He was out of words, having pulled the ones already spoken from the depths of his soul, and they had hurt coming out. Just the shape of them had made his heart and mouth ache, a foolish confession (that I believed it at all) only made possible by the safety of Jigano's embrace, his strong and slender arms, the long stray strands of white hair moving in his vision.
He wanted silence.
He did not want hope.
He was already raw from that.
Hope and good intentions; he needed Amalia's doubt, her clarity, her life lived with these things which tore you apart when you peeked into the dark. He needed someone who knew Karlia, who knew that she would not have just left, who knew that she would not have come in the dark like that, who.. someone who could possibly understand...
But it was not Jigano's fault that he had been born elsewhere. It was not Jigano's fault that he was kind, and loving, and wanting only to help.
The sigh leaving Rory was frustrated and clipped, but he did not move from where he was, merely pressed his cheek harder against Jigano's narrow chest.
"It's pointless," he said, hollow, "Ella would've noticed if she smelled off, so either she smells like herself, or like nothing." He wanted to say yes, to accept, to let him find that day-old trail and follow it to the ends of the earth (where do the monsters nest, when the sun beats down?), but...
What was the point? It was hope that had nearly killed him.
"If it had truly been her she wouldn't have left," he said, low and husky, as if defeat itself sat in his throat.
He wanted silence.
He did not want hope.
He was already raw from that.
Hope and good intentions; he needed Amalia's doubt, her clarity, her life lived with these things which tore you apart when you peeked into the dark. He needed someone who knew Karlia, who knew that she would not have just left, who knew that she would not have come in the dark like that, who.. someone who could possibly understand...
But it was not Jigano's fault that he had been born elsewhere. It was not Jigano's fault that he was kind, and loving, and wanting only to help.
The sigh leaving Rory was frustrated and clipped, but he did not move from where he was, merely pressed his cheek harder against Jigano's narrow chest.
"It's pointless," he said, hollow, "Ella would've noticed if she smelled off, so either she smells like herself, or like nothing." He wanted to say yes, to accept, to let him find that day-old trail and follow it to the ends of the earth (where do the monsters nest, when the sun beats down?), but...
What was the point? It was hope that had nearly killed him.
"If it had truly been her she wouldn't have left," he said, low and husky, as if defeat itself sat in his throat.
