Relief that he could see McGillis's skin beneath the blood, porcelain revealed as his sleeves sopped. Relief that he could then believe it abating, receding. Relief in the force of McGillis's fingers clawing in his shirt, not weakening, not beginning to slip and fall. Relief in holding and being held, in yielding reciprocation, in a tremble answered by one of Gaelio's own.
Relief, though impeded by his delayed realization, that the blood disappears, both unmarried and unmarked, as though it had never oozed. He weeps still, unable to stem the frantic flood, his hysterical terror at losing, at almost losing the dream onto which his eyes had already firmly fixed. At almost losing this boy whose hands and arms shift, hold him soft, softer than Gaelio had thought he could, had thought he ever would.
Grass and root and dirt no longer grind into knees. He doesn't want to disrupt McGillis's hand, but he lifts his chin tentative, peering with bleary eyes at the white, and the white, and the encompassing white.
Patchwork man and mangled corpse, every iteration swallowed and gone.
Though gone, the protest that would sound for too late never reaches tongue, never caught by teeth, dissolving in the acid of his gut. A deeper knowledge, known past him, beyond him, what would cast shadows in the white if they let it. If they left it.
The single tear he cannot feel, but here, can sense, and he gazes at McGillis with eyes still seeping, nose dripping, a flushed and quietly blubbering mess, the convulsions of emotion slow to drain from him, the force of it in a slow fade, accepted into the white.
Let's stay here.
Gaelio gazes, and gazes, no less transfixed, weak with the relief that McGillis lives, stunned by the way he holds him, gentler and closer than he ever has, a boy whose need for space Gaelio could nearly feel, like invisible thorns in the air when he neared. A fairytale castle with the sleeping, distant prince, guarded by thick ivy, the wall of thorns he sought to slip through, wary of cutting them down, but ever pricked and torn.
Dizzied, dizzy, by the conviction that McGillis lives for him, came back for him, took him here, kept him. Holds him. No one else holds him like this. He doesn't want anyone else to hold him like this.
By the heartbeat he feels, by the gradual synchronization of two, a warm pulse through the cradling air. McGillis doesn't finish his request, but he doesn't need to. Whatever it is, Gaelio can have only one answer, one firm in the thrumming of their hearts.
Slipping one arm loose, he wipes at his face with a no longer blood drenched sleeve, and with a self-conscious, timid smile, pads at the tears gathered in the crook of McGillis's neck. Then, with a faint exhale, he curls his arm, arms more securely around that neck, sidling, settling close, closer. How warm, how right this fit. He wants to curl into and against him, to close his eyes, to keep like this until time forgets them.
Time enough for, because it won't ever be too late.
Gaelio keeps his chin high, face a breath from McGillis's, and beams, broad and watery relief. His eyes a sky blue sheen, an ocean blue surface, reflecting sun, his sun. ]
I would, I would, I would. I would.
[ Ebullient, exuberant breaths, and he leans, bumping their noses, tipping, lips brushing just below nose and above lip, tilting, brushing cheek, a vow clumsy and peppered, before with an exanding glow over his cheeks, he cozies his face again into that crook. Heavy and hot, the contented sigh against soft skin. ]
If you're with me, I don't want to go back. Let's stay. I will.
no subject
Relief that he could see McGillis's skin beneath the blood, porcelain revealed as his sleeves sopped. Relief that he could then believe it abating, receding. Relief in the force of McGillis's fingers clawing in his shirt, not weakening, not beginning to slip and fall. Relief in holding and being held, in yielding reciprocation, in a tremble answered by one of Gaelio's own.
Relief, though impeded by his delayed realization, that the blood disappears, both unmarried and unmarked, as though it had never oozed. He weeps still, unable to stem the frantic flood, his hysterical terror at losing, at almost losing the dream onto which his eyes had already firmly fixed. At almost losing this boy whose hands and arms shift, hold him soft, softer than Gaelio had thought he could, had thought he ever would.
Grass and root and dirt no longer grind into knees. He doesn't want to disrupt McGillis's hand, but he lifts his chin tentative, peering with bleary eyes at the white, and the white, and the encompassing white.
Patchwork man and mangled corpse, every iteration swallowed and gone.
Though gone, the protest that would sound for too late never reaches tongue, never caught by teeth, dissolving in the acid of his gut. A deeper knowledge, known past him, beyond him, what would cast shadows in the white if they let it. If they left it.
The single tear he cannot feel, but here, can sense, and he gazes at McGillis with eyes still seeping, nose dripping, a flushed and quietly blubbering mess, the convulsions of emotion slow to drain from him, the force of it in a slow fade, accepted into the white.
Let's stay here.
Gaelio gazes, and gazes, no less transfixed, weak with the relief that McGillis lives, stunned by the way he holds him, gentler and closer than he ever has, a boy whose need for space Gaelio could nearly feel, like invisible thorns in the air when he neared. A fairytale castle with the sleeping, distant prince, guarded by thick ivy, the wall of thorns he sought to slip through, wary of cutting them down, but ever pricked and torn.
Dizzied, dizzy, by the conviction that McGillis lives for him, came back for him, took him here, kept him. Holds him. No one else holds him like this. He doesn't want anyone else to hold him like this.
By the heartbeat he feels, by the gradual synchronization of two, a warm pulse through the cradling air. McGillis doesn't finish his request, but he doesn't need to. Whatever it is, Gaelio can have only one answer, one firm in the thrumming of their hearts.
Slipping one arm loose, he wipes at his face with a no longer blood drenched sleeve, and with a self-conscious, timid smile, pads at the tears gathered in the crook of McGillis's neck. Then, with a faint exhale, he curls his arm, arms more securely around that neck, sidling, settling close, closer. How warm, how right this fit. He wants to curl into and against him, to close his eyes, to keep like this until time forgets them.
Time enough for, because it won't ever be too late.
Gaelio keeps his chin high, face a breath from McGillis's, and beams, broad and watery relief. His eyes a sky blue sheen, an ocean blue surface, reflecting sun, his sun. ]
I would, I would, I would. I would.
[ Ebullient, exuberant breaths, and he leans, bumping their noses, tipping, lips brushing just below nose and above lip, tilting, brushing cheek, a vow clumsy and peppered, before with an exanding glow over his cheeks, he cozies his face again into that crook. Heavy and hot, the contented sigh against soft skin. ]
If you're with me, I don't want to go back. Let's stay. I will.
[ Thank you.
Don't wake him. Don't ever wake him. ]