[ No, it's not a hand up that Silco offers; instead it is an iron grip, holding one under like the undertow, tugging him down into the mire, drowning in it, until that's all one can see and dream of. Just like him. Silco never knew of anything else, couldn't even conceptualize anything other than the fight. There's so little room for anything other than anger and violence that it seeps into those few spaces where they should not be. To lash out at the world for every injustice means that everything gets caught up in it -- even those he doesn't intend to.
He isn't used to being caught on the back foot like this, but something in his brain short circuits, one unblinking eye staring back at the red too-red abyss, like blood shared between them. He stares back at another creature of circumstance, of fighting against a tide and losing, and what type of monster settles into the heart of a man when loss after loss piles on, shaving away slice after slice of humanity, until there's nothing left but instinct, fighting against the inexorable tide. The hunger remains, the temptation still there to sink his teeth back into that wound, but lips on fetid flesh are a distraction he has no real defense against. His fingers try again to dig at Vergilius's grip, fighting to even find purchase, as if that would restore some kind of control over the situation, over Vergilius, or even over himself. He can't seem to find it, that normally readily available control.
The question again leaves him grasping at answers or questions -- his mind immediately lights on the one person in his life that would drag him into deeper madness, Jinx ever on the forefront, but did she truly understand her father, or even should she? Could she, mad and chaotic; wild and free and just the way she should be? Never held down by expectation, always surprising, and if she did, would she stay the same? Or would true understanding come with loss, the loss of everything that made her perfect? Others, close but their lack of humanity meant there was an expectation for him, a human, mortal expectation. Vergilius was just as mortal as he was. A man-beast straining against constraining flesh. ]
Would anybody have to, if you did?
[ If he really did? If he allowed himself to be drug down into the muck with him, suffocating in it, letting it wash over the both of them like angry waves.
He wants to sink his teeth into him again. He doesn't, but they're so close right now, his lips moving on his too-heated scar, Silco's fangs still close enough to puncture skin. He shifted, his lips close to his ear instead, almost brushing against the skin there. ]
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He isn't used to being caught on the back foot like this, but something in his brain short circuits, one unblinking eye staring back at the red too-red abyss, like blood shared between them. He stares back at another creature of circumstance, of fighting against a tide and losing, and what type of monster settles into the heart of a man when loss after loss piles on, shaving away slice after slice of humanity, until there's nothing left but instinct, fighting against the inexorable tide. The hunger remains, the temptation still there to sink his teeth back into that wound, but lips on fetid flesh are a distraction he has no real defense against. His fingers try again to dig at Vergilius's grip, fighting to even find purchase, as if that would restore some kind of control over the situation, over Vergilius, or even over himself. He can't seem to find it, that normally readily available control.
The question again leaves him grasping at answers or questions -- his mind immediately lights on the one person in his life that would drag him into deeper madness, Jinx ever on the forefront, but did she truly understand her father, or even should she? Could she, mad and chaotic; wild and free and just the way she should be? Never held down by expectation, always surprising, and if she did, would she stay the same? Or would true understanding come with loss, the loss of everything that made her perfect? Others, close but their lack of humanity meant there was an expectation for him, a human, mortal expectation. Vergilius was just as mortal as he was. A man-beast straining against constraining flesh. ]
Would anybody have to, if you did?
[ If he really did? If he allowed himself to be drug down into the muck with him, suffocating in it, letting it wash over the both of them like angry waves.
He wants to sink his teeth into him again. He doesn't, but they're so close right now, his lips moving on his too-heated scar, Silco's fangs still close enough to puncture skin. He shifted, his lips close to his ear instead, almost brushing against the skin there. ]
I don't think anyone could, do you?