[ it wouldn't be terribly shocking if neither man heard another set of footsteps entering the shrine, the approach of an interloper in a place that is hauntingly quiet save for the rhythmic impact of fist upon its fleshy target. it rings out again... and again... and again, like some sickening heartbeat defiling this sacred space.
there is no warning, but who would heed it if one had come? surely not the young man whose entire world is painted in a bloody, frothing red the same color as the blood spilling in front of him each time his fist meets its mark. surely not the man who may not even be cognizant any longer, laid out upon the floor and body become little more than a glorified punching bag. one moment, a man crosses the shrine entrance--
--and the next, the back of Gen's shirt is balled up and seized, a single jerk wrenching him with impressive momentum to send him hurdling backward and deeper from the shrine, and - most importantly - away from his would-be casualty. ]
--Dokja, [ Abel calls hoarsely; he is already sinking to kneel down beside the barely recognizable idiot whose every painful breath makes the priest's chest ache as though he could feel it himself. blue eyes desperately and imploringly search for the quality of Dokja's vitals - the rise and fall of his chest, any recognition in his gaze, if he's even conscious at all, and...
it's enough to make his stomach clench, turn with a terrible and visceral twist. no... no; no no no. this man can't-- ]
...Dokja. [ firmer, this time: ] Dokja, hey-- please stay with me. Can you hear me...?
[ god damnit. ...god damnit. Abel had said the words again and again, hadn't he? words of ill omens, a prophecy of what was to come. he had seen it in that boy's gaze - the warning signs, the glaring, too-bright flash of danger, of desperation, a churn of something unhinged, a poison that had been eating away at Gen long before the Kenoma had gotten its hands on any of them. not because this boy was inherently prone to do wrong by others - but because wrong had been done to him, and he is drowning in that vitriol. he speaks the only language he's ever known: pain. it hurts, so he makes everyone else hurt... including himself.
dangerous.
just as dangerous as the man whose laborious breathing belies he yet clings to his miserable life, but no less tragic. why...? just earlier today, the sound of that laughter had been everything. and now...
...Abel casts his gaze over his shoulder and toward the young Lover, a wariness warring with the fearful, plaintive sit of concern. Gen was... he was going to kill Dokja, wasn't he? Gen really was... he would've, he might've already, it's...
this-- this has gone so very, very wrong.
and none of them should be here. none of this ever, ever should've happened. ]
no subject
there is no warning, but who would heed it if one had come? surely not the young man whose entire world is painted in a bloody, frothing red the same color as the blood spilling in front of him each time his fist meets its mark. surely not the man who may not even be cognizant any longer, laid out upon the floor and body become little more than a glorified punching bag. one moment, a man crosses the shrine entrance--
--and the next, the back of Gen's shirt is balled up and seized, a single jerk wrenching him with impressive momentum to send him hurdling backward and deeper from the shrine, and - most importantly - away from his would-be casualty. ]
--Dokja, [ Abel calls hoarsely; he is already sinking to kneel down beside the barely recognizable idiot whose every painful breath makes the priest's chest ache as though he could feel it himself. blue eyes desperately and imploringly search for the quality of Dokja's vitals - the rise and fall of his chest, any recognition in his gaze, if he's even conscious at all, and...
it's enough to make his stomach clench, turn with a terrible and visceral twist. no... no; no no no. this man can't-- ]
...Dokja. [ firmer, this time: ] Dokja, hey-- please stay with me. Can you hear me...?
[ god damnit. ...god damnit. Abel had said the words again and again, hadn't he? words of ill omens, a prophecy of what was to come. he had seen it in that boy's gaze - the warning signs, the glaring, too-bright flash of danger, of desperation, a churn of something unhinged, a poison that had been eating away at Gen long before the Kenoma had gotten its hands on any of them. not because this boy was inherently prone to do wrong by others - but because wrong had been done to him, and he is drowning in that vitriol. he speaks the only language he's ever known: pain. it hurts, so he makes everyone else hurt... including himself.
dangerous.
just as dangerous as the man whose laborious breathing belies he yet clings to his miserable life, but no less tragic. why...? just earlier today, the sound of that laughter had been everything. and now...
...Abel casts his gaze over his shoulder and toward the young Lover, a wariness warring with the fearful, plaintive sit of concern. Gen was... he was going to kill Dokja, wasn't he? Gen really was... he would've, he might've already, it's...
this-- this has gone so very, very wrong.
and none of them should be here. none of this ever, ever should've happened. ]