( he's not scared - not of Tim persay, not of someone he cares for deeply enough that he's here, facing him and admitting guilt instead of shoving his own death in his face. instead of trying to guilt him like it was ever even his fault to begin with. )
( he can't - he can't blame him. he's been hurt all his life. he can't blame him. )
Then what do I sa–
( the momentum of his words is lost mid-sentence however, the change in Tim's expression more than evident to him - he's always had an eye for it ( you've always doted on him ) and he releases his grip in time for the other's hands to reach for his head. and he could run, could hide from another fuckup but that's not the point anymore.
so he reaches for Tim's arms, pulling at him, trying to give him a shell of comfort despite the fact that his gesture operates more as the cage he knows Tim can't stand; yet he can't help it. he understands and, maybe out of commiseration more than actual ailment, he can briefly feel the pounding headache on the inside of his forehead; his knuckles grip a little tighter around Tim's arms. he grunts. )
Tim- Tim listen. I won't say it, I won't-- Tim! ( and it's awful, he knows (or he should at any rate); how he sounds so much more like himself all of a sudden. how, when Tim is hurting, Brian can't really focus on his own pain. he's a lucky sod next to the other man. if only he could shake that horror out of him, he would. ) Stay with me. Please, please- it's going to be okay.
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( he can't - he can't blame him. he's been hurt all his life. he can't blame him. )
Then what do I sa–
( the momentum of his words is lost mid-sentence however, the change in Tim's expression more than evident to him - he's always had an eye for it ( you've always doted on him ) and he releases his grip in time for the other's hands to reach for his head. and he could run, could hide from another fuckup but that's not the point anymore.
so he reaches for Tim's arms, pulling at him, trying to give him a shell of comfort despite the fact that his gesture operates more as the cage he knows Tim can't stand; yet he can't help it. he understands and, maybe out of commiseration more than actual ailment, he can briefly feel the pounding headache on the inside of his forehead; his knuckles grip a little tighter around Tim's arms. he grunts. )
Tim- Tim listen. I won't say it, I won't-- Tim! ( and it's awful, he knows (or he should at any rate); how he sounds so much more like himself all of a sudden. how, when Tim is hurting, Brian can't really focus on his own pain. he's a lucky sod next to the other man. if only he could shake that horror out of him, he would. ) Stay with me. Please, please- it's going to be okay.
( no it's not. you liar. )