felix stays steady over him, unmoving even as ephemera latches onto his wrist, asks him permission in a voice close to begging. like he's a kid again. gates was twenty-one when they met for the first time. ephemera was bigger than him even then, but he was still the baby, the youngest, took his punches and rolled with every single one thrown at him regardless of the odds. and he survived. out of everyone. little open book ephemera, the rookie, the kid gates used to sneak whiskey before he was old enough to drink. he made it to the end.
to his own detriment. the freelancers tore into him. felix has his scars, but despite the years spread between them, he's mostly physically unchanged, left intact, a mirror image of the man that left ephemera behind so long ago. fantastic genetics, he thinks again, dully. maybe it would've been better if he was unrecognizable. made the pain less raw. maybe ephemera wouldn't see gates as he stares up at felix now.
he shifts his weight over him, turning his wrist in his hand. his gun clatters to the concrete as his fingers twine with ephemera's. he guides ephemera's hand over his own throat, to feel felix's pulse, then leans down and presses their foreheads together. that's unfair, too. beyond cruel. felix isn't gates, but he'll pretend. )
No. ( softly. request denied. he strokes his thumb into his throat. no. he won't. not like this, not when he knows how that story ends, and ephemera can hate him for it. that's fine. he knows what to do with hatred. he can hate him more later when felix rips open the freelancers himself. )
no subject
felix stays steady over him, unmoving even as ephemera latches onto his wrist, asks him permission in a voice close to begging. like he's a kid again. gates was twenty-one when they met for the first time. ephemera was bigger than him even then, but he was still the baby, the youngest, took his punches and rolled with every single one thrown at him regardless of the odds. and he survived. out of everyone. little open book ephemera, the rookie, the kid gates used to sneak whiskey before he was old enough to drink. he made it to the end.
to his own detriment. the freelancers tore into him. felix has his scars, but despite the years spread between them, he's mostly physically unchanged, left intact, a mirror image of the man that left ephemera behind so long ago. fantastic genetics, he thinks again, dully. maybe it would've been better if he was unrecognizable. made the pain less raw. maybe ephemera wouldn't see gates as he stares up at felix now.
he shifts his weight over him, turning his wrist in his hand. his gun clatters to the concrete as his fingers twine with ephemera's. he guides ephemera's hand over his own throat, to feel felix's pulse, then leans down and presses their foreheads together. that's unfair, too. beyond cruel. felix isn't gates, but he'll pretend. )
No. ( softly. request denied. he strokes his thumb into his throat. no. he won't. not like this, not when he knows how that story ends, and ephemera can hate him for it. that's fine. he knows what to do with hatred. he can hate him more later when felix rips open the freelancers himself. )