[ In this moment, it's all he can do. Words escape him; all he can think is that right now there's too much about Vasiliy that seems easy to lose — like this kind of confession might take him away somehow. He knows about dark confessions, how final they seem, feels the strange weight of that now.
But Vasiliy pulls back, looks at him, and he seems so— devastated, and afraid, and it's not the first time that Konstantin's seen him like that, but this is the first time he isn't... frozen, is speaking, words coming out in a flood. How long has he been carrying them inside...?
He listens. He hears what he says. hundreds of innocent people died because of me. thousands, probably. Konstantin knows what kind of atrocity this is, knows how severe, how horrible, but—
—all he can really see is Vasiliy. What does that say about him? His own selfishness? That the bulk of his concern and horror and fear right now is for Vasiliy, not of him? Vasiliy's his, and he wants to protect and keep what's his; he can't possibly think any differently. Maybe he himself truly is a horrible person.
(But he can't think it's horrible, to want to protect and keep this man. Not Vasiliy.)
'After I died, I didn't stay dead. I came back.'
Konstantin stares as he listens to those words, and maybe they truly should be unbelievable but he can't doubt them. Not after everything he's seen and encountered, and— he's always known there's something wrong with Vasya, hasn't he? He's good at compartmentalising what's wrong, at pretending it's not there, but from that very first night when he'd woken up in his bed and realised the horror inside of him came out but didn't touch Vasiliy, that something was wrong with him. The creature knows, it's sensitive, it can tell when something has disease within it, sickness. It can tell when something's wrong.
It's the fissure that splits Vasiliy's words, crumbling inwards to a soft, wounded sob, that has Konstantin reaching for him again — hands lifting to find Vasiliy's wet face. His grasp is hard, firm, fingers slipping into his hair, thumbs pressing against his cheeks. He holds onto him. (What is he? This place can clearly bring people back, but this place is... different, supernatural, strange. Vasiliy came back before here. What is he?) ]
Vasya. It's okay. It's okay. It should have been you. I'm glad it's you. If it wasn't you... I'd be dead now. You saved me here— you saved my life.
[ Yes, it's wholly selfish to think that because Vasiliy came back there, he was then able to save Konstantin's life here. But it isn't just that, it's... ]
I don't care what you've done. I only care about you.
[ It's not that he doesn't care about all of those lives, it's horrifying, haunting, but.... this is blunt honesty, unfiltered, not made pretty, or palatable. His own words are maybe just as horrific, but they're his truth. Konstantin swallows hard, his own eyes wet, holding contact with the soft mink brown pair inches away from his own. ]
There's nothing you could have done that would make me see you differently.
[ He knows that fear. Still feels it sometimes, even though Vasiliy's already accepted every horrible part of him. ]
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But Vasiliy pulls back, looks at him, and he seems so— devastated, and afraid, and it's not the first time that Konstantin's seen him like that, but this is the first time he isn't... frozen, is speaking, words coming out in a flood. How long has he been carrying them inside...?
He listens. He hears what he says. hundreds of innocent people died because of me. thousands, probably. Konstantin knows what kind of atrocity this is, knows how severe, how horrible, but—
—all he can really see is Vasiliy. What does that say about him? His own selfishness? That the bulk of his concern and horror and fear right now is for Vasiliy, not of him? Vasiliy's his, and he wants to protect and keep what's his; he can't possibly think any differently. Maybe he himself truly is a horrible person.
(But he can't think it's horrible, to want to protect and keep this man. Not Vasiliy.)
'After I died, I didn't stay dead. I came back.'
Konstantin stares as he listens to those words, and maybe they truly should be unbelievable but he can't doubt them. Not after everything he's seen and encountered, and— he's always known there's something wrong with Vasya, hasn't he? He's good at compartmentalising what's wrong, at pretending it's not there, but from that very first night when he'd woken up in his bed and realised the horror inside of him came out but didn't touch Vasiliy, that something was wrong with him. The creature knows, it's sensitive, it can tell when something has disease within it, sickness. It can tell when something's wrong.
It's the fissure that splits Vasiliy's words, crumbling inwards to a soft, wounded sob, that has Konstantin reaching for him again — hands lifting to find Vasiliy's wet face. His grasp is hard, firm, fingers slipping into his hair, thumbs pressing against his cheeks. He holds onto him. (What is he? This place can clearly bring people back, but this place is... different, supernatural, strange. Vasiliy came back before here. What is he?) ]
Vasya. It's okay. It's okay. It should have been you. I'm glad it's you. If it wasn't you... I'd be dead now. You saved me here— you saved my life.
[ Yes, it's wholly selfish to think that because Vasiliy came back there, he was then able to save Konstantin's life here. But it isn't just that, it's... ]
I don't care what you've done. I only care about you.
[ It's not that he doesn't care about all of those lives, it's horrifying, haunting, but.... this is blunt honesty, unfiltered, not made pretty, or palatable. His own words are maybe just as horrific, but they're his truth. Konstantin swallows hard, his own eyes wet, holding contact with the soft mink brown pair inches away from his own. ]
There's nothing you could have done that would make me see you differently.
[ He knows that fear. Still feels it sometimes, even though Vasiliy's already accepted every horrible part of him. ]