Peter's looking back up to watch Paul, eyes locked on with that pinprick heat still at the corners. It's not fair, it's not fair, insists that small, childlike voice within him. Peter knows better than that by now, knows things like fair don't exist, not in the real world.
Still, he can't help thinking it again and again as he stares at the other, so different now from the charming, smiling boy he'd met that first time. Whatever's happened to Paul, or is happening, or will happen, this is what's beneath anything else. The same as in himself. It hurts so bad that Peter almost can't stand it, all those words that could come straight from his own soul. He hates it. He hatesβ all of it. He hates being what and who he is, hates that this is the thing he has to carry for the rest of his life. Hates that no matter what, none of it was ever his choice.
(There's so much hate in him that he wonders sometimes if it'll make him mean and twisted, but it's really only ever made him sad. A sadness, a heaviness β weighty and useless; nothing can be done with it. He's useless. He's nothing.)
I can't get out
"You're trapped."
He says barely above a whisper, and yeah it's the obvious β reframing exactly what Paul's saying, into another way. 'can't get out' is 'trapped'; it's nothing ground-breaking. It's not even helpful.
But what it is, is Peter seeing him. He sees it; he sees him. Exactly how Paul is. Damned, cursed, tethered to some fate. To some thing; whatever it is, Paul's trapped too.
Peter's so afraid of flame, but he steps closer β cautious, mindful of the flickering heat, but it's closer. He barely knows Paul. Their last interaction was a little dose of a nightmare. None of that matters.
His eyes are moving over Paul again, taking in all the flame, brow pinching softly. Paul reached out for help. Or maybe it was giving into something, resigning himself to it. And Peter's been there before.
When he was, someone stayed beside him no matter how much he was burning β and it was never so literal as this, but he was melting away. He could feel less and less of himself.
"Can I smoke with you?" Stay, for awhile. His voice cracks just a little and he's not even going to attempt to smile to make it seem light-hearted; there's nothing light to this. It sucks. He hates it. They hate it. "Two doomed guys."
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Still, he can't help thinking it again and again as he stares at the other, so different now from the charming, smiling boy he'd met that first time. Whatever's happened to Paul, or is happening, or will happen, this is what's beneath anything else. The same as in himself. It hurts so bad that Peter almost can't stand it, all those words that could come straight from his own soul. He hates it. He hatesβ all of it. He hates being what and who he is, hates that this is the thing he has to carry for the rest of his life. Hates that no matter what, none of it was ever his choice.
(There's so much hate in him that he wonders sometimes if it'll make him mean and twisted, but it's really only ever made him sad. A sadness, a heaviness β weighty and useless; nothing can be done with it. He's useless. He's nothing.)
I can't get out
"You're trapped."
He says barely above a whisper, and yeah it's the obvious β reframing exactly what Paul's saying, into another way. 'can't get out' is 'trapped'; it's nothing ground-breaking. It's not even helpful.
But what it is, is Peter seeing him. He sees it; he sees him. Exactly how Paul is. Damned, cursed, tethered to some fate. To some thing; whatever it is, Paul's trapped too.
Peter's so afraid of flame, but he steps closer β cautious, mindful of the flickering heat, but it's closer. He barely knows Paul. Their last interaction was a little dose of a nightmare. None of that matters.
His eyes are moving over Paul again, taking in all the flame, brow pinching softly. Paul reached out for help. Or maybe it was giving into something, resigning himself to it. And Peter's been there before.
When he was, someone stayed beside him no matter how much he was burning β and it was never so literal as this, but he was melting away. He could feel less and less of himself.
"Can I smoke with you?" Stay, for awhile. His voice cracks just a little and he's not even going to attempt to smile to make it seem light-hearted; there's nothing light to this. It sucks. He hates it. They hate it. "Two doomed guys."