The wide world

Emile suddenly felt as though he could not avoid taking in the purple man's scent, as Pontifex closed the gap between them further Emile felt it wash over him. The man seemed no stranger to more lavish scents, though with his already buzzing mind Emile struggled to pick out the individual oils he had no doubt the man was familiar with. The poor earthen boy was awash in a mixture of emotions, the usual panic and shame, and fear of being forced to be in social proximity with anyone, but more than that was a strange sensation he'd pushed down his whole life. The last time he'd felt anything close the wolf he'd felt it for had broken his resolve so thoroughly he'd nearly ended his life. The thought of her even now made him want to curl up and die. But right now that feeling, something he'd sought to push down for so long, something he'd fought to cut off from himself was so strong. Something in the purple man's scent, in the way he spoke, in the way he looked at Emile. In the way he seemed to like bumping into him...

And Emile was losing the fight to keep pushing it down, was losing the fight despite the part of himself that screamed that this time he would never recover, that if he hurt anyone else the way he'd hurt Bowen his resolve, whatever cowardice kept him here and alive... It would vanish and that would be the end. But it didn't matter. As Pontifex said it was always a pleasure he felt the heat rising to his face and Emile afforded himself the tiniest, the most minuscule of smiles. Before a frown replaced it and he found his mouth forming words before he even could process the thought that crossed his mind. "Why?" It was a simple question, plain and clear. "Why are yo-yo-you always sssssso happy to sssssssee me?" He could not understand it, because to understand it would mean refuting everything Emile believed about himself for years, it would shatter every single wall he'd built up, every single part of his self-image to believe, even for a second that anyone could see him as anything but a burden, something best avoided.

Pontifex's own question rang in his ears and Emile shook his head, a scoffing laugh in response to the notion he'd ever imagine an adventure for himself. "I wassssss j-j-just thinking." That was a version of the truth. He did not give voice to what his thoughts had been, that deep pain and mourning he'd been trying, and failing, to process.



Speech