[ As promising as that foreshortened word had been, McGillis snatches it from the air, and leaves him with a contradiction.
That words so calm, so evenly strung, could crack so like a whip. He can feel the tear of flesh with it, stripped raw. Gaelio halts, cold and struck, and reels in bout of self-castigation.
How foolish. How intolerably foolish. How, after all, could his tongue still betray him, could he feel something that cannot be but feels too like hurt creasing around his eyes, shallowing his breath, compressing his ribcage.
Even as he debated and wondered, scouring every possible and impossible answer to McGillis, that had seemed clear enough. Only Gaelio's stupidity had seen friendship between them and believed it. McGillis saw enemy. Had only ever seen enemy. Always. How stupid, how foolish, that it still cuts through him. There is a hurricane in his heartbeat, the second's deluge of thousands of memories redefined, constantly redefining, and through it, Gaelio notes that he stares yet again at McGillis's retreating back.
He had no longer wanted that, doesn't want that. The juvenile speed to catch up -- to never again follow.
It isn't following.
Funny, that this does it.
The fire snuffed, doused by ice water, though no shock in the chill. Though it should flare again for Ein, for Carta, who died with McGillis's name on her lips, who loved him. The woman who loved him, seen only as enemy. The man who, standing beside him, no --
He takes a meticulously drawn breath, staring first at the broad line of achingly familiar shoulders, then lifting his face, peering into blue sky and thinly spread leaves.
I withdraw my acceptance. There can be no truce.
What he should say. Closing his eyes against sky and shoulders both, he pushes one foot forward, then drags the other. Nothing has changed, either between them or in the situation. He must still reach the smoke. There may still be hostility.
But McGillis will never hear his words, and he's tired now, as if now feeling the exertion of expending so much after years of reticence. Jaw rusted, relearning use.
no subject
That words so calm, so evenly strung, could crack so like a whip. He can feel the tear of flesh with it, stripped raw. Gaelio halts, cold and struck, and reels in bout of self-castigation.
How foolish. How intolerably foolish. How, after all, could his tongue still betray him, could he feel something that cannot be but feels too like hurt creasing around his eyes, shallowing his breath, compressing his ribcage.
Even as he debated and wondered, scouring every possible and impossible answer to McGillis, that had seemed clear enough. Only Gaelio's stupidity had seen friendship between them and believed it. McGillis saw enemy. Had only ever seen enemy. Always. How stupid, how foolish, that it still cuts through him. There is a hurricane in his heartbeat, the second's deluge of thousands of memories redefined, constantly redefining, and through it, Gaelio notes that he stares yet again at McGillis's retreating back.
He had no longer wanted that, doesn't want that. The juvenile speed to catch up -- to never again follow.
It isn't following.
Funny, that this does it.
The fire snuffed, doused by ice water, though no shock in the chill. Though it should flare again for Ein, for Carta, who died with McGillis's name on her lips, who loved him. The woman who loved him, seen only as enemy. The man who, standing beside him, no --
He takes a meticulously drawn breath, staring first at the broad line of achingly familiar shoulders, then lifting his face, peering into blue sky and thinly spread leaves.
I withdraw my acceptance. There can be no truce.
What he should say. Closing his eyes against sky and shoulders both, he pushes one foot forward, then drags the other. Nothing has changed, either between them or in the situation. He must still reach the smoke. There may still be hostility.
But McGillis will never hear his words, and he's tired now, as if now feeling the exertion of expending so much after years of reticence. Jaw rusted, relearning use.
So he says nothing. ]