Oh, Cassius thinks. It is that look again. The one filled with heavy thoughts. The one that seems to wear down on Doctor Hugh’s kindness and warmth, tugging it down, down, down into something more…
(Haunted.)
They don’t like me here.
Cassius takes a step closer, and then another and another until he is close enough to touch Doctor Hugh if he so desired. If Doctor Hugh had been his Hunter, Cassius would have already piled himself, molded himself to the grooves of their side in the way he knows would comfort them. Steady them. Anchor them before they could drift away.
(When his Hunter’s thoughts get heavy, when the weight seems to crush them, they hide themselves away from the world, deep within his garden, where he can comfort them in a way only he knows how.
They call it a weakness, his Hunter. They forget that it makes them human.)
Doctor Hugh, however, is not his Hunter, and no matter how much he may want to, Cassius restrains himself. Casts a glance to the window instead, where the rabbits wait with teeth and claws and round, round eyes taking Doctor Hugh in, in, in the way he knows his Hunter would not like.
It did a lot of damage to these people, Cassius.
I wasn’t always like this.
Just like his Hunter, Doctor Hugh. A monster made, not born. A soul without sound forced to bear the weight of a song. A person burdened with more than they were meant to carry.
(Someone kind made into something dangerous.)
Cassius steps around Doctor Hugh, then, to the side facing the window. Pauses for a long, long moment to give the skittering rabbits a steadied gaze, before he turns and presses himself into Doctor Hugh’s side, as a comfort. As a shield. Doesn’t mold himself to Doctor Hugh, yet, merely rests his head against his shoulder, arm pressed against arm.
“I will listen if you wish to tell me,” Cassius says, the hum around him growing, drowning out the faint orchestra, giving their words a semblance of privacy. “But only if you wish to. You will remain Doctor Hugh to me either way, Doctor Hugh.”
no subject
(Haunted.)
They don’t like me here.
Cassius takes a step closer, and then another and another until he is close enough to touch Doctor Hugh if he so desired. If Doctor Hugh had been his Hunter, Cassius would have already piled himself, molded himself to the grooves of their side in the way he knows would comfort them. Steady them. Anchor them before they could drift away.
(When his Hunter’s thoughts get heavy, when the weight seems to crush them, they hide themselves away from the world, deep within his garden, where he can comfort them in a way only he knows how.
They call it a weakness, his Hunter. They forget that it makes them human.)
Doctor Hugh, however, is not his Hunter, and no matter how much he may want to, Cassius restrains himself. Casts a glance to the window instead, where the rabbits wait with teeth and claws and round, round eyes taking Doctor Hugh in, in, in the way he knows his Hunter would not like.
It did a lot of damage to these people, Cassius.
I wasn’t always like this.
Just like his Hunter, Doctor Hugh. A monster made, not born. A soul without sound forced to bear the weight of a song. A person burdened with more than they were meant to carry.
(Someone kind made into something dangerous.)
Cassius steps around Doctor Hugh, then, to the side facing the window. Pauses for a long, long moment to give the skittering rabbits a steadied gaze, before he turns and presses himself into Doctor Hugh’s side, as a comfort. As a shield. Doesn’t mold himself to Doctor Hugh, yet, merely rests his head against his shoulder, arm pressed against arm.
“I will listen if you wish to tell me,” Cassius says, the hum around him growing, drowning out the faint orchestra, giving their words a semblance of privacy. “But only if you wish to. You will remain Doctor Hugh to me either way, Doctor Hugh.”