[Truthfully, as thoroughly as he's absorbed Mista's doctrine of numbers, he can't remember it right now. It's one of those things that he clings to in moments of crisis, of self-doubt, as a hook to hang his fears and his failures upon.]
[This isn't a crisis. Not anymore. He has no doubt at all — not even doubt in himself, strange as it is, because suddenly everything is falling into place. Crooked, sideways, not-perfectly-aligned place. And that's okay. They don't have to match up perfectly. That's what he told himself, and that seems to be the truth.]
[Fugo will believe him. Not can, will. Belief is a choice that Fugo is making for him right now, to trust in him and put his whole heart in his hands. At the same time, he will make Fugo's warm long-fingered hands the vessel for his own heart. They'll be even, in a way, but that doesn't make it any less dangerous for either of them. This isn't even close to being a quid pro quo arrangement. This is . . .]
Thank you.
[His voice is quiet. Soft and almost pained with all the feeling he's still holding back, despite everything, because it feels as though pouring more emotion into this moment might fill it overfull, shatter it into a billion pieces that neither of them would have any hope of gluing back together.]
[They would try, though, he thinks. Together, they would at the very least make an effort.]
Thank you, Fugo. That's all I want. The rest of it is— [Carefully, slowly, watching Fugo's face the whole time, he shifts their hands so his fingers twine with Fugo's. So they're not so easy to separate from one another.] It's up to you. In your own time.
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[This isn't a crisis. Not anymore. He has no doubt at all — not even doubt in himself, strange as it is, because suddenly everything is falling into place. Crooked, sideways, not-perfectly-aligned place. And that's okay. They don't have to match up perfectly. That's what he told himself, and that seems to be the truth.]
[Fugo will believe him. Not can, will. Belief is a choice that Fugo is making for him right now, to trust in him and put his whole heart in his hands. At the same time, he will make Fugo's warm long-fingered hands the vessel for his own heart. They'll be even, in a way, but that doesn't make it any less dangerous for either of them. This isn't even close to being a quid pro quo arrangement. This is . . .]
Thank you.
[His voice is quiet. Soft and almost pained with all the feeling he's still holding back, despite everything, because it feels as though pouring more emotion into this moment might fill it overfull, shatter it into a billion pieces that neither of them would have any hope of gluing back together.]
[They would try, though, he thinks. Together, they would at the very least make an effort.]
Thank you, Fugo. That's all I want. The rest of it is— [Carefully, slowly, watching Fugo's face the whole time, he shifts their hands so his fingers twine with Fugo's. So they're not so easy to separate from one another.] It's up to you. In your own time.