[Paul's hand curls over Lazarus' circling fingers, anchoring them in place - or capturing them, depending on interpretation, and he should be able to decide. He should already know, by instinct, by reason, which it is.
Does it matter which, when they take him to the same conclusion? He thinks that it should matter; he thinks that he should know why it does. But Lazarus says whatever happens to me, and Paul's grip tightens convulsively, blue plasmic light flickering in his veins.]
That's not true.
[His voice is worse; the words are even more so, the abstraction of his dream-tugging blood tattered with slicing urgency.]
Why would you say that? Why would you say that?
[He's clinging hard enough to hurt, and he knows that because it does.]
no subject
Does it matter which, when they take him to the same conclusion? He thinks that it should matter; he thinks that he should know why it does. But Lazarus says whatever happens to me, and Paul's grip tightens convulsively, blue plasmic light flickering in his veins.]
That's not true.
[His voice is worse; the words are even more so, the abstraction of his dream-tugging blood tattered with slicing urgency.]
Why would you say that? Why would you say that?
[He's clinging hard enough to hurt, and he knows that because it does.]