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Feb 23, 2020 6:49 PM
magical girl drug addict cato and jean
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A sigh; a moan; and reaching out for the light again.

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The ache remains. The other one has receded – there's a rapidly fading glow of something like satisfaction.

Curiosity and guilt and fear are all laced together with the slightest whisper of affection and arousal, half covered already.

 

(There's a creeping terror behind it all, a feeling of sick exposure, of vulnerability, nakedness.)

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"It's all broken," he sighs, tucking his face into Valentine's elbow, "and I don't know how to fix it."

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"In what way?"

It all goes very still in his vision. There's just a slight, electric hum, the sound of numbness, a held breath capturing panic and quieting it.

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“Tried to make it happy but it only drowned...”

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Blind, screaming panic – sickness – violation – 

 

"...I think I'm going to have to step away for a moment. I apologize, it's not the best time –"

He makes an attempt to stand.

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He fails to keep in the sickening wave of pain-grief-guilt-self-loathing, at that; slides down onto the floor, curling up tightly into a ball. 

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...well. That's familiar.

He takes a deep breath, sits slowly back down.

(Everything folds up smaller and smaller, disappearing by halves, calmed and canceled.)

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"Starved and withered."

He rests his head on his folded arms.

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"...so." 

 

"You can see."

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There are quiet, ragged breaths, silent sobs, from behind the couch.

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"Sorry -- sorry, I'm sorry..."

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"It's not your fault. I should have guessed it was a possibility."

He takes a deep breath. (Calm, calm, a tiny drop of tranquility stretched to an ocean and drowning all the rest.)

"Can you see anyone else?"

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He looks, for a minute, before shaking his head.

"Sun, no moon."

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He nods.

(Grim determination, joining the calm, blanketing everything else, weighing it down.)

"We'll have to keep our attention on that."

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"Not good anymore."
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"...oh?"

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"I'm not. Good anymore."

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“...I would hardly say that.”

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"You're not pleased with me."

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“I am...not fond of having my mind read.”

This is a vast understatement.

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"Not good."

He curls up smaller.

"Love all slipping away."

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He sighs, and strokes his hair, still immersed and forced still inside.

"I would not recommend my affections to anyone, in any case."

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It feels so good, just to be touched -- but it's wrong, too, raising his hackles; Valentine's touching him, but Valentine's not here.

"Cato should take me away so you can come back."

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“...‘come back’?”

There’s a glimpse of something — the surface shining like a mirror above the calm, the looming shape of fear, the promised relief of breathing.

(Behind the ocean, curiosity — disbelief — trepidation — a flicker of warmth that’s quashed the moment it appears.)

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