Will can tell he's in for an avalanche of negativity as soon as Rust repeats what he said. But that's why he came.
Will doesn't want Alana's well-intentioned platitudes or the way she'd look at Will with betrayed suspicion, knowing that he's apparently destined to steal her new lover from her. Will absolutely doesn't want Jack's stony, supportive horror and the way he would bargain against fate with him. And aside from those two...
There's no one else to even consider telling.
There's an element of gratitude, tucked away in there. Even though this conversation is going to hurt, it's the procedure Will sought out willingly, and he finds himself almost desperate for a viewpoint outside of society's norms. He's sick to death of the romance behind Soul Mates and the Marked.
Tonight, in this deluge and feeling like he might drown, Will needs to know if anyone else sees the nightmare he's walked straight into.
He needs to know that he's not crazy.
Will listens to all of it, not looking at anything but carpet until Rust gets really going towards the end. Cosmic shotgun marriage doesn't quiet align with the slow plodding drag of Hannibal towards Will, doesn't encapsulate the way the doctor's lurking has been something Will had apparently misinterpreted this entire time.
But it's a far fucking cry from being told that a Mark should be something celebrated or even respected. Will lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It clears out his chest enough that the rest of his second glass of whiskey goes down quick and easy. "Or." Will's still sitting far forward on the chair, elbows covered in damp jacket sleeves resting on rain-streaked thighs.
"You end up growing a Mark like a weed, choking you from the inside out. Pushing aspects of yourself to the edges until you worry you're going to burst apart and just be this other person, this other being. And that Mark keeps darkening every day and you know that anyone else looking in would be congratulating you." A terrible smile is coming to Will's face, uneven and toothy, a wincing pain in his eyes.
"Yeah." Will laughs, harsh and quiet, not enough air behind the bitter twist to his mouth. "To hell with that, huh?"
The whiskey sits burning in his belly, heating up through his chest while he stares at the floor.
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Will doesn't want Alana's well-intentioned platitudes or the way she'd look at Will with betrayed suspicion, knowing that he's apparently destined to steal her new lover from her. Will absolutely doesn't want Jack's stony, supportive horror and the way he would bargain against fate with him. And aside from those two...
There's no one else to even consider telling.
There's an element of gratitude, tucked away in there. Even though this conversation is going to hurt, it's the procedure Will sought out willingly, and he finds himself almost desperate for a viewpoint outside of society's norms. He's sick to death of the romance behind Soul Mates and the Marked.
Tonight, in this deluge and feeling like he might drown, Will needs to know if anyone else sees the nightmare he's walked straight into.
He needs to know that he's not crazy.
Will listens to all of it, not looking at anything but carpet until Rust gets really going towards the end. Cosmic shotgun marriage doesn't quiet align with the slow plodding drag of Hannibal towards Will, doesn't encapsulate the way the doctor's lurking has been something Will had apparently misinterpreted this entire time.
But it's a far fucking cry from being told that a Mark should be something celebrated or even respected. Will lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It clears out his chest enough that the rest of his second glass of whiskey goes down quick and easy. "Or." Will's still sitting far forward on the chair, elbows covered in damp jacket sleeves resting on rain-streaked thighs.
"You end up growing a Mark like a weed, choking you from the inside out. Pushing aspects of yourself to the edges until you worry you're going to burst apart and just be this other person, this other being. And that Mark keeps darkening every day and you know that anyone else looking in would be congratulating you." A terrible smile is coming to Will's face, uneven and toothy, a wincing pain in his eyes.
"Yeah." Will laughs, harsh and quiet, not enough air behind the bitter twist to his mouth. "To hell with that, huh?"
The whiskey sits burning in his belly, heating up through his chest while he stares at the floor.