[ More than odd salt spray fills the air, more than the moisture of truncated waters. More, too, than the remnant weight of stormy days and flood, that which leaves the temperature less chilled than before the floods (if not enough to shuck the likelihood of oncoming winter).
Each second must drag itself through the density of the air, slowed and conscious of it. Tracking the pained beating of his heart, pulled through memories he no longer trusts but cannot forget. Sound carries through well enough. Cloth at McGillis's back, movement that would suggest anxiety if he was capable of it.
Gaelio knows, if only presently through their earlier thoughts, that McGillis is capable of it.
Over him, no less, and standing now at his side, the tenor of his satisfaction changes, quavers.
Shrivels to hear best interests. As though he could feel the abrasion and quieting of his heart, feel a shutter in his eyes. Gaelio's mouth lines tight, as flat, and his teeth press but do not grind, loosing.
Our best interests. How infuriating to feel disappointed. To have put himself in a position where it remained possible, that McGillis could let him down. To want or expect more than that. Of course he would still speak like so, attached only through practical paternalism. As impersonal as Fate.
At disruptive odds with the scrap of shirt sleeve still in his pocket, with the memory of his arm and how it curled, keeping.
His jaw works, but before he can shape a hollowed retort, McGillis speaks again. ]
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1/2
Each second must drag itself through the density of the air, slowed and conscious of it. Tracking the pained beating of his heart, pulled through memories he no longer trusts but cannot forget. Sound carries through well enough. Cloth at McGillis's back, movement that would suggest anxiety if he was capable of it.
Gaelio knows, if only presently through their earlier thoughts, that McGillis is capable of it.
Over him, no less, and standing now at his side, the tenor of his satisfaction changes, quavers.
Shrivels to hear best interests. As though he could feel the abrasion and quieting of his heart, feel a shutter in his eyes. Gaelio's mouth lines tight, as flat, and his teeth press but do not grind, loosing.
Our best interests. How infuriating to feel disappointed. To have put himself in a position where it remained possible, that McGillis could let him down. To want or expect more than that. Of course he would still speak like so, attached only through practical paternalism. As impersonal as Fate.
At disruptive odds with the scrap of shirt sleeve still in his pocket, with the memory of his arm and how it curled, keeping.
His jaw works, but before he can shape a hollowed retort, McGillis speaks again. ]