( there's something almost fascinating about watching him piece it together, the way his feathers shift and move as though there's some method to it all, a way to force his body to find the pathways that have scabbed over, where things have been taken from him, robbed from him, and left emptiness in their wake. she has those things too, little pieces that seem to scatter in the wind of her breath when she tries to focus too hard on them--it's much easier to let it all flow, like water, and the thought reminds her of asra and all of his beautiful magic, and her heart hurts, or what's left of it does, in any case, while the rest feels heavy like stone.
he says the words and it's like they slot in where her mind glosses over; yes, he'd said it that night, yes, had relented to her mostly out of obligation, surely, but she had been pleased to take him away. even with the library being one of her own favourite places--they both needed the cool night air to finally breathe. julian had taken the whole thing to desperate lengths, with desperate measures, and that's her fault too, and that's something that she's never gotten to apologize for. probably can't ever apologize for. and that's another reason vesuvia is, truly, in better hands now, right/
because if she had just been better, had found a way to weave past all of lucio's obstacles, thrown in her path, then perhaps it all wouldn't have happened like--
julian's head jerks, rights itself like his whole neck snaps back into place again. the thought makes her want to shiver. )
It's more that you should be asking what I did to him.
( and this is probably the part where she shouldn't tell him, exactly, what happened--because there is no way that he would look at her with those soft, sad eyes and still feel anything but contempt and, especially, disgust with her, for doing it at all. her gaze goes from his face back down to the cup with her hand clamped over it, and damn it all, she decides, and brings it up to her lips.
it's--
--utterly disgusting. how does he drink this? she skids the tankard back across the table towards him with the blunt base of her palm. )
He's gone. I'm here in his place. Which begs the question, really, of where you should be, now that I'm capable of helping you.
( julian catches the tankard between both hands and pulls it toward him almost protectively. except he isn't protecting his stupid drink from her, or, really, protecting her from the stupid drink, either, he just. needs to hold onto something. because the alternative is in the way he almost reaches past it, like he means to touch her instead, only to realize he doesn't dare. not because of her. because of him. because of the black scaled birdskin and claws and feathers that are his hands now, rough and decidedly wholly unpleasant. it doesn't matter what she looks like now, or what she's become, he can't... he can't. so he holds the cup, his eyes wide and round and almost betrayed, the anguish as plain as anything. )
Wha—no! You didn't do this for me. Please tell me you didn't do this for me, that's...
( why do anything, why should she have to? and why like this? and—gone? he couldn't have broken his deal, because then wouldn't his chains have been broken, too? it's a contract, isn't it? or at least those are the lies he was told, the foolishness he believed in when he did what he did to save everybody. no, it doesn't make sense. how she can be in his place. )
You shouldn't be here. You were supposed to be safe. You were all supposed to be safe. That was the deal. I don't need help, you need to go home.
( it's one of the many options she should have considered, maybe: that he might see this as some sort of betrayal, as though she couldn't trust him to do what had to be done, or to fully give himself up to something that she thinks, perhaps, he was almost too keenly ready to give himself up to. after all, what batter way to pay for the things he thinks himself responsible for than to do something like this? to live an existence of suffering and disappointment and loneliness, and to make it seem worth it by declaring that it's been done for the sake of everyone else?
it's not that she doesn't trust him. it's not that she thinks he would try to break free of it. but it's more that she's tired of trusting the devil when he's been nothing but contrary--and well, she's solved that well enough, hasn't she? still, the anguish, the wide look of his eyes, is almost, almost too much for her to bear. or maybe it would have been, if she weren't made partly of something now that doesn't much care for anything else; it feels like stone, again, wedged in her chest. she looks at the table instead. )
Everyone is safe. You needn't worry about that.
( and the city is safe, from her inability, now--everyone is safe from that, too. )
You don't quite understand, do you?
I am home.
( she can feel it, vaguely: the pull of him, of everyone around them, the way that her hands could wrap around invisible lengths and pull at hot metal and strangle all of them under the weight of her whims. and maybe that's what he needs, then: she would reach across the table and slap him, but she doesn't want to hurt him outright, doesn't want to give in to that sort of mediocrity; she settles for her elbow on the table, her index finger twisting in the air, tightening the chains around him little by little. just a little squeeze. the kind that faust would love. ah, her heart hurts. )
Julian. I'm him, now. ( the kind of plain words she doesn't like, but they may be best suited for his drowning anguish. ) I won't be going back.
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he says the words and it's like they slot in where her mind glosses over; yes, he'd said it that night, yes, had relented to her mostly out of obligation, surely, but she had been pleased to take him away. even with the library being one of her own favourite places--they both needed the cool night air to finally breathe. julian had taken the whole thing to desperate lengths, with desperate measures, and that's her fault too, and that's something that she's never gotten to apologize for. probably can't ever apologize for. and that's another reason vesuvia is, truly, in better hands now, right/
because if she had just been better, had found a way to weave past all of lucio's obstacles, thrown in her path, then perhaps it all wouldn't have happened like--
julian's head jerks, rights itself like his whole neck snaps back into place again. the thought makes her want to shiver. )
It's more that you should be asking what I did to him.
( and this is probably the part where she shouldn't tell him, exactly, what happened--because there is no way that he would look at her with those soft, sad eyes and still feel anything but contempt and, especially, disgust with her, for doing it at all. her gaze goes from his face back down to the cup with her hand clamped over it, and damn it all, she decides, and brings it up to her lips.
it's--
--utterly disgusting. how does he drink this? she skids the tankard back across the table towards him with the blunt base of her palm. )
He's gone. I'm here in his place. Which begs the question, really, of where you should be, now that I'm capable of helping you.
no subject
Wha—no! You didn't do this for me. Please tell me you didn't do this for me, that's...
( why do anything, why should she have to? and why like this? and—gone? he couldn't have broken his deal, because then wouldn't his chains have been broken, too? it's a contract, isn't it? or at least those are the lies he was told, the foolishness he believed in when he did what he did to save everybody. no, it doesn't make sense. how she can be in his place. )
You shouldn't be here. You were supposed to be safe. You were all supposed to be safe. That was the deal. I don't need help, you need to go home.
no subject
it's not that she doesn't trust him. it's not that she thinks he would try to break free of it. but it's more that she's tired of trusting the devil when he's been nothing but contrary--and well, she's solved that well enough, hasn't she? still, the anguish, the wide look of his eyes, is almost, almost too much for her to bear. or maybe it would have been, if she weren't made partly of something now that doesn't much care for anything else; it feels like stone, again, wedged in her chest. she looks at the table instead. )
Everyone is safe. You needn't worry about that.
( and the city is safe, from her inability, now--everyone is safe from that, too. )
You don't quite understand, do you?
I am home.
( she can feel it, vaguely: the pull of him, of everyone around them, the way that her hands could wrap around invisible lengths and pull at hot metal and strangle all of them under the weight of her whims. and maybe that's what he needs, then: she would reach across the table and slap him, but she doesn't want to hurt him outright, doesn't want to give in to that sort of mediocrity; she settles for her elbow on the table, her index finger twisting in the air, tightening the chains around him little by little. just a little squeeze. the kind that faust would love. ah, her heart hurts. )
Julian. I'm him, now. ( the kind of plain words she doesn't like, but they may be best suited for his drowning anguish. ) I won't be going back.