Summary: We’re all surrounded by divine mortals.
Notes: A series of drabbles revolving around the hidden woes, unspoken struggles and the inextricable bonds of Project Psyche’s central characters.
[Written on 1/10/2014]
The moment he watched him press the back of his hand — the despicable, traitorous mark engraved on the back of his hand — against the pale, parched surface of his lips, Gil began to wonder if the heart contained within this friend of his had been sewn together with threads woven in heaven.
He watched as Sandor lifted his eyes — spheres of copper glazed with more hope than he had ever had for just himself — whilst his parted lips remained suspended, hovering like a hallowed ghost over the tainted patch of skin. Gil felt something crack inside him — an interstice he couldn’t have covered up no matter how hard he tried. He kept his consternation chained securely within, bubbling, boiling, and evermore desperate to free itself and let all the world know the utter exhaustion that came with feigning calmness and composure on a daily basis. He pursed his lips and willed all power into the art of suppression, before gently twisting his hand out of Sandor’s grasp, curling fingers that were almost numb around the tender hand to which he owed an immeasurable gratitude as he pulled its owner close.
He heard a faint gasp escape the young man — soft, uncertain, and devoid of the overbearing brashness he so often exuded. “W-wait…,” he murmured, stiffness trapping his motions. “Dude–”
“Thank you,” Gil all but uttered, and Sandor felt himself slacken as the breath of his whispers left invisible tracks all over the curve of his cheek.
“For what?” he replied, softly. “Dude, you’re my friend. I just, well…,” he trailed off, bowing his head slightly. “Just wanted you to know that, y’know. I mean, I don’t give damn what you used to be–”
For accepting, for loving, for knowing, and yet–
Fleeting sparks danced upon the mark that aligned him with the enemy — remnants of contact with lips forged with compassion.
For knowing, and yet…
“Hey, well, I just wanted you to know that I appreciate that,” the iron-wielder hastily chimed in with expert casualness, effectively shrouding the awkwardness that was threatening to manifest. What the hell had he frickin’ done?
Casual he remained as Sandor wound his arms around him, encasing him in an embrace that brought a nascent bitterness to light.
Casual he remained as he raised a hand to pat his back, as wayward, copper-tinted spikes mingled with loose, auburn strands.
Casual he remained as everything within him threatened to collapse.
What the hell had he done?
Angels are beings of discreet benevolence. Their purpose is but to aid — any form of need they may harbour is essentially impertinent.