[ A second, verbal confirmation long after the morning's exchange. It does not surprise, neither that McGillis reaches again, nor the content, because of the unofficial precedent he'd established a few weeks before.
And because he's himself just encountered the subject. ]
»Yeah.«
[ How to be anything but uncertain? With each taut telepathic communication, he improves in increments, and so it does not bleed through. Yet, though they stepped tentative past the borders of fate, choosing together a path unpaved, not a path at all, wildnerness to cut through -- a choice that changed nothing and everything, sinking stones of what could not be believed, but pressing and opening despite it -- it is impossible not to wonder if Fate speaks through this.
Although they'd come to terms with more than a truce, they've not come that much closer to resolving their differences. Gaelio's response is a reminder of that, as McGillis had expected from this conversation. ]
»Not particularly.«
[ Empty, controlled -- or not. Mika represents the point at which their paths had diverged for certain, the beginning of McGillis allowing his aspirations to become reality. Once he'd encountered Tekkadan, once he'd decided on wanting Tekkadan to be part of that goal...
As they're both aware, that encounter also represents the beginning of the end of Gaelio and McGillis.
But he attempts a show of marked indifference, all the same. He is little more than an ally, after all, and his allyship with Tekkadan has always been -- conditional. ]
»In this environment, doubt continues to reign supreme.«
[ They cannot be anything but aware, a renewed line of tension between them, thrumming with it.
Mars may have been the land where they began, but if McGillis's betrayals had begun with a person, that person must be he who had smashed through after him, with whom, Gaelio had learned, McGillis had early fought beside. Mikazuki Augus.
The boy McGillis had chosen for his dream, for the Fate he would actualize, while disposing of his so-called friend.
Who better to represent their ending?
In contrast, though it might superficially equalize, Julieta had not been his choice, but a byproduct of Rustal Elion. A disturbance to their understanding of their situation, though a swiftly pretextual understanding.
If he closes his eyes, he more than remembers the taste of him. The smell of sea salt, the breeze brisk against his cheek, fingertips against his jaw and neck. It might be his magic that augments it; it might be that less than twenty-four hours have passed. He closes his eyes.
If I think of it, if it crosses my path again, I'll rest on my blade.
Even if he could believe him, the truth could yet be more duplicitous, if unintentionally. McGillis, unable to perceive it as a betrayal, as they had never been allies.
Only enemies.
How insipid that such a long-suspected thing, confirmed so readily their first day here, continues to sting.
Gaelio does not answer for longer than he knows, caught by memories that muddle and bleed and linger on his tongue. ]
»Perhaps you've yet to think of how to use him here. I'm sure you will, with time.«
[ Unfair, and he knows it. Because he should be permitted that, he shouldn't care, and doesn't care, but a weight shifts in his chest, discomfort in it, unable to settle. He shouldn't, doesn't, but he doesn't add what he would, Against me. More oozing than radiating, a crawling up his throat, compelling him to ask what would otherwise keep prominent and aching in the backdrop of this. ]
»Has it changed anything for you?«
[ It almost rushes, as though to swallow what he does not, does not, does not regret. In that rush, less control, and so in that rush, traces of emotion. Whatever describes the snap of muscles anticipating a blow, tight and cringing. Apprehension -- or fear. ]
[ Ridiculous, perhaps, to allow the long pause before Gaelio answers to add to the tension.
Yet he feels it grow, waiting.
And once the response comes, the tangy taste of disappointment outstrips it, growing quickly in its place. A cloud of it fogging through his thoughts. Gaelio is permitted. McGillis won't argue that he is not, or argue with the words themselves, silent for another pause after hearing them.
Nonetheless, after confessions and professions laid down that they would struggle towards understanding, together, it settles like a sharp pit in his gut. ]
»No.«
[ Answering there, instead. As quick, guided by the fearful rush accompanying the question, maybe.
Guided into answering quick, guided into memory. The sea-breeze air enveloping them, the shore lapping in the distance.
Understanding. Understanding why Gaelio asks and why the resurgence of Tekkadan makes him wary. ]
Plain, simple, nothing like simple, and pungent. It rushes, too, a different sort of rush. A stupid sort, the emotion stupid, when it is stupid to trust this man, to do anything but take each word, each phrase, each sentence, and break them down.
He does dissect, he does analyze, he does reduce to component parts and lesser still.
The trick, the problem, the complication: more and more it feels like going through the motions. The shame, his sin, more on his shoulders, more for which he cannot be forgiven: how relatively little had needed be said, extended, done, for his heart to beat louder than his mind.
So he picks at No, at there at were at no at lies at spoken at during at our at last, but through the exercise, heady with relief.
Gaelio rubs at the bridge of his nose, at his eyes, maybe wipes at them. ]
[ That so much can be felt through this coil of connected thought, that Gaelio's heady, anxious relief floods, gives reason for anxiety to build for McGillis.
He begins each of these encounters with the same intention of remaining steady. Too quickly, each time, the flood comes, his balance knocked from him. He can sense that Gaelio dislikes his own relief, complexity woven into the stock he puts into it. He can understand why, as he was able to understand walls and defenses building upon broaching the latest subject. When linked as such, what lies bloodied between them pulsates.
He breathes in, steady through the nose. In and out.
Struggle with, struggle for. It will take work. They'd both agreed. ]
»Ask however often you desire.«
[ In any new situation that arises.
