[it threatens to feed back into the coil of memory, of emotion that koby's steadfastly not looking at, not thinking about, not dwelling in longer than those fragments of time, flickers of a touch and a voice he'll never experience again. he knows it's worse for armand, the connection deeper, the love vibrant and burning like some ancient sun, unknowable, massive, endless. the void it leaves it likewise, in a way that koby's mind skirts around, stumbles away from, cringing before the expanse of having lived so long and felt so much.
instead he locks the emotions away, forcing himself not to absorb the loneliness, the desperation radiating from armand's strange, aquatic presence. it's not easy; it presses at koby's sympathetic, bleeding heart, digs too-sharp nails in hard, refuses to let go. it's hard not to think that it might not be so bad, to step forward, to step in, to let himself be wanted, be craved, be longed for.
the request almost works, almost sways koby into moving closer, just enough to take the offered hand, just enough to offer what comfort he can. his mouth is open to give it, to give armand what he pleads for, promises and words that he doesn't really want, not from koby -- and that's what digs in, sudden as a splinter in his knuckles, as a kick to the ribs, a brutal, black-and-white truth that's been beaten into koby since he was old enough to understand it: he doesn't actually want you. not you. why would he?
swaying back, shutting his mouth with a click, his expression pained, eyes bright and teary, koby shakes his head once, twice.] You don't -- want that. Not from me. It won't help you, it won't make it better.
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instead he locks the emotions away, forcing himself not to absorb the loneliness, the desperation radiating from armand's strange, aquatic presence. it's not easy; it presses at koby's sympathetic, bleeding heart, digs too-sharp nails in hard, refuses to let go. it's hard not to think that it might not be so bad, to step forward, to step in, to let himself be wanted, be craved, be longed for.
the request almost works, almost sways koby into moving closer, just enough to take the offered hand, just enough to offer what comfort he can. his mouth is open to give it, to give armand what he pleads for, promises and words that he doesn't really want, not from koby -- and that's what digs in, sudden as a splinter in his knuckles, as a kick to the ribs, a brutal, black-and-white truth that's been beaten into koby since he was old enough to understand it: he doesn't actually want you. not you. why would he?
swaying back, shutting his mouth with a click, his expression pained, eyes bright and teary, koby shakes his head once, twice.] You don't -- want that. Not from me. It won't help you, it won't make it better.