[ Mace can pick up on just about everything Ian’s saying. Yelling, hopeless and evidently loud, his face twisting with it.
It’s in vain, and the thought passes through him as anathema would, poison and bleak. Overhead, the countdown drones on like nails being driven into his head one by one as Ian turns back to the door, staring back into Mace’s eyes, his mouth open. There’s no sound but Mace already knows he’s not saying anything right now.
What can he say? What the fuck can either of them fucking say? Ian's not even pleading for anything, and the implication of that is like a knife in Mace's heart. He grinds his forehead to the glass, right where Ian’s face is in a muted thump — and light bursts behind his eyes like kaleidoscope, splitting into memories that he can’t understand and doesn’t care that he can’t.
In a shower, foreheads pressed together, Mace’s arm steady and strong against the small of Ian's back. The water falling around them like a veil.
In bed, Ian’s fingers at the back of his neck, holding their faces together just like this. Heat and touch, an ache flickering to life between his ribs.
In the coolant tank, liquid ice cutting into his skin like ten thousand shards. Ian screaming through a gag as he held the knife down against his wound. A kiss. A kiss. A kiss. I don't want you think I'm anything better than I am.
Mace locks gazes with Ian as the countdown hits twenty seconds, every line in his face etched with despair, shaking his head slowly. Doesn't look away because that's the least he can do: watch the decision he's made, all the way through. Stay with Ian, all the way through. ]
Ian.
[ Sorry. Perhaps the most useless word in the English language. It wouldn’t make a difference. He doesn’t say it, just says Ian's name again instead, soundless now even to his own ears. Ten seconds. ]
no subject
It’s in vain, and the thought passes through him as anathema would, poison and bleak. Overhead, the countdown drones on like nails being driven into his head one by one as Ian turns back to the door, staring back into Mace’s eyes, his mouth open. There’s no sound but Mace already knows he’s not saying anything right now.
What can he say? What the fuck can either of them fucking say? Ian's not even pleading for anything, and the implication of that is like a knife in Mace's heart. He grinds his forehead to the glass, right where Ian’s face is in a muted thump — and light bursts behind his eyes like kaleidoscope, splitting into memories that he can’t understand and doesn’t care that he can’t.
In a shower, foreheads pressed together, Mace’s arm steady and strong against the small of Ian's back. The water falling around them like a veil.
In bed, Ian’s fingers at the back of his neck, holding their faces together just like this. Heat and touch, an ache flickering to life between his ribs.
In the coolant tank, liquid ice cutting into his skin like ten thousand shards. Ian screaming through a gag as he held the knife down against his wound. A kiss. A kiss. A kiss. I don't want you think I'm anything better than I am.
Mace locks gazes with Ian as the countdown hits twenty seconds, every line in his face etched with despair, shaking his head slowly. Doesn't look away because that's the least he can do: watch the decision he's made, all the way through. Stay with Ian, all the way through. ]
Ian.
[ Sorry. Perhaps the most useless word in the English language. It wouldn’t make a difference. He doesn’t say it, just says Ian's name again instead, soundless now even to his own ears. Ten seconds. ]