[ Was he scared for it? Silco so ferociously guarded his secrets and his truths, something that he didn't want to be allowed out for anything. He was weak, compared to the rest of the people here. Nothing, comparatively. He had his secrets β even greater weaknesses β he knew he could be done in at any moment, were someone to utilize them just right against him. Had he been foolish, seeking that connection?
His fingers close against his neck, and his heart kicks up a little bit. It's a reminder of that night, but so much more. Vergilius perhaps doesn't know what he does, by pressing fingers to his neck, but his breath catches in his throat anyway. He caresses it, instead of squeezes, but he may as well have squeezed, Silco's single eyelid blinks a few times, his breath rushed quicker, staring at him. His eyes may be cold, but Silco's have no choice but to be a twisted reflection, as in all things, fire and heat.
Vergilius has touched on his most secret truth, perhaps on accident, but stumbled on it nonetheless. What did a man like him actually fear? It wasn't death, not really, and pain was nothing but an inconvenience to a man who had escaped death like he was an old friend passing by β no it was that dark, secret little piece of him that so few had ever even glimpsed. That old scar that had never healed over, as bare as the one on his face, if one thought to look close enough to see it. What did a man like Silco fear? Being left behind, of course.
His fingers wrapped around his wrist, abandoning one scar for another, his hand squeezed, but he didn't try to pull him away from his throat. Like a presence holding there, waiting to feel for what he would do with it. ]
I do not fear connection, Vergilius, but I know how devastating it can be, if left in untrustworthy hands. [ Oh, how he did know. His fingers pressed into his wrist, tightening. As if he were holding him there, but there's little muscle behind it, he could press on, should he choose to. He won't stop him. ]
I wonder... [ he says, instead of responding directly. Choosing his words carefully. ] If you want to belong to someone? [ him ]
[ He challenges him with a smile, an oblique answer yet again. Like a slippery little eel, even with his hand on his neck, he tipped his head, and it served to press his thumb into his neck. Silco's thumb rubs against the underside of his wrist, like he's goading him. ] Isn't that what real understanding is? Belonging?
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His fingers close against his neck, and his heart kicks up a little bit. It's a reminder of that night, but so much more. Vergilius perhaps doesn't know what he does, by pressing fingers to his neck, but his breath catches in his throat anyway. He caresses it, instead of squeezes, but he may as well have squeezed, Silco's single eyelid blinks a few times, his breath rushed quicker, staring at him. His eyes may be cold, but Silco's have no choice but to be a twisted reflection, as in all things, fire and heat.
Vergilius has touched on his most secret truth, perhaps on accident, but stumbled on it nonetheless. What did a man like him actually fear? It wasn't death, not really, and pain was nothing but an inconvenience to a man who had escaped death like he was an old friend passing by β no it was that dark, secret little piece of him that so few had ever even glimpsed. That old scar that had never healed over, as bare as the one on his face, if one thought to look close enough to see it. What did a man like Silco fear? Being left behind, of course.
His fingers wrapped around his wrist, abandoning one scar for another, his hand squeezed, but he didn't try to pull him away from his throat. Like a presence holding there, waiting to feel for what he would do with it. ]
I do not fear connection, Vergilius, but I know how devastating it can be, if left in untrustworthy hands. [ Oh, how he did know. His fingers pressed into his wrist, tightening. As if he were holding him there, but there's little muscle behind it, he could press on, should he choose to. He won't stop him. ]
I wonder... [ he says, instead of responding directly. Choosing his words carefully. ] If you want to belong to someone? [ him ]
[ He challenges him with a smile, an oblique answer yet again. Like a slippery little eel, even with his hand on his neck, he tipped his head, and it served to press his thumb into his neck. Silco's thumb rubs against the underside of his wrist, like he's goading him. ] Isn't that what real understanding is? Belonging?
[ Or did Silco have a warped, twisted view? ]