that? He watches him through the tunnel of light fading in his vision, losing hope in his one deed again.
In his short life, he's only known anger, pain -- how to receive it, how to give it. It holds true to the end. He doesn't despair, to find the end. He should quickly search for a way to tell this to Gaelio, so that he won't cry anymore --
Only, the scar held in his palm rips open. Only, he can no longer follow the visions that crowd him, as Gaelio, the one he knows (awful thud in his chest reminding him he's still alive), emerges from the shell of the old, the sickening sound of flesh ripping and bone snapping filling blood-stopped ears, or he doesn't, confusing realities flickering in and out, here and gone.
Confusing and horrific. He holds in a gasp.
But his eyes latch onto one of those flickering realities, the sight of Gaelio small and recognizable to him, his slumped body perking slightly to find him again. To see him again.
Has he done it? Someone holds him, but he can't tell if it's boy or man. His blood dirties the person holding him, asking him not to leave. He exhales, losing strength, and rests his red-smeared cheek against his friend's shoulder. Arms like twigs lift and fingers curl into the fabric of Gaelio's shirt, clutching onto his back.
Cruelly innocent, innocently cruel, he doesn't know what he condemns McGillis to by asking him to stay. Not only does this young version of McGillis cleanse and preserve Gaelio's future with this act, he wipes out his own past and present. He finds a way to veer off the road unchanging, contentment washing over him as the light continues to fade.
It's cruel -- to call his name and beg him to stay, to hold him as if losing something precious, to give McGillis a reason to want to stay by doing that. It's cruel to steal his contentment and replace it with doubt, fear, unspeakable, contemptible grief, his cheek pressing tighter and fingers curling into fists. ]
Don't you understand? I've killed you. I'll kill you. I'm not who you think I am.
[ Closing his eyes tight against it, and is he boy or man now? His voice rises into a more frantic pitch, yet sounds deeper. ]
Please, Gaelio, just -- throw me away.
[ Or else he won't be able to go. Or else, the blood retreats from his frame, responding to the abstract wishes of a boy who dreams. A man who dreams as a boy. ]
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Shouldn't he find safety in it? McGillis can't understand, not the lamentable look on his face, not when he shakes his head against a visible truth, tears breaking and pooling hot and wet against the outline of his hand. So much older and so incredibly broken by whatever McGillis has done to him, why does he still sob like that? He watches him through the tunnel of light fading in his vision, losing hope in his one deed again.
In his short life, he's only known anger, pain -- how to receive it, how to give it. It holds true to the end. He doesn't despair, to find the end. He should quickly search for a way to tell this to Gaelio, so that he won't cry anymore --
Only, the scar held in his palm rips open. Only, he can no longer follow the visions that crowd him, as Gaelio, the one he knows (awful thud in his chest reminding him he's still alive), emerges from the shell of the old, the sickening sound of flesh ripping and bone snapping filling blood-stopped ears, or he doesn't, confusing realities flickering in and out, here and gone.
Confusing and horrific. He holds in a gasp.
But his eyes latch onto one of those flickering realities, the sight of Gaelio small and recognizable to him, his slumped body perking slightly to find him again. To see him again.
Has he done it? Someone holds him, but he can't tell if it's boy or man. His blood dirties the person holding him, asking him not to leave. He exhales, losing strength, and rests his red-smeared cheek against his friend's shoulder. Arms like twigs lift and fingers curl into the fabric of Gaelio's shirt, clutching onto his back.
Cruelly innocent, innocently cruel, he doesn't know what he condemns McGillis to by asking him to stay. Not only does this young version of McGillis cleanse and preserve Gaelio's future with this act, he wipes out his own past and present. He finds a way to veer off the road unchanging, contentment washing over him as the light continues to fade.
It's cruel -- to call his name and beg him to stay, to hold him as if losing something precious, to give McGillis a reason to want to stay by doing that. It's cruel to steal his contentment and replace it with doubt, fear, unspeakable, contemptible grief, his cheek pressing tighter and fingers curling into fists. ]
Don't you understand? I've killed you. I'll kill you. I'm not who you think I am.
[ Closing his eyes tight against it, and is he boy or man now? His voice rises into a more frantic pitch, yet sounds deeper. ]
Please, Gaelio, just -- throw me away.
[ Or else he won't be able to go. Or else, the blood retreats from his frame, responding to the abstract wishes of a boy who dreams. A man who dreams as a boy. ]
Just throw me away.