maltesefalcon | Pumpkin Hollow Inbox

"What good will that do, throwing your life away for a lost cause? Whose life is bettered by your death a second time?"

It bursts from him suddenly in a fit of anguish; he drops his head into his hands, at a complete loss. It seems a dreadful waste to him, the sort of waste of life he's seen too often already, and it hits too hard and too close. "But of course you don't know what will be there. I shouldn't... oh, damn it."

"It's not really about whose life is bettered, John. It's that I don't deserve a happily-ever-after with you. I need to face what's coming to me, it's not right that I should get away."

Saying the quiet part aloud? Maybe a little.

That's worrying, and a shade too fatalistic for his liking.

"Good men die and evil men live all the time. You'll choose what you feel is right, of course," it hurts to say that but John keeps his head high through it, he will not play the game of demanding to take precedence, "but there aren't enough good men around for them to sacrifice themselves purposelessly, no matter how much they think they might deserve it." His voice is soft. "I've seen too much of that. Just... think of that. Please."

“John…” he doesn’t really know what he should say next, what he can say next. All he knows is that he is torn between his future and the lovely present he has been very much enjoying.

“I’m flattered that you think I’m a good man.”

"Of course you are." This is not something to debate, in his mind. "If I thought otherwise, I wouldn't be spending all my spare time with you."

He rubs his face, tired, then reaches over to squeeze Cerrit's knee. "Unless you think me a complete fool, my opinion should count for something, surely."

Cerrit is quiet, in a soft almost sulky way, but then nods slightly. Having this conversation, laying everything out so explicitly, it all hurts. He knew his peace was only temporary, but now John's aware of it to, and that's going to change things, inevitably.

John's silent for a long time, too. He could choose to end things with Cerrit here and now. It would be perfectly understandable if he did so. It might, in fact, even be a good idea to do so.

He can't.

He lays his head against Cerrit's shoulder from the side, and sighs.

And Cerrit can't help but ho--not just hold, no. Cerrit grabs John almost possessively, saying with body language what he can't manage aloud, demonstrating the desperation he feels. John would be his happiest ending, but he is torn between clinging and this rotten view of his role in the whole fucking Calamity.

It feels like a release of tension, and it's a relief. He seizes Cerrit with just as much desperation, one handful of feathers and another of cloth. John wishes, vaguely, that he could properly kiss Cerrit; this moment seems to need it. Instead, he buries his face in Cerrit's neck.

Uncharacteristically, Cerrit allows his claws to pierce cloth, to sit against skin boldly as he holds John close.

"I love you. Nothing of that is any less true than it's been."

It thrills him in a way akin to a blade against skin, and while this might ruin this shirt he can't seem to care very much about it. It's an acceptable sacrifice. Had he doubted Cerrit loved him? Maybe. Briefly. A small amount. It's good to hear aloud. That Cerrit did love him made it hurt all the more.

"I love you, too," John says fiercely. "I want you in my life, however this ends."

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