[ he shouldn't be surprised that it's come to this, the prince angry and a flurry of emotion, all brutal force pinning him against the wall. not ideal. he needs his neck.
and yet it's the most honest he's ever been, hasn't he? he would never act like this to him at any other time. there must be something freeing in this, even if what drives him is anger, guilt, any number of betrayals and hurts that now won't let him rest. when his mask was broken in the holy tomb. what good are words? if anything else, he had thought it would happen sooner.
he doesn't fight him. can't, anyway. not good practice when someone's inches away from snapping your neck. instead sylvain reaches over and sinks his hands into his wound. he touches the side of his neck almost like a caress as he struggles in his hold. traces the angle of his neck, strong down his collarbone, and struggles to mouth the words, ] Make me.
[ red, dark in his fingers. like the banners he walks under. his nightmares. inverse of his eye. his hair curling down the side of his face like longing. the sunset. a bruised cheek in one's boyhood. a pathetic heart. all of that running through his fingers, so much time wasted, so much time grieved. this reunion is terrible, he thinks. they can't even hear each other. ]
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and yet it's the most honest he's ever been, hasn't he? he would never act like this to him at any other time. there must be something freeing in this, even if what drives him is anger, guilt, any number of betrayals and hurts that now won't let him rest. when his mask was broken in the holy tomb. what good are words? if anything else, he had thought it would happen sooner.
he doesn't fight him. can't, anyway. not good practice when someone's inches away from snapping your neck. instead sylvain reaches over and sinks his hands into his wound. he touches the side of his neck almost like a caress as he struggles in his hold. traces the angle of his neck, strong down his collarbone, and struggles to mouth the words, ] Make me.
[ red, dark in his fingers. like the banners he walks under. his nightmares. inverse of his eye. his hair curling down the side of his face like longing. the sunset. a bruised cheek in one's boyhood. a pathetic heart. all of that running through his fingers, so much time wasted, so much time grieved. this reunion is terrible, he thinks. they can't even hear each other. ]