[ It's some unspoken, blind display of trust β that the other man will be able to support him, that he won't urge him away. Peter can't recall ever having been held by Will before; have they ever even had a conversation that lasted longer than a few moments? They simply haven't been involved in each other's lives, and after the accident, a natural wall that had already formed simply stayed put, perhaps even thickened as both of them became more closed off to everything.
Therefore, being held by him now feels appropriately foreign in its way, but Peter stays where he is, needing someone's arms round him, someone solid and real β or, real-feeling. All of it could be false, a figment of his own mind. He quivers with fear of that uncertainty, the one he's just voiced aloud to his cousin, butβ Will's arms are around him, and the words absorb inwardsβ
'This is real, Peter. I promise. I'm-- experiencing this too. With you.'
The words of reassurance somehow feel like a thumb pressing upon the bruise in his chest; they ache as much as they soothe, something poignant that steals his breath for a moment or two. He's reminded of the fact he really is so very alone, anβ orphan, cast into some unknown, filled with some unknown. He feels the loss of his family, of his home, and of himself. Peter shuts his eyes as he presses himself up against Will, hears what he's saying β additions to the promise that this is real, that he can ask, that he can share.
In his childlike spell of crumbling inwards, Peter almost could voice to the only person he has left what's truly at the soul of this: a curse upon him somehow, the strange events and dreams, the hellfire burning under his skin. Peter knows, even if he doesn't know the intricacies to it, that some sort of demon has gotten him. He's heard it, felt it. It's even spoken to him before, it's taken hold of him.
'You can talk to me about it. I won't tell anyone else.' ]
I'mβ ill, cousin. [ He's trying to gather himself, swallowing hard, voice shaking around the edges. ] I'm not well. It may be God's punishment, if there is... a God. Perhaps I was meant to die with them.
[ He pauses, feeling hollowed out with those words. It's the first time he's openly addressed the accident, addressed... their mutual loss. ]
There's something wrong with meβ! The ailment.. the ailment leads me to do strange things, to... wander, to become lost. It steals my body.
[ All of that is true. He's simply leaving out the supernatural aspect of it β and it isn't easy to, for Peter finds that everything in him longs to... tell someone, to share it, to voice it, what he's been keeping swallowed down and carrying on his own.
But he can't.
He can't.
...And with that awareness, Peter stiffens suddenly. He doesn't wrench backwards, but moves slowly β letting go of Will, his fingers slowly uncurling from where they've been tightly held on to his clothing. If he hangs on, lets himself continue to be small and held, he might divulge too much. He has to pull away. He does, enough to create a fair bit of space between them, the chilly wind immediately felt after the break of warm body contact. ]
I shouldn't be close to you. It's notβ contagious, but it's hardly pleasant for others around. I shouldn't... [ The word stammers, catches in his throat, apologetic. ] You should leave me here.
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Therefore, being held by him now feels appropriately foreign in its way, but Peter stays where he is, needing someone's arms round him, someone solid and real β or, real-feeling. All of it could be false, a figment of his own mind. He quivers with fear of that uncertainty, the one he's just voiced aloud to his cousin, butβ Will's arms are around him, and the words absorb inwardsβ
'This is real, Peter. I promise. I'm-- experiencing this too. With you.'
The words of reassurance somehow feel like a thumb pressing upon the bruise in his chest; they ache as much as they soothe, something poignant that steals his breath for a moment or two. He's reminded of the fact he really is so very alone, anβ orphan, cast into some unknown, filled with some unknown. He feels the loss of his family, of his home, and of himself. Peter shuts his eyes as he presses himself up against Will, hears what he's saying β additions to the promise that this is real, that he can ask, that he can share.
In his childlike spell of crumbling inwards, Peter almost could voice to the only person he has left what's truly at the soul of this: a curse upon him somehow, the strange events and dreams, the hellfire burning under his skin. Peter knows, even if he doesn't know the intricacies to it, that some sort of demon has gotten him. He's heard it, felt it. It's even spoken to him before, it's taken hold of him.
'You can talk to me about it. I won't tell anyone else.' ]
I'mβ ill, cousin. [ He's trying to gather himself, swallowing hard, voice shaking around the edges. ] I'm not well. It may be God's punishment, if there is... a God. Perhaps I was meant to die with them.
[ He pauses, feeling hollowed out with those words. It's the first time he's openly addressed the accident, addressed... their mutual loss. ]
There's something wrong with meβ! The ailment.. the ailment leads me to do strange things, to... wander, to become lost. It steals my body.
[ All of that is true. He's simply leaving out the supernatural aspect of it β and it isn't easy to, for Peter finds that everything in him longs to... tell someone, to share it, to voice it, what he's been keeping swallowed down and carrying on his own.
But he can't.
He can't.
...And with that awareness, Peter stiffens suddenly. He doesn't wrench backwards, but moves slowly β letting go of Will, his fingers slowly uncurling from where they've been tightly held on to his clothing. If he hangs on, lets himself continue to be small and held, he might divulge too much. He has to pull away. He does, enough to create a fair bit of space between them, the chilly wind immediately felt after the break of warm body contact. ]
I shouldn't be close to you. It's notβ contagious, but it's hardly pleasant for others around. I shouldn't... [ The word stammers, catches in his throat, apologetic. ] You should leave me here.