If Gaelio can sense any of the muck building with McGillis, what's important is this: that their struggle remains productive. ]
»Whenever you feel the inclination. It won't deter me.«
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
And because he's himself just encountered the subject. ]
»Yeah.«
[ How to be anything but uncertain? With each taut telepathic communication, he improves in increments, and so it does not bleed through. Yet, though they stepped tentative past the borders of fate, choosing together a path unpaved, not a path at all, wildnerness to cut through -- a choice that changed nothing and everything, sinking stones of what could not be believed, but pressing and opening despite it -- it is impossible not to wonder if Fate speaks through this.
If it would change for McGillis. For them. ]
»You must be pleased to be joined by your ally.«
[ Empty, controlled.
Or not. ]
no subject
Although they'd come to terms with more than a truce, they've not come that much closer to resolving their differences. Gaelio's response is a reminder of that, as McGillis had expected from this conversation. ]
»Not particularly.«
[ Empty, controlled -- or not. Mika represents the point at which their paths had diverged for certain, the beginning of McGillis allowing his aspirations to become reality. Once he'd encountered Tekkadan, once he'd decided on wanting Tekkadan to be part of that goal...
As they're both aware, that encounter also represents the beginning of the end of Gaelio and McGillis.
But he attempts a show of marked indifference, all the same. He is little more than an ally, after all, and his allyship with Tekkadan has always been -- conditional. ]
»In this environment, doubt continues to reign supreme.«
no subject
Mars may have been the land where they began, but if McGillis's betrayals had begun with a person, that person must be he who had smashed through after him, with whom, Gaelio had learned, McGillis had early fought beside. Mikazuki Augus.
The boy McGillis had chosen for his dream, for the Fate he would actualize, while disposing of his so-called friend.
Who better to represent their ending?
In contrast, though it might superficially equalize, Julieta had not been his choice, but a byproduct of Rustal Elion. A disturbance to their understanding of their situation, though a swiftly pretextual understanding.
If he closes his eyes, he more than remembers the taste of him. The smell of sea salt, the breeze brisk against his cheek, fingertips against his jaw and neck. It might be his magic that augments it; it might be that less than twenty-four hours have passed. He closes his eyes.
If I think of it, if it crosses my path again, I'll rest on my blade.
Even if he could believe him, the truth could yet be more duplicitous, if unintentionally. McGillis, unable to perceive it as a betrayal, as they had never been allies.
Only enemies.
How insipid that such a long-suspected thing, confirmed so readily their first day here, continues to sting.
Gaelio does not answer for longer than he knows, caught by memories that muddle and bleed and linger on his tongue. ]
»Perhaps you've yet to think of how to use him here. I'm sure you will, with time.«
[ Unfair, and he knows it. Because he should be permitted that, he shouldn't care, and doesn't care, but a weight shifts in his chest, discomfort in it, unable to settle. He shouldn't, doesn't, but he doesn't add what he would, Against me. More oozing than radiating, a crawling up his throat, compelling him to ask what would otherwise keep prominent and aching in the backdrop of this. ]
»Has it changed anything for you?«
[ It almost rushes, as though to swallow what he does not, does not, does not regret. In that rush, less control, and so in that rush, traces of emotion. Whatever describes the snap of muscles anticipating a blow, tight and cringing. Apprehension -- or fear. ]
no subject
Yet he feels it grow, waiting.
And once the response comes, the tangy taste of disappointment outstrips it, growing quickly in its place. A cloud of it fogging through his thoughts. Gaelio is permitted. McGillis won't argue that he is not, or argue with the words themselves, silent for another pause after hearing them.
Nonetheless, after confessions and professions laid down that they would struggle towards understanding, together, it settles like a sharp pit in his gut. ]
»No.«
[ Answering there, instead. As quick, guided by the fearful rush accompanying the question, maybe.
Guided into answering quick, guided into memory. The sea-breeze air enveloping them, the shore lapping in the distance.
Understanding. Understanding why Gaelio asks and why the resurgence of Tekkadan makes him wary. ]
»There were no lies spoken during our last.«
1/2
Plain, simple, nothing like simple, and pungent. It rushes, too, a different sort of rush. A stupid sort, the emotion stupid, when it is stupid to trust this man, to do anything but take each word, each phrase, each sentence, and break them down.
He does dissect, he does analyze, he does reduce to component parts and lesser still.
The trick, the problem, the complication: more and more it feels like going through the motions. The shame, his sin, more on his shoulders, more for which he cannot be forgiven: how relatively little had needed be said, extended, done, for his heart to beat louder than his mind.
So he picks at No, at there at were at no at lies at spoken at during at our at last, but through the exercise, heady with relief.
Gaelio rubs at the bridge of his nose, at his eyes, maybe wipes at them. ]
»OK. OK, all right, OK.«
[ Unable to keep his words from oscillating. ]
»I really...«
no subject
Struggle with me, Gaelio had insisted. ]
»...needed to hear that.«
[ Or "hear." ]
no subject
He begins each of these encounters with the same intention of remaining steady. Too quickly, each time, the flood comes, his balance knocked from him. He can sense that Gaelio dislikes his own relief, complexity woven into the stock he puts into it. He can understand why, as he was able to understand walls and defenses building upon broaching the latest subject. When linked as such, what lies bloodied between them pulsates.
He breathes in, steady through the nose. In and out.
Struggle with, struggle for. It will take work. They'd both agreed. ]
»Ask however often you desire.«
[ In any new situation that arises.
If Gaelio can sense any of the muck building with McGillis, what's important is this: that their struggle remains productive. ]
»Whenever you feel the inclination. It won't deter me.«