[Simon watches him disappear. Markus disappears with purpose, and doesn't think anything of it, too driven by what has to happen to stop and think about how far away he's gone again, connection slacking like a tied line.
For a little while.
—what am I doing. It's barely there. So soft and so quiet part of it erodes under the scuffle of Markus's boots as they drop from ledge to ledge with pinpoint precision; only the second verse catches his attention, Simon's back is still turned, and the high curl of his angular shoulders from behind (arms tucked rigidly against his chest) melds the edges of his silhouette with darkened walls. Private council comprised of Simon's voice, Simon's hands. Simon's fears.
Markus doesn't interrupt for a change.
His feet are firmly planted by the time he slaps his palm across metal to simulate the heavy sound of his own landing; Simon unhinges the doors to his closed-off session as he turns, still brittle in the gaps between knuckles and teeth, all of him folded around the distant beating of his heart. His beautiful, tired heart.]
Don't worry. [Markus breathes, speaking in that distinctive tone of voice he uses when he's aiming to mend wounds or tend to the dying. Slow and unshakable. His hand finds Simon's elbow first, settling just an inch behind the joint.]
no subject
For a little while.
—what am I doing. It's barely there. So soft and so quiet part of it erodes under the scuffle of Markus's boots as they drop from ledge to ledge with pinpoint precision; only the second verse catches his attention, Simon's back is still turned, and the high curl of his angular shoulders from behind (arms tucked rigidly against his chest) melds the edges of his silhouette with darkened walls. Private council comprised of Simon's voice, Simon's hands. Simon's fears.
Markus doesn't interrupt for a change.
His feet are firmly planted by the time he slaps his palm across metal to simulate the heavy sound of his own landing; Simon unhinges the doors to his closed-off session as he turns, still brittle in the gaps between knuckles and teeth, all of him folded around the distant beating of his heart. His beautiful, tired heart.]
Don't worry. [Markus breathes, speaking in that distinctive tone of voice he uses when he's aiming to mend wounds or tend to the dying. Slow and unshakable. His hand finds Simon's elbow first, settling just an inch behind the joint.]
I still trust you.