[ Gen’s also silent at first, and dedicates a portion of his focus to watching what Amos does — studying the little movements, taking note of what he tightens and what he tweaks, committing those things to memory. Mostly because it’s habit; he’s always been a bit more observant than people give him credit for, and it’s helped him learn through observation, so he has to ask people for help as little as possible. It’ll be useful for the future if he commits what he’s seeing to memory, so he focuses on it.
But also … he’s not sure he could handle having to focus solely on what Amos is saying. His stomach churns when Amos so plainly talks about what he’s been through, and though Gen tries not to think about it in those concrete terms, he can’t unhear what he’s heard. (Five years old. His caretaker was a prostitute. Grown men.) ]
I didn’t —
[ Gen starts speaking quietly before catching himself, brow furrowing deeper as he bites at his lip. ‘I didn’t do it for that kid,’ he starts to say. Because as much as Amos insists that that child was him, Gen knows it wasn’t. They both saw it. That child was just some thing reflecting Amos’ memories, it wasn’t actually him. Ergo, Gen couldn’t give less of a shit about it.
But Amos still thanks him, and it all feels off. Something about what Amos is saying doesn’t sit well with him. It takes Gen a moment to realize why irritation and anxiety simmers at the back of his mind when Amos says thank you for giving him that.
Amos talks about himself like a broken object. Like that hurt child is something completely divorced himself. And while Gen certainly understands that sentiment … ]
— you still feel stuff. [ He can’t meet Amos’ gaze for more than a split second before looking away, gritting his teeth. Being genuine, being honest, trying to be sensitive about these things is hard and runs counter to everything he’s been taught about how to behave. But this feels too important to back off from — even as his voice comes taut with discomfort, Gen continues at a rush. ] I feel all of it. You talk like you don’t feel anything any more, but if you didn’t, then you wouldn’t be thanking me. If you didn’t, then you wouldn’t care what I did. But you do care. … you’re fucked up by what happened to you, and I get it. Anyone’d get messed up by that kind of sick — …
[ He has to swallow thickly and drive his thoughts elsewhere; anger flares hot at the fringes of his thoughts if he imagines that happening to someone he considers a trusted friend. But as much as he leans on anger most of the time, he knows it’s useless at the moment. Gen closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Narrows his eyes as he stares off at some indistinct point on the ground, then continues hoarsely, quietly. ]
… what happened, happened. But that’s all gone now, isn’t it? Where it happened, the people who did it. So … it didn’t beat you. I meant what I said to that kid, and I can say that kinda shit as many times as you want, but — more than that, you’re still here, and that shit’s gone. Isn’t that what’s important? You’re here, you can still feel things. You won out.
[ ‘That’s what I care about,’ goes unspoken. But maybe Amos can feel it in the waves of concern and protective indignity lapping at the edges of his thoughts. ]
cw continued
But also … he’s not sure he could handle having to focus solely on what Amos is saying. His stomach churns when Amos so plainly talks about what he’s been through, and though Gen tries not to think about it in those concrete terms, he can’t unhear what he’s heard. (Five years old. His caretaker was a prostitute. Grown men.) ]
I didn’t —
[ Gen starts speaking quietly before catching himself, brow furrowing deeper as he bites at his lip. ‘I didn’t do it for that kid,’ he starts to say. Because as much as Amos insists that that child was him, Gen knows it wasn’t. They both saw it. That child was just some thing reflecting Amos’ memories, it wasn’t actually him. Ergo, Gen couldn’t give less of a shit about it.
But Amos still thanks him, and it all feels off. Something about what Amos is saying doesn’t sit well with him. It takes Gen a moment to realize why irritation and anxiety simmers at the back of his mind when Amos says thank you for giving him that.
Amos talks about himself like a broken object. Like that hurt child is something completely divorced himself. And while Gen certainly understands that sentiment … ]
— you still feel stuff. [ He can’t meet Amos’ gaze for more than a split second before looking away, gritting his teeth. Being genuine, being honest, trying to be sensitive about these things is hard and runs counter to everything he’s been taught about how to behave. But this feels too important to back off from — even as his voice comes taut with discomfort, Gen continues at a rush. ] I feel all of it. You talk like you don’t feel anything any more, but if you didn’t, then you wouldn’t be thanking me. If you didn’t, then you wouldn’t care what I did. But you do care. … you’re fucked up by what happened to you, and I get it. Anyone’d get messed up by that kind of sick — …
[ He has to swallow thickly and drive his thoughts elsewhere; anger flares hot at the fringes of his thoughts if he imagines that happening to someone he considers a trusted friend. But as much as he leans on anger most of the time, he knows it’s useless at the moment. Gen closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Narrows his eyes as he stares off at some indistinct point on the ground, then continues hoarsely, quietly. ]
… what happened, happened. But that’s all gone now, isn’t it? Where it happened, the people who did it. So … it didn’t beat you. I meant what I said to that kid, and I can say that kinda shit as many times as you want, but — more than that, you’re still here, and that shit’s gone. Isn’t that what’s important? You’re here, you can still feel things. You won out.
[ ‘That’s what I care about,’ goes unspoken. But maybe Amos can feel it in the waves of concern and protective indignity lapping at the edges of his thoughts. ]