[ A pitched, cracking thing, to himself or to the dream, he's not yet sure, doesn't want to be sure. Why not -- would it not fit, following his unmasking and declaration to McGillis? Thereafter to not dream of his murder, but of the realization of his much prolonged resolve? But, he can feel this answer, too. And whether dream or real, not like this.
His fingers clench, one by one, into his fist and he feels a sensation akin to a cord snapping, a thickness in the air beginning to dissipate. Abruptly, McGillis's face clears, unmarked but for the remnant streak of boar's blood. Again, Gaelio shakes his head. Little has cleared, but he cannot forsake this, cannot keep still and wait for McGillis to collect himself.
Swallowing his confusion, he strides forward, slinging his arm down to take a fistful of McGillis's collar and wrench him to his feet. To ensure his gaze, his other hand seizes chin, forcing up his face. Though he cannot move those eyes. ]
Is it my turn? Do my dreams now change? McGillis!
[ Wildly, but the blood still fresh on his mouth and chin distract. McGillis had wiped at it, but the volume made the gesture ineffective. It stinks, past the dispersing of whatever he'd done. Gaelio shifts his fingers, middle and index digging beneath chin as his thumb swipes over McGillis's bottom lip. The white fabric seeps vibrant red, and he just as swiftly tugs back his hand, licks at the spot. Copper, foul, but too mad to gag. Just as roughly, too, he lets go entirely, with a hard shove.
It can't be his turn. Not like this. It wouldn't mean what it should. His dreams should know. It isn't a dream. Confusion spits back up. ]
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[ A pitched, cracking thing, to himself or to the dream, he's not yet sure, doesn't want to be sure. Why not -- would it not fit, following his unmasking and declaration to McGillis? Thereafter to not dream of his murder, but of the realization of his much prolonged resolve? But, he can feel this answer, too. And whether dream or real, not like this.
His fingers clench, one by one, into his fist and he feels a sensation akin to a cord snapping, a thickness in the air beginning to dissipate. Abruptly, McGillis's face clears, unmarked but for the remnant streak of boar's blood. Again, Gaelio shakes his head. Little has cleared, but he cannot forsake this, cannot keep still and wait for McGillis to collect himself.
Swallowing his confusion, he strides forward, slinging his arm down to take a fistful of McGillis's collar and wrench him to his feet. To ensure his gaze, his other hand seizes chin, forcing up his face. Though he cannot move those eyes. ]
Is it my turn? Do my dreams now change? McGillis!
[ Wildly, but the blood still fresh on his mouth and chin distract. McGillis had wiped at it, but the volume made the gesture ineffective. It stinks, past the dispersing of whatever he'd done. Gaelio shifts his fingers, middle and index digging beneath chin as his thumb swipes over McGillis's bottom lip. The white fabric seeps vibrant red, and he just as swiftly tugs back his hand, licks at the spot. Copper, foul, but too mad to gag. Just as roughly, too, he lets go entirely, with a hard shove.
It can't be his turn. Not like this. It wouldn't mean what it should. His dreams should know. It isn't a dream. Confusion spits back up. ]
What is this...?!