[Hakkai looks up, slowly. He could be made of ice; he could be made of clay, frozen and heavy. Numb until he sees Gojyo's face, and the disgust still etched there. That still hurts.
That is, probably, one of the things he deserves. His eye is almost black in the shadows, pupil blown wide: it's in the dark that the glass eye, green and normal, matches the least well.
The moon behind Gojyo's head haloes him like a saint in a window, and Hakkai finds himself laughing, high and broken. His hands tighten on his arms with bruising force. How can he live with himself? He can't, but he doesn't want to die -- that's all. What a slender reed to hang a life on.]
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That is, probably, one of the things he deserves. His eye is almost black in the shadows, pupil blown wide: it's in the dark that the glass eye, green and normal, matches the least well.
The moon behind Gojyo's head haloes him like a saint in a window, and Hakkai finds himself laughing, high and broken. His hands tighten on his arms with bruising force. How can he live with himself? He can't, but he doesn't want to die -- that's all. What a slender reed to hang a life on.]
What do I deserve?