When Doctor Hugh pulls himself away (gently, carefully, as if it will hurt Cassius to do so any other way), Cassius has to catch himself from following after his warmth. Has to keep himself in place as Doctor Hugh grasps at his shoulder instead (Cassius feels the loss of closeness like an ache) and offers him a smile.
(Cassius misses the warmth in that, too, even if he understands.)
He considers Doctor Hugh for a moment, before the squirming under his skin quiets, faint musical strings once more floating along in the background.
At Doctor Hugh’s gesture, Cassius glances to the tray, at the offering that does not look like any sort of meat that he is familiar with, cooked or otherwise. Did not smell like it either, when he had held the tray in his hands.
(When his fingers had brushed over bruised knuckles. Wounded warmth. It will not happen again, that. Not under his watchful gaze.)
“I do not know what a vegan is,” Cassius says after a moment, sounding almost apologetic, “and I am not sure how it relates to the chicken, but – no, Doctor Hugh. I do not think I am a ‘fan’, as you say.” His hands return to their folded position. “My diet – my Hunter usually provides.”
(Meat, of course. Corpses still warm from the kill, bleeding pools stretching underneath them like shadows. Very little are the times when the Hunter brings them to him live. Only when times are desperate, when the hunger causes his worms to turn on each other, when it is all he can think about.
Cassius does not like being driven to such hunger. Likes the desperation even less.)
He pauses. “Do not worry about me, Doctor Hugh,” he says as he tilts his head. “I am not yet hungry. I am sure that with your help, we will find the Hunter before it becomes an issue.”
no subject
(Cassius misses the warmth in that, too, even if he understands.)
He considers Doctor Hugh for a moment, before the squirming under his skin quiets, faint musical strings once more floating along in the background.
At Doctor Hugh’s gesture, Cassius glances to the tray, at the offering that does not look like any sort of meat that he is familiar with, cooked or otherwise. Did not smell like it either, when he had held the tray in his hands.
(When his fingers had brushed over bruised knuckles. Wounded warmth. It will not happen again, that. Not under his watchful gaze.)
“I do not know what a vegan is,” Cassius says after a moment, sounding almost apologetic, “and I am not sure how it relates to the chicken, but – no, Doctor Hugh. I do not think I am a ‘fan’, as you say.” His hands return to their folded position. “My diet – my Hunter usually provides.”
(Meat, of course. Corpses still warm from the kill, bleeding pools stretching underneath them like shadows. Very little are the times when the Hunter brings them to him live. Only when times are desperate, when the hunger causes his worms to turn on each other, when it is all he can think about.
Cassius does not like being driven to such hunger. Likes the desperation even less.)
He pauses. “Do not worry about me, Doctor Hugh,” he says as he tilts his head. “I am not yet hungry. I am sure that with your help, we will find the Hunter before it becomes an issue.”