[ Michel's chest is heaving with sharp, desperate breaths. His usual stoicism is all but in tatters now; the fury in his eyes, though, is cold. He stares at Ganymede unmoving as the revulsion and shame root him in place.
He never wanted anyone to see that. He didn't want Ganymede to see that. Those tears, when Ganymede hadn't even cried for himself earlier, are pity salting a wound that never truly healed. He wants to take that back. He wants to run. If, even here, he can't become someone different... if he'll never leave behind the shadow of the frail child who cried and cowered and couldn't do a damned thing— ]
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He never wanted anyone to see that. He didn't want Ganymede to see that. Those tears, when Ganymede hadn't even cried for himself earlier, are pity salting a wound that never truly healed. He wants to take that back. He wants to run. If, even here, he can't become someone different... if he'll never leave behind the shadow of the frail child who cried and cowered and couldn't do a damned thing— ]