[Memories don't bleed back between those crossed lines: Simon's system is too dated, too taxed, and had been well before Markus forced a connection. Strong enough to endure every ounce of pressure asked of it despite the fact, well beyond the brink. A perfect reflection of the soul it houses.
All that lingers afterwards is a— sensation. A concept. Shared breathing, shared heat. He feels thirium drip from his nose, but his face is dry.
He had no right to ask Simon to bear it. To carry a part of Markus inside of him beneath splintered plastic, when the only path ahead of them is the first step off of a tall, tall cliff. He'd taken it anyway. Taken, not asked. And maybe in that hollow gap, that's where guilt should build its nest.
But it's only a pang. A drop of remorse in an ocean of relief at the feeling of closeness that chases the parting of their bared fingertips.
He knows in that moment, holding Simon's trembling inhales against his chest, he isn't sorry.
Markus presses forward. Down into the curve of Simon's shattered hand where it rests across the back of his head. He exhales, profile tucking in against cloth rather than the frigid compartment wall. Arm sinking low, curling around Simon's spine in the narrow gap of a few inches. Not a delicate touch (he's never been exceedingly gentle) only steady, only secure. The only promise he's ever known how to give.
From there, the fingers of his opposite hand— freed from their interconnection— skirt beneath the hem of Simon's shirt, iridescent lines chasing the wake of his path upwards. Higher. Higher.]
I'm sorry, Simon.
[Murmured softly when he finds it. The worst of the damage that Simon had been hiding— the only statistical data that had transferred during their alignment. Sinks his fingers in until he finds resistance. It's not returning the favor. It isn't getting even. That phrasing would imply a balance struck from retaliation.
no subject
All that lingers afterwards is a— sensation. A concept. Shared breathing, shared heat. He feels thirium drip from his nose, but his face is dry.
He had no right to ask Simon to bear it. To carry a part of Markus inside of him beneath splintered plastic, when the only path ahead of them is the first step off of a tall, tall cliff. He'd taken it anyway. Taken, not asked. And maybe in that hollow gap, that's where guilt should build its nest.
But it's only a pang. A drop of remorse in an ocean of relief at the feeling of closeness that chases the parting of their bared fingertips.
He knows in that moment, holding Simon's trembling inhales against his chest, he isn't sorry.
Markus presses forward. Down into the curve of Simon's shattered hand where it rests across the back of his head. He exhales, profile tucking in against cloth rather than the frigid compartment wall. Arm sinking low, curling around Simon's spine in the narrow gap of a few inches. Not a delicate touch (he's never been exceedingly gentle) only steady, only secure. The only promise he's ever known how to give.
From there, the fingers of his opposite hand— freed from their interconnection— skirt beneath the hem of Simon's shirt, iridescent lines chasing the wake of his path upwards. Higher. Higher.]
I'm sorry, Simon.
[Murmured softly when he finds it. The worst of the damage that Simon had been hiding— the only statistical data that had transferred during their alignment. Sinks his fingers in until he finds resistance. It's not returning the favor. It isn't getting even. That phrasing would imply a balance struck from retaliation.
And what they do, they do for love.]