[He would have preferred the attack, honestly. At the first glint of silver he locks up, but it's slow. Far, far too slow and too considering and the tension laced through him shifts from anticipatory to horror and denial.
No.
Whether it is due to dramatisim or reluctance of Isaac's part or his damnably keen senses, everything moves as though it is a fade's dream. Far too slow and far too sharp and far too clear and all he can think is No.
Not this. Not like this. There was no mercy in this. Isaac hasn't even finished unsheathing the blade yet and he already knows what it is he is about to ask and every way in which he has the right to say no. To tell him to live. To quit wallowing in it and stand up again and keep going because life was going to hurt, that's what living was. Spots of bright pleasure and joy amidst the muck of pain. Ending it early is cowardice.
And yet he'd jumped on a blade for Isaac. Set himself to die for Rinna.
He's an old had at death and still. No.
No.
One small syllable races around in his head and his heart until the sound ceases to have any meaning other than an endless litany of refusal. He cannot. He will not. No matter how keen Isaac's pain he simply cannot do this thing.
Yet he knows full well by the time there are fingers on his and the weight of the pommel is pressed into his stiff fingered hands made inelegant by every fiber of him screaming silently NO that he will do as Isaac asks.
Because it is in his power. Because in a macabre way, it will make them even.
Because it's redemption and forgiveness and apology bundled into one clean thrust of a blade he cannot manage with the usual cold demeanor he would offer anyone else.
Rinna he'd watched, never cut. He'd been spared that though he counted himself so very guilty. He does not love Isaac the way he loved Rinna. Does not love him the way he loves Jack and Eugene. Does not love him the way he loves Katniss- but he does love him all the same.
Here he stands, knife in hand, and Isaac's fingers are holding tight and not so tight at all and he cannot look him in the eye because he has done this. He has had this horror in his mind and walked through it not one week ago. Death at his hand.
Death he would enjoy.
He parts his lips to finally give voice to the thing screaming and scrabbling in his head. All that comes out is-]
Close your eyes, Rosso mio.
[Because he will do this thing. He will for Isaac and then they will be even. But he will not watch the life slip from him like so many others. He cannot.]
action
No.
Whether it is due to dramatisim or reluctance of Isaac's part or his damnably keen senses, everything moves as though it is a fade's dream. Far too slow and far too sharp and far too clear and all he can think is No.
Not this. Not like this. There was no mercy in this. Isaac hasn't even finished unsheathing the blade yet and he already knows what it is he is about to ask and every way in which he has the right to say no. To tell him to live. To quit wallowing in it and stand up again and keep going because life was going to hurt, that's what living was. Spots of bright pleasure and joy amidst the muck of pain. Ending it early is cowardice.
And yet he'd jumped on a blade for Isaac. Set himself to die for Rinna.
He's an old had at death and still. No.
No.
One small syllable races around in his head and his heart until the sound ceases to have any meaning other than an endless litany of refusal. He cannot. He will not. No matter how keen Isaac's pain he simply cannot do this thing.
Yet he knows full well by the time there are fingers on his and the weight of the pommel is pressed into his stiff fingered hands made inelegant by every fiber of him screaming silently NO that he will do as Isaac asks.
Because it is in his power. Because in a macabre way, it will make them even.
Because it's redemption and forgiveness and apology bundled into one clean thrust of a blade he cannot manage with the usual cold demeanor he would offer anyone else.
Rinna he'd watched, never cut. He'd been spared that though he counted himself so very guilty. He does not love Isaac the way he loved Rinna. Does not love him the way he loves Jack and Eugene. Does not love him the way he loves Katniss- but he does love him all the same.
Here he stands, knife in hand, and Isaac's fingers are holding tight and not so tight at all and he cannot look him in the eye because he has done this. He has had this horror in his mind and walked through it not one week ago. Death at his hand.
Death he would enjoy.
He parts his lips to finally give voice to the thing screaming and scrabbling in his head. All that comes out is-]
Close your eyes, Rosso mio.
[Because he will do this thing. He will for Isaac and then they will be even. But he will not watch the life slip from him like so many others. He cannot.]