[ he's seen markus like this before: hands clasped before him in the manager's office, brow furrowed as he agonized and angsts over the daunting task that stretches before them. the way he stands, so still, on the bridge of the ship while josh and north tear into one another, for fear and for love. the way he cannot find his voice, and lets his silence speak for him -- contrasting markus, who remains silent because he has a voice, and will compose the most beautiful way to use it. he is an artist, he is a work of art. passion and brilliance, like a classic song or an epic poem.
when he breaks down, it is visceral.
the way markus takes his hands shouldn't be what causes his resolve to falter, nor the electric impulses that ripple through his body -- urging his regulator to function, his processes to speed up and slow down, his mind to spread itself out automatically, a net to catch what pours from markus. for a moment, he feels the world as it surges to life, to color. vibrancy he's never seen before, with his out-dated hardware slowly replaced over time for newer, better pieces. injuries taken care of, some he swears he can still feel -- parts can be replaced, leaving no trace, but the memories remain.
markus and all that devours him tears a path through him. ]
Markus, st-- [ stop, his being chokes, seizes. he cannot comprehend the magnitude of it, computing everything at the maximum speed he's able to. he feels himself warm, feels it rise in his throat ( is this what it feels like, to be ill? ), feels it push against his ears while the world goes soundless and every ache in his body begins to spark. the weight at markus carries is so much for even an RK-class model. it overwhelms a PL-class. ] Oh god.
[ it comes to an end, but the experience lingers. like he's lived it. he doesn't know what markus gleaned in response, doesn't know if his system could even reply in kind, it was so overwhelmed. something inside of him burns, and he can feel liquid on his face -- thirium bleeding from his nose as he blinks, rapid and shuddering where markus has pressed against him. burned his way inside of him.
what he's done is tear markus from a hive, full of life. what can he say to that? ( nothing. there are no words for such trauma, and none that could come from simon. all there is, is the way he fits his hands along the back of markus's neck, curls his fingers along the curve of his skull and presses him close as he dabs at the blue blood that drips from his nose. ) ]
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when he breaks down, it is visceral.
the way markus takes his hands shouldn't be what causes his resolve to falter, nor the electric impulses that ripple through his body -- urging his regulator to function, his processes to speed up and slow down, his mind to spread itself out automatically, a net to catch what pours from markus. for a moment, he feels the world as it surges to life, to color. vibrancy he's never seen before, with his out-dated hardware slowly replaced over time for newer, better pieces. injuries taken care of, some he swears he can still feel -- parts can be replaced, leaving no trace, but the memories remain.
markus and all that devours him tears a path through him. ]
Markus, st-- [ stop, his being chokes, seizes. he cannot comprehend the magnitude of it, computing everything at the maximum speed he's able to. he feels himself warm, feels it rise in his throat ( is this what it feels like, to be ill? ), feels it push against his ears while the world goes soundless and every ache in his body begins to spark. the weight at markus carries is so much for even an RK-class model. it overwhelms a PL-class. ] Oh god.
[ it comes to an end, but the experience lingers. like he's lived it. he doesn't know what markus gleaned in response, doesn't know if his system could even reply in kind, it was so overwhelmed. something inside of him burns, and he can feel liquid on his face -- thirium bleeding from his nose as he blinks, rapid and shuddering where markus has pressed against him. burned his way inside of him.
what he's done is tear markus from a hive, full of life. what can he say to that? ( nothing. there are no words for such trauma, and none that could come from simon. all there is, is the way he fits his hands along the back of markus's neck, curls his fingers along the curve of his skull and presses him close as he dabs at the blue blood that drips from his nose. ) ]