[ A protest very nearly burst from his lips, but he was too fast and too strong and his hand clasped around his neck with a sudden --] Hrgh --
[ Words killed by Vergilius's hand, his head forced back down to the ground and he'd be grateful that his head didn't slam against the stone floor; but his brain is already shuddering to a complete stop. Does he know?
He fights to breathe -- does he have to? -- a gasp fills the air between them when he closes his hand around Silco's throat. His odd gaze, black and blue, stares back at just red. He can almost imagine the blood pumping behind his eyes, like he can see it. Vergilius almost looks like a beast, licking the blood from his lips holding him down against the floor, leaving him fighting for air.
Does He Know? This isn't the first time Silco's had hands too-strong wrapped around his throat, both eyes wide and unblinking. He can almost feel it, that old friend whispering in his ear, looks every other time, telling him to simply let go and his fingers fell cold and he can almost feel the water rising to engulf him again.
How? How does he know? He can't even respond, his throat locked down and even fighting for the slightest scrap of air is all he can do. Can he even die of this? Does is matter? His brain already thinks it's happening, because it's happened before. Three times the same person tried to end him. Over and over and over; because they had once been like brothers, and wasn't that what happened when bad blood tainted the water?
His fingers claw at his scarred hand, fighting him, his feet kick, and one would think being calm would be the play here, but Silco was never calm in the face of possible death.
Would he? Kill him? Now? For this?
One hand fell, was he losing? Fading? That quickly? His fingers slipped into the folds of that makeshift leather straps, and pulled out a small, slim knife. He flipped in his hand, eyes still locked on a blood-red gaze, staring at him, was he drinking it in? Even the parts he didn't like? Why, this was a beast lashing out, and he fought it because that's what he did but... Dislike? Hardly. This was what he'd wanted.
His lips curled, slightly, something between a smile and a grimace. As if he was saying: Nice Try without words.
He plunged the small, slim knife into his thigh, that choked grimace looked more a self satisfied smirk, under his bright red eyes.]
no subject
[ Words killed by Vergilius's hand, his head forced back down to the ground and he'd be grateful that his head didn't slam against the stone floor; but his brain is already shuddering to a complete stop. Does he know?
He fights to breathe -- does he have to? -- a gasp fills the air between them when he closes his hand around Silco's throat. His odd gaze, black and blue, stares back at just red. He can almost imagine the blood pumping behind his eyes, like he can see it. Vergilius almost looks like a beast, licking the blood from his lips holding him down against the floor, leaving him fighting for air.
Does He Know? This isn't the first time Silco's had hands too-strong wrapped around his throat, both eyes wide and unblinking. He can almost feel it, that old friend whispering in his ear, looks every other time, telling him to simply let go and his fingers fell cold and he can almost feel the water rising to engulf him again.
How? How does he know? He can't even respond, his throat locked down and even fighting for the slightest scrap of air is all he can do. Can he even die of this? Does is matter? His brain already thinks it's happening, because it's happened before. Three times the same person tried to end him. Over and over and over; because they had once been like brothers, and wasn't that what happened when bad blood tainted the water?
His fingers claw at his scarred hand, fighting him, his feet kick, and one would think being calm would be the play here, but Silco was never calm in the face of possible death.
Would he? Kill him? Now? For this?
One hand fell, was he losing? Fading? That quickly? His fingers slipped into the folds of that makeshift leather straps, and pulled out a small, slim knife. He flipped in his hand, eyes still locked on a blood-red gaze, staring at him, was he drinking it in? Even the parts he didn't like? Why, this was a beast lashing out, and he fought it because that's what he did but... Dislike? Hardly. This was what he'd wanted.
His lips curled, slightly, something between a smile and a grimace. As if he was saying: Nice Try without words.
He plunged the small, slim knife into his thigh, that choked grimace looked more a self satisfied smirk, under his bright red eyes.]