( In this moment, Jack doesn't feel like a god. Maybe he never really does on a normal day, but he especially doesn't now. He feels all of twenty-something years old again, with a missing finger and a missing leg, lost and terrified and absolutely overflowing with a constant stream of guilt that threatens to drown him. And Kyle doesn't feel like a god to him either; he feels breakable, he feels entirely too easily to hurt, to bruise, to burn. It feels like a box cutter in a bedroom several lifetimes ago.
There is blood on his hands, he's not sure if it's Kyle's or his own or someone else's, and it causes his palms to slide when they shift to Kyle's face, to his jaw, framing ears with his thumbs. Their foreheads touch, but it doesn't feel like enough. )
I-
( He wants to say something, but the combination of words it would take to express the guilt and shame he feels, the relief that Kyle's okay, the desperation that's starting to churn in him; please don't leave me for this, please don't leave me because I did this — it's all too much to fit into his mouth. He chokes on it.
He can't say it all, he wants to say it all, and the signals all fire in his brain at once, and he can't, so instead he presses his mouth to Kyle's mouth in a way that is less a kiss and more a telegraphed declaration lacking finesse, lacking anything but an onslaught of feeling. )
[ The crush of his lips overwhelms him, his hands reflexively gripping tight around Jack's thin arms, fingers digging in. In in his delirium it's deeper hurts suddenly dredged up faster than he can bury them again, the sudden remembrance of the last man he'd kissed and that life together, the way it had fallen apart in the end.
It's too much to hurt like this, in both body and spirit. But this isn't Viktor (isn't John).
It's Jack's lips pressed against his own. Jack who he loves as a friend, and once long ago more than that, a desperate plea behind his kiss that Kyle can only answer by feverishly returning it with a mouth that still tastes of blood from the cursed things that had torn their way out of him. His fingertips and palms leave dark red streaks across Jack's shirt as he pulls him closer, starving for every point of physical contact, even when it hurts. ]
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There is blood on his hands, he's not sure if it's Kyle's or his own or someone else's, and it causes his palms to slide when they shift to Kyle's face, to his jaw, framing ears with his thumbs. Their foreheads touch, but it doesn't feel like enough. )
I-
( He wants to say something, but the combination of words it would take to express the guilt and shame he feels, the relief that Kyle's okay, the desperation that's starting to churn in him; please don't leave me for this, please don't leave me because I did this — it's all too much to fit into his mouth. He chokes on it.
He can't say it all, he wants to say it all, and the signals all fire in his brain at once, and he can't, so instead he presses his mouth to Kyle's mouth in a way that is less a kiss and more a telegraphed declaration lacking finesse, lacking anything but an onslaught of feeling. )
no subject
It's too much to hurt like this, in both body and spirit. But this isn't Viktor (isn't John).
It's Jack's lips pressed against his own. Jack who he loves as a friend, and once long ago more than that, a desperate plea behind his kiss that Kyle can only answer by feverishly returning it with a mouth that still tastes of blood from the cursed things that had torn their way out of him. His fingertips and palms leave dark red streaks across Jack's shirt as he pulls him closer, starving for every point of physical contact, even when it hurts. ]