[In that moment they're both resolute. Markus trapped in the glint of stray moonlight as he smooths his palms across sacred imagery and sacrilegious graffiti alike, Simon drawing nearer in his shadow. It won’t take much. He’s been already been prepared for this: to create, rather than replicate. Artistry with purpose. Lines of code that can be layered into paint and concrete, right beneath humanity’s bluntly focused stare. When he and Simon leave, they’ll mark it off. It’ll be a beacon. A new path where the old one failed. They need to know he’s alive.
That this isn’t over.
But there's softness encircling his shoulders, and he finds himself bending to it without question. Sorry for that inability to play both roles at the same time.]
Simon, I—
[He can see it just before it happens, in a way. Preprogrammed premonition, a gift from his creator designed as a bulwark against harm. Trajectory played out in perceived lines that creep towards damage he should be guarding. But he's not a machine, no, he's not governed by stiffened probabilities. He was raised by human hands, as a son, as a friend. He trusts Simon. Why wouldn't he?
So Markus bears into it. The hand at his jawline heavy with how he rests his head, the pressure across his collarbone leading down, mismatched eyes only lidding when his gaze slips lower.
Closer.
Something in his chest jolts abruptly without warning. His heart stops, its processes diminishing protectively to a near non-functioning state. This time, when his eyes roll back and his world goes dark, he knows exactly whose fingers buried themselves in his chest. The hand settled kindly across his cheek, white and blue, sweetness laced like poison.
Choking on that affection, for all the good it does him.]
no subject
That this isn’t over.
But there's softness encircling his shoulders, and he finds himself bending to it without question. Sorry for that inability to play both roles at the same time.]
Simon, I—
[He can see it just before it happens, in a way. Preprogrammed premonition, a gift from his creator designed as a bulwark against harm. Trajectory played out in perceived lines that creep towards damage he should be guarding. But he's not a machine, no, he's not governed by stiffened probabilities. He was raised by human hands, as a son, as a friend. He trusts Simon. Why wouldn't he?
So Markus bears into it. The hand at his jawline heavy with how he rests his head, the pressure across his collarbone leading down, mismatched eyes only lidding when his gaze slips lower.
Closer.
Something in his chest jolts abruptly without warning. His heart stops, its processes diminishing protectively to a near non-functioning state. This time, when his eyes roll back and his world goes dark, he knows exactly whose fingers buried themselves in his chest. The hand settled kindly across his cheek, white and blue, sweetness laced like poison.
Choking on that affection, for all the good it does him.]