[ Too much clemency in this, too much mercy. The itch won't abate, but it needs a different reach. Standing tall and tense, he must instead wait it out. Impossibly conscious of every glance, every swift and indirect press of those eyes.
No less conscious of memories, of one memory. At once, he feels too close, maddening proximity, and too far. The counter's barrier both gift and curse. Gaelio must exert himself to keep from closing his hands, fingers into fists, and loosening, and closing -- must prevent that expression of what is restrained, what would bubble out into his fingertips and spread.
Gaelio stops himself from taking the question of help and dissecting it, reducing it to pieces less than component parts, incoherence.
Not every word can be a puzzle, not every phrase a challenge, something to suspect shades of meaning or insincerity behind. But, your help first, why should it still stir in him? The mere notion of McGillis coming to him first. Over something like this.
1/2
No less conscious of memories, of one memory. At once, he feels too close, maddening proximity, and too far. The counter's barrier both gift and curse. Gaelio must exert himself to keep from closing his hands, fingers into fists, and loosening, and closing -- must prevent that expression of what is restrained, what would bubble out into his fingertips and spread.
Gaelio stops himself from taking the question of help and dissecting it, reducing it to pieces less than component parts, incoherence.
Not every word can be a puzzle, not every phrase a challenge, something to suspect shades of meaning or insincerity behind. But, your help first, why should it still stir in him? The mere notion of McGillis coming to him first. Over something like this.
God, but he does hate himself.
A breath, measured. ]