[ ... Is it over? Has Elan said the right thing? The instant Four's breathing quiets and his frame goes still takes whatever tension's left out of Elan's shoulders. He feels it go from his body with a sigh -- of relief, bone-deep exhaustion; from having been -- no: continuing to be -- overwhelmed. Aren't I just a saint, he thinks, leaning back on his arms, for giving somebody else the time of day after my own company's tried to kill me...
... Hang on, is that...?
It's less conscious thought than lurch of nausea in Elan's stomach. Seconds pass as he inclines his head slightly forward, stares at Four in disbelief -- watches the permet bloom in places he's never seen it before, glowing faintly through the fabric of the other's clothing; notices how only a sliver of green yet rims Four's pupils. At this point, he's beyond checking his impulses, channeling their expression, repackaging them in more palatable form: Elan Ceres may not touch people for any purpose other than manipulation or out of sheer caprice, but Elan is far too greedy, too clumsy with his emotions for any sense of propriety or disgust to prevent him from cupping Four's face in his hand and running his thumb under the other's nose to confirm -- yes, it's blood. Hot and sticky like Four's skin, searing against his palm like it was in Four's bedroom at Asticassia -- and not.
This time, nothing comes at a remove or through a filter. Elan knows what it means when his chest aches as his heartbeat accelerates; when he breaks out into another cold sweat; when his hands -- the one still on Four's face, the other gripping Four's shoulder -- start to tremble with a strength he wouldn't be able to suppress even if he wanted. ]
Stay with me.
[ Soft, at first, in a tone that would surprise him if he were in any position to evaluate its difference from his usual. ]
Listen to my voice.
[ So easy, now, to say what he couldn't moments earlier, to tell the other what to do. ]
Don't... do this, don't let yourself go, don't leave me alone here, don't...
[ Why? Because -- ]
I need you, alright? I need you.
[ -- there's no strategy to it, no plan; he's too afraid. That nothing that's been gnawing at him -- since Three's execution, since Two ran way, since One was pronounced as good as dead on arrival; since they asked him to give everything, everything, away to the very idea of Elan Ceres: a prettier face, a straighter posture, a smoother speech, a sharper mind, a shrewder character; since those parts of the day he could call his (his?) became ever smaller; since the day he was born -- it hits him, suddenly, with all the force of the poison he'd expelled from his system earlier, raises his voice. ]
I can't have you doing this, I won't have you doing this, you have to last --
[ Distantly: There's no coming back from this. ]
-- at least until I can get out of here, at least until they've fixed you, at least until it's all gone, I don't give a shit about what you want or your stupid death wish, you will do as I say or...
[ There's no saving him from becoming like Four, because their similarities are what drew Elan to him to begin with -- they're in the way his hands burn, his eyes itch, in the bile he tastes in the back of his throat, and if it weren't for his unrestrained desperation, the pressure in Elan's head would give way to vertigo and horror at what he's said, what he's shown. He catches on the "or," because -- there's nothing he can, could, do.
Farther still: Is this what you wanted a break to catalyze?
no subject
... Hang on, is that...?
It's less conscious thought than lurch of nausea in Elan's stomach. Seconds pass as he inclines his head slightly forward, stares at Four in disbelief -- watches the permet bloom in places he's never seen it before, glowing faintly through the fabric of the other's clothing; notices how only a sliver of green yet rims Four's pupils. At this point, he's beyond checking his impulses, channeling their expression, repackaging them in more palatable form: Elan Ceres may not touch people for any purpose other than manipulation or out of sheer caprice, but Elan is far too greedy, too clumsy with his emotions for any sense of propriety or disgust to prevent him from cupping Four's face in his hand and running his thumb under the other's nose to confirm -- yes, it's blood. Hot and sticky like Four's skin, searing against his palm like it was in Four's bedroom at Asticassia -- and not.
This time, nothing comes at a remove or through a filter. Elan knows what it means when his chest aches as his heartbeat accelerates; when he breaks out into another cold sweat; when his hands -- the one still on Four's face, the other gripping Four's shoulder -- start to tremble with a strength he wouldn't be able to suppress even if he wanted. ]
Stay with me.
[ Soft, at first, in a tone that would surprise him if he were in any position to evaluate its difference from his usual. ]
Listen to my voice.
[ So easy, now, to say what he couldn't moments earlier, to tell the other what to do. ]
Don't... do this, don't let yourself go, don't leave me alone here, don't...
[ Why? Because -- ]
I need you, alright? I need you.
[ -- there's no strategy to it, no plan; he's too afraid. That nothing that's been gnawing at him -- since Three's execution, since Two ran way, since One was pronounced as good as dead on arrival; since they asked him to give everything, everything, away to the very idea of Elan Ceres: a prettier face, a straighter posture, a smoother speech, a sharper mind, a shrewder character; since those parts of the day he could call his (his?) became ever smaller; since the day he was born -- it hits him, suddenly, with all the force of the poison he'd expelled from his system earlier, raises his voice. ]
I can't have you doing this, I won't have you doing this, you have to last --
[ Distantly: There's no coming back from this. ]
-- at least until I can get out of here, at least until they've fixed you, at least until it's all gone, I don't give a shit about what you want or your stupid death wish, you will do as I say or...
[ There's no saving him from becoming like Four, because their similarities are what drew Elan to him to begin with -- they're in the way his hands burn, his eyes itch, in the bile he tastes in the back of his throat, and if it weren't for his unrestrained desperation, the pressure in Elan's head would give way to vertigo and horror at what he's said, what he's shown. He catches on the "or," because -- there's nothing he can, could, do.
Farther still: Is this what you wanted a break to catalyze?
Whose break -- his, yours?
Does it even matter? ]