I tried to sell my soul last night
Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
He can feel his own frustration rise even as hers does. He should have known it would be impossible to expose a century's worth of repressed emotions like this. Should have known she wouldn’t really understand. Should have known she couldn’t possibly understand. He had always known this would change nothing. Would serve no purpose beyond allowing him to finally release the poison he’d kept inside, burning holes in his heart until he wasn’t certain there was anything left.
But he’s not like her, not really. He never had been. If he broke he would not be remade. He would be left hollow. A shell that goes through the motions of life because he is forced to. He can already feel the cracks spreading, the faded memories of what he’d become. The man who had lain and starved because there was no point to life yet unable to die, being born and born again in that same spot as the cycle repeated.
He doesn’t interrupt her as she speaks, doesn’t interject. Instead he stands like stone, obsidian eyes glittering as he regards her with ill-concealed disbelief. It isn’t until the end, when she softly declares that it might have been him had he only given her a chance. He does stir then, shifting closer, the anger catching on his tongue. But he doesn’t yell or rage. It wouldn’t change anything after all.
“Do you imagine that a hundred years of rejection could be so fucking easily undone in a few short years?” he growls, accusation in his tone. “You used to run as fast and far as I did, and you damned well know it. Or have you forgotten how many times you’ve fucking rejected me too? Was I supposed to believe you’d suddenly changed your mind?”
There is cruelty in his voice now, but he can’t seem to help himself. “Isn’t it fucking ironic that had you only been a little more patient, I might even have started to believe you when you said you loved me?” He steps closer - so close he is nearly pressed against her now. “But it was never me, only the version of me you wanted me to be.” He laughs then, bitter and humorless. “I don’t know that I’m capable of love either. But if I am, it’s you. You as you are now, as you were then. As you were a decades ago when I first fucked you.”
Then, because that is an admission that could never see the light of day - not really - he closes his eyes. “But that won’t change anything, will it?”
He knows it won’t, but foolishly, he waits for her reply. And when the ‘no’ inevitably comes, he will make sure she remembers nothing of this conversation. It would serve neither of them any good.
@[Ryatah]