Warnings: Angst. Violence.
Word Count: 592.
Characters: Albedo, Nigredo. Albedo POV.
Notes: Prompt from psyches: "victima propiciatoria" (Spanish for propitiatory victim). Also. Vague is a fun, fun tool.
Summary: From actions to reactions, what's done is done--no words can cancel the act.
There was something purely frustrating about someone's mouth moving as you were trying to hit it. On a good hit, spittle went flying in a distasteful display; lips working in a drone over the choking. Worse hits would connect full on--teeth scraping over knuckled bone to grate the skin down to raw flesh, particles already working to replace what was lost. For one of them. The other would bleed and bruise, and mumble unintelligibly in a constant buzz.
Annoying, the bees flitting around his head. Irritating, the consistent murmuring. The other could not heal as he could, but could speak, slighted as it was, and could continue the next day. He, on the other hand, could not.
The capability to move forward and heal were not his, not internally. There was no moving on, past these places frozen in time. The wounds gaped inside, rotting his soul. The flesh on his hand was whole again, but he could never say the same.
Some form of silence had descended , the two forms slumped against each other and breathing heavily, so much that it was hard to determine the victim. The darker half's eyes were closed, lips still moving wordlessly. Chest heaving, the other watched, seeing the words he wouldn't allow himself to hear.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry--"
A graceless widening of his eyes, a distinct and familiar shudder working its way down his spine. The words slid away from his mind; meaningless, forgotten, unknown. Something in him denying the sentiment; something in him denying his worth, unable to accept the words.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry Rubedo left."
There was something effortless in the collapse, something comforting in the broken and bloody body beneath him. Air, on the intake, was relaxingly metallic and warm--quietly fading was the scent of humid air and sun-kissed leaves, something sweet persisting in the undertones, something that tasted like sugar and decay in his mouth.
Perhaps it wasn't strange that he found comfort in blood. It was life, and its flow signified alive--it was when it ceased, when the forms were motionless, that something else slipped in, tearing at the parts of him that called for comfort. Those pieces were so tattered now.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
A throat had somewhat cleared, a cough of bubbled blood canceling out the gurgle. The head in his lap, that he was bent over, moved, and shifted, making the words better heard. The other's lips moved, and he found no irritation this time. Nothing but a soft emptiness quietly breaking, nothing but a cool solitude losing the last bits of warmth. He leaned over more, form crumbling; tears slipping onto those still-moving lips.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry--"
The words trailed off, the murmur dulling, dimming down, for the second time. His arms curled around the prone form, pulling the other closer in a tight hold. 'Embrace', was not an accurate word. This was a forceful grasp, hands squeezing flesh as if to join the bodies like he couldn't the souls. The other winced, head shifting towards the shivering source of warmth near-by, eyes squinted shut against the drip of tears not their own. A breath. Words slipped out, solid and stable as a butterfly's wings.
Violet eyes widened; his intake of breath a cry. His body quivered, then stilled; eyes finally closing as he rested his forehead against blood-flecked lips. His voice was hoarse and high, the words somehow a declaration.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."