( He presses a kiss against Ish's ear, as he pulls back, teardrops hanging from his eyelashes. )
... When we're less busy... I'd like to hear you say that again, when we're a little less dressed.
( He's gonna pavlov Ish into associating the kisses just by his ear with horny if it's the last thing he does,
This might be the most forward he's been in that regard (maybe), and perhaps it's right that it happens when he's being particularly erratic in every direction, every emotion that torments him on the daily now in overflow.
They might have enjoyed this a little more if they set aside the time to pursue that flirtation instead of proceed with Hwylryn's plan, but this is not yet their time, despite Hwylryn's continued best efforts.
For all he's made of tears, Hwylryn doesn't cry from pain. He's used to it, he says easily, as he carves off portions of himself with a poor hand, not at all used to using a knife. He picks up one of the largest knives in the pile, seeking efficiency and brutality - he hisses at times and sucks in his breath, but, at some point, he begins to talk through it, as if bored with what he's doing.
He sits with Ish, as if this were a bit of pillowtalk, and carves off pieces of himself, and talks vaguely of his travels; of the things he's seen, the people he's met; he asks him where they might go, where this is all over; he asks him what it's like.
He does cry when carving himself, sometimes - recollecting something sad; thinking of the friends he'll lose. Sometimes he laughs, recalling Gwawlyn - fights they'd had, and the way they'd curl up in their den, licking each other's wounds.
The more he bleeds the heavier his breathing gets, and his telling is a little more dizzied. He's losing a lot of blood, but he's pretty sure this much won't kill him; and it hurts a lot, even through the second dose of painkillers he used, it stings; but not so much as Ish's nails in his heart, he says, and not so hotly.
This pain is okay. He says he's even happy for it, since it's a step closer to a future with Ish (at some point, after some swing, he seems a little afraid to include Junior, like he's scared Junior's going to hate him too, after this).
The grass behind the hut is red, red, red, and there's knives abound, pushed haphazard to the side once they were no longer needed. And Hwylryn finally drops his final knife into the pile, the discarded skin pushed up into a separate pile, his skin aching and pulsing and stinging and hurt. )
Ahh . . . Is the reason there's no fire in the castle because you don't like it? ( He wiggles his fingers - ah, that draws on muscles that run into his wrist on one hand, and that stings! He laughs. ) I guess I'll just leave the skin around. There's only so many places to hide things outside the sea . . .
( Half-sitting on his loose legs, he's left wearing the long, white slip he usually wears as his lowest layer, though it's been rolled up to expose his thigh - he had to gash up a bruise G'raha left there. Much of the white's blotted through with red - from his stomach, and chest (though this slip dips low at the chest for precisely this purpose, the straps thin and stringy, so it's more stained at the edges.), and wherever his arms brush against it, which sometimes earns a bodily cringe. The rest of his clothes he had to discard by the knives.
Well, it's fine. It's just a day or so of pain. He's dealt with worse for much longer with Gwawlyn. )
cw: self mutilation
I'd like that.
( He presses a kiss against Ish's ear, as he pulls back, teardrops hanging from his eyelashes. )
... When we're less busy... I'd like to hear you say that again, when we're a little less dressed.
( He's gonna pavlov Ish into associating the kisses just by his ear with horny if it's the last thing he does,
This might be the most forward he's been in that regard (maybe), and perhaps it's right that it happens when he's being particularly erratic in every direction, every emotion that torments him on the daily now in overflow.
They might have enjoyed this a little more if they set aside the time to pursue that flirtation instead of proceed with Hwylryn's plan, but this is not yet their time, despite Hwylryn's continued best efforts.
For all he's made of tears, Hwylryn doesn't cry from pain. He's used to it, he says easily, as he carves off portions of himself with a poor hand, not at all used to using a knife. He picks up one of the largest knives in the pile, seeking efficiency and brutality - he hisses at times and sucks in his breath, but, at some point, he begins to talk through it, as if bored with what he's doing.
He sits with Ish, as if this were a bit of pillowtalk, and carves off pieces of himself, and talks vaguely of his travels; of the things he's seen, the people he's met; he asks him where they might go, where this is all over; he asks him what it's like.
He does cry when carving himself, sometimes - recollecting something sad; thinking of the friends he'll lose. Sometimes he laughs, recalling Gwawlyn - fights they'd had, and the way they'd curl up in their den, licking each other's wounds.
The more he bleeds the heavier his breathing gets, and his telling is a little more dizzied. He's losing a lot of blood, but he's pretty sure this much won't kill him; and it hurts a lot, even through the second dose of painkillers he used, it stings; but not so much as Ish's nails in his heart, he says, and not so hotly.
This pain is okay. He says he's even happy for it, since it's a step closer to a future with Ish (at some point, after some swing, he seems a little afraid to include Junior, like he's scared Junior's going to hate him too, after this).
The grass behind the hut is red, red, red, and there's knives abound, pushed haphazard to the side once they were no longer needed. And Hwylryn finally drops his final knife into the pile, the discarded skin pushed up into a separate pile, his skin aching and pulsing and stinging and hurt. )
Ahh . . . Is the reason there's no fire in the castle because you don't like it? ( He wiggles his fingers - ah, that draws on muscles that run into his wrist on one hand, and that stings! He laughs. ) I guess I'll just leave the skin around. There's only so many places to hide things outside the sea . . .
( Half-sitting on his loose legs, he's left wearing the long, white slip he usually wears as his lowest layer, though it's been rolled up to expose his thigh - he had to gash up a bruise G'raha left there. Much of the white's blotted through with red - from his stomach, and chest (though this slip dips low at the chest for precisely this purpose, the straps thin and stringy, so it's more stained at the edges.), and wherever his arms brush against it, which sometimes earns a bodily cringe. The rest of his clothes he had to discard by the knives.
Well, it's fine. It's just a day or so of pain. He's dealt with worse for much longer with Gwawlyn. )