[Empty words. Dimitri finds himself sneering, unconsciously pressing the rag harder against his wound until the sting causes him to clench his jaw; his strength betrays him again. In another world, he might have laughed at Sylvain's easy dismissal. Typical of the Gautier son to dance out of reach. He can barely recall the part of himself that once viewed Sylvain's flighty personality with grudging fondness and, later, burning insecurity—now it makes him feel hollow. Nothing but a black pit all the way down into his gut. He's more starkly aware of the years between them than ever before.]
Then you lack the pride and decency even to speak for yourself.
[Let alone the others who need it. Who, more than Dimitri—more than anyone still living—need a voice, need someone to take a stand for their sake. Even now, distracted by Sylvain's presence, he feels them in his periphery whispering their hurt words. Goading him to act while he has the opportunity.
... Act.
Dimitri feels it eating at his mind—that dark, dragging pressure of guilt, chewing on his patience, eroding his sanity. Why is he letting Sylvain speak? Why is he allowing him to lie to his face? Telling him what he would like to hear, that he is still his prince, that Sylvain might have cared, that once it might have been different. That it all is one tidy misunderstanding.
The blood roars in his ears as he whirls, seizing Sylvain by the throat and slamming him against the wall, gloved hands a tight collar that squeezes off air. The snarl is on his face—teeth flashing, mouth open, eye wide.]
no subject
Then you lack the pride and decency even to speak for yourself.
[Let alone the others who need it. Who, more than Dimitri—more than anyone still living—need a voice, need someone to take a stand for their sake. Even now, distracted by Sylvain's presence, he feels them in his periphery whispering their hurt words. Goading him to act while he has the opportunity.
... Act.
Dimitri feels it eating at his mind—that dark, dragging pressure of guilt, chewing on his patience, eroding his sanity. Why is he letting Sylvain speak? Why is he allowing him to lie to his face? Telling him what he would like to hear, that he is still his prince, that Sylvain might have cared, that once it might have been different. That it all is one tidy misunderstanding.
The blood roars in his ears as he whirls, seizing Sylvain by the throat and slamming him against the wall, gloved hands a tight collar that squeezes off air. The snarl is on his face—teeth flashing, mouth open, eye wide.]
Shut up.