Roland's expression goes sour, disappointed, but certainly not with Firo. "You'd think I would."
He tilts his head back, watches the ceiling, closes his eyes to better hear the Tower, that chorus of whispers on the edge of hearing, the murmuring of a thousand... a thousand somethings. Someones. Echoes, maybe. The thought strikes him - and it might not have, were he not in this state, but he is and it strikes him - that his own, now, might be one of them. A moan starts up again in his throat and again he stops it, he forces his eyes open, he shudders and stretches his fingers out, feeling around with them, trying to figure out if Firo's hand is nearby. It is, and right under his. He takes a deep breath.
"But it will, won't it?" he murmurs, his voice quiet with resignation, slow and ashamed. "Of course it will."
"Only remind me of the here and now, Firo. Whatever that happens to be. I don't care how. Talk about it. Keep touch with me somehow. I'll come back to you. It's a sinkhole in my mind - suppose it always has been, in one way or another - but there's nowhere for it to pull me under to. Only wait. Don't let me forget about you."
He shrugs, the movement quick and jerking, the irritation that's been creeping into his voice making its way now onto his face, too. "I don't know. I only dealt with men like this briefly, years and years ago. During the war. New Canaan's war, that is. I don't know how to- how to live it."
"There's no need to apologize for hitting me, either." His gaze has moved, thankfully, back to Firo's face. The only safe spot in the room to look. "If you feel like you need to hit me, do it. I trust your judgement."
The words may be born from Roland's irritation and his need for some place to direct it, but he means it, anyway, means it so much that the last sentence almost sounds dismissive. It's an afterthought, something he feels he barely needs to say. Of course he trusts that.
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He tilts his head back, watches the ceiling, closes his eyes to better hear the Tower, that chorus of whispers on the edge of hearing, the murmuring of a thousand... a thousand somethings. Someones. Echoes, maybe. The thought strikes him - and it might not have, were he not in this state, but he is and it strikes him - that his own, now, might be one of them. A moan starts up again in his throat and again he stops it, he forces his eyes open, he shudders and stretches his fingers out, feeling around with them, trying to figure out if Firo's hand is nearby. It is, and right under his. He takes a deep breath.
"But it will, won't it?" he murmurs, his voice quiet with resignation, slow and ashamed. "Of course it will."
"Only remind me of the here and now, Firo. Whatever that happens to be. I don't care how. Talk about it. Keep touch with me somehow. I'll come back to you. It's a sinkhole in my mind - suppose it always has been, in one way or another - but there's nowhere for it to pull me under to. Only wait. Don't let me forget about you."
He shrugs, the movement quick and jerking, the irritation that's been creeping into his voice making its way now onto his face, too. "I don't know. I only dealt with men like this briefly, years and years ago. During the war. New Canaan's war, that is. I don't know how to- how to live it."
"There's no need to apologize for hitting me, either." His gaze has moved, thankfully, back to Firo's face. The only safe spot in the room to look. "If you feel like you need to hit me, do it. I trust your judgement."
The words may be born from Roland's irritation and his need for some place to direct it, but he means it, anyway, means it so much that the last sentence almost sounds dismissive. It's an afterthought, something he feels he barely needs to say. Of course he trusts that.