[ That he does, unkind words and severe questions both.
None burn more hotly in his brain than the incredulous demand to know by what right Gale thinks he can offer him anything.
Godfrey makes no effort to hide his distaste; his knotted brow pulls just a little tighter, his shoulders fall in a slow and silent exhalation, something distasteful twisting his mouth into a brief ripple of a frown. Biceps swell in his sleeves as his hands pull into cutting fists behind his back. You must have questions - as though Gale had left him with anything else. As if this empty room to scream in were a grand gift to Godfrey, some final and redemptive gesture of love from a reticent adulterer. As though they could reflect away what Gale had done.
Questions without answer were all he'd had for the better part of these ten years. He'd abandoned his life and all he had ever loved for questions he could not answer, for ashes in his mouth and a man who had only ever sought his ruination. Each breath heaves his shoulders, hollows his collarbones. There was no answer Gale could provide to him that Godfrey had not already sought - but predictably, Gale cannot help himself. He must find some pedestal to stand on, even now, even if he must invent one.
He ought maintain his silence, of course. But he feels that heat setting in against the back of his eyes, and he feels the distance between himself and his own advice grow further and further. The words drop from him like stones. ]
no subject
None burn more hotly in his brain than the incredulous demand to know by what right Gale thinks he can offer him anything.
Godfrey makes no effort to hide his distaste; his knotted brow pulls just a little tighter, his shoulders fall in a slow and silent exhalation, something distasteful twisting his mouth into a brief ripple of a frown. Biceps swell in his sleeves as his hands pull into cutting fists behind his back. You must have questions - as though Gale had left him with anything else. As if this empty room to scream in were a grand gift to Godfrey, some final and redemptive gesture of love from a reticent adulterer. As though they could reflect away what Gale had done.
Questions without answer were all he'd had for the better part of these ten years. He'd abandoned his life and all he had ever loved for questions he could not answer, for ashes in his mouth and a man who had only ever sought his ruination. Each breath heaves his shoulders, hollows his collarbones. There was no answer Gale could provide to him that Godfrey had not already sought - but predictably, Gale cannot help himself. He must find some pedestal to stand on, even now, even if he must invent one.
He ought maintain his silence, of course. But he feels that heat setting in against the back of his eyes, and he feels the distance between himself and his own advice grow further and further. The words drop from him like stones. ]
How many times?