[ there's a part of him that wants nothing more than to cry on markus's behalf, for the loss he feels and the loss that simon is aware that he will continue to feel. with a system so overtaxed, not-so-subtly capsizing into anti-equilibrium under its own weight, there's no way his processes can allocate enough energy to trigger artificial tears. all he can do is feel his throat work, stuttering into a fixed loop as he shivers and his nose bleeds and he generally becomes an embarrassing, old wreck of a thing. he knows what it felt like to be full of minds and hearts. he knows what it feels like to be hollowed out, emptied and left with a new, yawning hurt.
( he isn't sorry, for doing this to markus. it means markus will live, and he would hurt him a thousand times if it meant he'd live a thousand more years. )
the entire thing feels like a dream, now. jericho. their march. their losses and defeat. he'd carried markus out of detroit like a thief in the night, working his wounded body to his limit and past that, running on simulated adrenaline and the promise he'd intended to keep. the one that put them on this train, the one that put markus silent and angry in his arms, the one that left north and josh to their own fate and their own ends and means. he's guilty of that. just as he's guilty of the way he sags into markus's hold, the way he draws his own comfort and pleasure in it. maybe that, most of all, for taking what belongs to their people and, even for a moment, having it as solely his own.
he feels the fingers, wandering, too late. ]
Markus, ḑ̕o̕ņ͡͝'̨́ţ̀ -- [ his voice fractures, as markus finds the wounds he's hidden away from him. the pitch becomes tinny and metallic, as his system lights up into something blinding and loud, a firecracker of an overload that rips through him in microseconds. peripheral senses drift first, then radial, then his core stutters and slows and drops him immediately into standby. eyes fluttering shut, chin dropping to his chest, sagging into markus's hands and markus's arms and against markus's chest. because there is no other option but to be drawn in by him. ]
no subject
( he isn't sorry, for doing this to markus. it means markus will live, and he would hurt him a thousand times if it meant he'd live a thousand more years. )
the entire thing feels like a dream, now. jericho. their march. their losses and defeat. he'd carried markus out of detroit like a thief in the night, working his wounded body to his limit and past that, running on simulated adrenaline and the promise he'd intended to keep. the one that put them on this train, the one that put markus silent and angry in his arms, the one that left north and josh to their own fate and their own ends and means. he's guilty of that. just as he's guilty of the way he sags into markus's hold, the way he draws his own comfort and pleasure in it. maybe that, most of all, for taking what belongs to their people and, even for a moment, having it as solely his own.
he feels the fingers, wandering, too late. ]
Markus, ḑ̕o̕ņ͡͝'̨́ţ̀ -- [ his voice fractures, as markus finds the wounds he's hidden away from him. the pitch becomes tinny and metallic, as his system lights up into something blinding and loud, a firecracker of an overload that rips through him in microseconds. peripheral senses drift first, then radial, then his core stutters and slows and drops him immediately into standby. eyes fluttering shut, chin dropping to his chest, sagging into markus's hands and markus's arms and against markus's chest. because there is no other option but to be drawn in by him. ]