[ How many hands how many eyes how could he kill him and kill himself for him it will tear him apart and literally does has does. How could he kill him and kill himself, as though he could save him, as though he accepted responsibility, as though he would mete his own punishment, as though he agreed that only by killing they would understand.
But Gaelio does not understand.
This offering, truth without understanding, death without solace.
The boy that crawled from the fracturing body, the body that appeared and pushed, the boy that he became: if his sleeves are clean and white, but for the seeping, he bunches now carefully into his palms. The boy, tears streaming with such a thick flow as to blind him, mops at that blood soaked face, trying to clean and clear it. How gently he presses the cloth to skin, as though afraid it would stick and tear. ]
I don't understand.
[ Voice warbling with his weeping, strangled and weak with it. ]
I'm alive. Then don't kill me. Tell me who you are and don't kill me.
[ He doesn't want to be thrown away either, his mind rebelling against any shred of comprehension, against how McGillis could kill him, will or had, when he dies in his arms, and dies, and bleeds out dying. The corpse in the grass, rasping and convulsing, knows. Would speak, would say, the man aside and watching, the man gone boy, they know, but they hadn't wanted to discard him, either. To deny is not to discard, to kill with those methods, to understand, it isn't throwing him out.
And he can't throw him out like this, can't see him die like this, without power, without conversion to brute force.
Leave the corpse in the grass and let the boy hold him, the boy not yet dead not yet betrayed, still trusting, still seeking with open face heart hands, still gushing and simmering sincere, still bright and brighter to have been pulled from the orbit around imploding rotten stars to that of the sun.
Leave the corpse in the grass and let the boy clasp this boy and promise he won't look away, he won't let them come apart, he won't let go of his heart. Though they do, though he never had it, not really, or lost it, couldn't save it, saw too late he had to try for that, too.
But --
It's a nice dream. ]
I want to know, it's all I want to know, tell me and I won't let you kill me. You don't... if you want this, then you can't want to kill me. So don't.
[ Corpse twitching, spasmodic snapping, cannot sound the protest against what his erstwhile murderer wants, doesn't want. In that voice. Boy's sleeves sopping, dripping, with all this blood McGillis should already be dead. If he could will him alive, clean, he would, and he tries, he tries, he's trying. Gaelio hugs him again, burying his face in the crook of neck and shoulder, his face coating red, but he's crying too hard to mind, to even feel it. Tears pool in the red. ]
I won't throw you away. Even if you die, please don't die. Let me keep you.
[ Leave the corpse in the grass and be with him, just be with him.
no subject
But Gaelio does not understand.
This offering, truth without understanding, death without solace.
The boy that crawled from the fracturing body, the body that appeared and pushed, the boy that he became: if his sleeves are clean and white, but for the seeping, he bunches now carefully into his palms. The boy, tears streaming with such a thick flow as to blind him, mops at that blood soaked face, trying to clean and clear it. How gently he presses the cloth to skin, as though afraid it would stick and tear. ]
I don't understand.
[ Voice warbling with his weeping, strangled and weak with it. ]
I'm alive. Then don't kill me. Tell me who you are and don't kill me.
[ He doesn't want to be thrown away either, his mind rebelling against any shred of comprehension, against how McGillis could kill him, will or had, when he dies in his arms, and dies, and bleeds out dying. The corpse in the grass, rasping and convulsing, knows. Would speak, would say, the man aside and watching, the man gone boy, they know, but they hadn't wanted to discard him, either. To deny is not to discard, to kill with those methods, to understand, it isn't throwing him out.
And he can't throw him out like this, can't see him die like this, without power, without conversion to brute force.
Leave the corpse in the grass and let the boy hold him, the boy not yet dead not yet betrayed, still trusting, still seeking with open face heart hands, still gushing and simmering sincere, still bright and brighter to have been pulled from the orbit around imploding rotten stars to that of the sun.
Leave the corpse in the grass and let the boy clasp this boy and promise he won't look away, he won't let them come apart, he won't let go of his heart. Though they do, though he never had it, not really, or lost it, couldn't save it, saw too late he had to try for that, too.
But --
It's a nice dream. ]
I want to know, it's all I want to know, tell me and I won't let you kill me. You don't... if you want this, then you can't want to kill me. So don't.
[ Corpse twitching, spasmodic snapping, cannot sound the protest against what his erstwhile murderer wants, doesn't want. In that voice. Boy's sleeves sopping, dripping, with all this blood McGillis should already be dead. If he could will him alive, clean, he would, and he tries, he tries, he's trying. Gaelio hugs him again, burying his face in the crook of neck and shoulder, his face coating red, but he's crying too hard to mind, to even feel it. Tears pool in the red. ]
I won't throw you away. Even if you die, please don't die. Let me keep you.
[ Leave the corpse in the grass and be with him, just be with him.
God, but it's a nice dream. ]