He looks. His eyes trail over each added in line, hers so set, neat, distinctly being. She takes the fractures and the holes of the world and she puts the world in them. In the empty, she puts things there and somehow manages to do so without a bit of chaos. It ain't just waters sky. There are things to see and uncover, even as god still lies beyond. He compares them both, and there's almost a glaze over his eyes, like he's seeing something entirely beyond that of drawings on the floor.
"IT AIN'T MEANINGLESS, YOU KNOW. Every piece has a purpose. EVERY COLOR A MEANING. It's all alive. EVEN THE THINGS WHAT AIN'T LIVING. All spirit. EVEN THAT WHAT AIN'T DEAD."
He traces his fingers over the spirals of fear, soul, come from each and every motherfucker in her drawn in hives. "In all the little places it comes apart... IT PIECES BACK TOGETHER AGAIN WITHOUT FAIL, ONE WAY OR OTHER." He lifts fingers away from those interlocking lines and pieces. His eyes close and his head tilts back. The revelations come easier that way, like a prayer made without the press of palms.
"You said, the spectrum here is made from pigments, not blood," He says. "BUT YOU REMINDED HIM. His brother spilled blood all of his own. YELLOW HE ALL DID AND IN SO HONOR OF WHAT I HAD GAINED, I SOUGHT TO PAINT. I did not thieve from him. I ASKED AND SO HE OFFERED. Freely given. FREELY TAKEN. A hand up an extended where blade could so have been, even knowing who all I was to be more so than myself."
He's already damned. By association with all them, the reason has already been committed. He can't ever go back. His head lowers.
"I CANNOT PAY THE DEBT THAT IS OWED. I ain't understand for the goddamn life of he your motherfucking ways. I AIN'T ALL ANYONE BUT WHO ALL THE FUCK I BE. But things are different now. YOU ARE, THE WHOLE GODDAMN LOT OF YOU HERE, THE STRANGEST TROLLS WHAT AS HE'S EVER KNOWN, BUT... IF HE MAY BE SO ALLOWED..."
He lifts his hand up to his teeth, pressing into and breaking the scarred flesh in the center of his palm. He pulls it back and squeezes the hand shut tight as the indigo wells up.
He says, "I want at to finally see where the pieces come back together."
He opens his hand and holds it between them, over where the line separates each piece. Some of it drips through his fingers, erasing that white mark. He still does not look at her or Terezi, yet his color is there to take.
no subject
"IT AIN'T MEANINGLESS, YOU KNOW. Every piece has a purpose. EVERY COLOR A MEANING. It's all alive. EVEN THE THINGS WHAT AIN'T LIVING. All spirit. EVEN THAT WHAT AIN'T DEAD."
He traces his fingers over the spirals of fear, soul, come from each and every motherfucker in her drawn in hives. "In all the little places it comes apart... IT PIECES BACK TOGETHER AGAIN WITHOUT FAIL, ONE WAY OR OTHER." He lifts fingers away from those interlocking lines and pieces. His eyes close and his head tilts back. The revelations come easier that way, like a prayer made without the press of palms.
"You said, the spectrum here is made from pigments, not blood," He says. "BUT YOU REMINDED HIM. His brother spilled blood all of his own. YELLOW HE ALL DID AND IN SO HONOR OF WHAT I HAD GAINED, I SOUGHT TO PAINT. I did not thieve from him. I ASKED AND SO HE OFFERED. Freely given. FREELY TAKEN. A hand up an extended where blade could so have been, even knowing who all I was to be more so than myself."
He's already damned. By association with all them, the reason has already been committed. He can't ever go back. His head lowers.
"I CANNOT PAY THE DEBT THAT IS OWED. I ain't understand for the goddamn life of he your motherfucking ways. I AIN'T ALL ANYONE BUT WHO ALL THE FUCK I BE. But things are different now. YOU ARE, THE WHOLE GODDAMN LOT OF YOU HERE, THE STRANGEST TROLLS WHAT AS HE'S EVER KNOWN, BUT... IF HE MAY BE SO ALLOWED..."
He lifts his hand up to his teeth, pressing into and breaking the scarred flesh in the center of his palm. He pulls it back and squeezes the hand shut tight as the indigo wells up.
He says, "I want at to finally see where the pieces come back together."
He opens his hand and holds it between them, over where the line separates each piece. Some of it drips through his fingers, erasing that white mark. He still does not look at her or Terezi, yet his color is there to take.