the pang in his chest could be seen on his face, but it isn't as though Dokja can bring himself to look at Abel, anyway. the priest watches the miserable slope of Dokja's shoulders, the heavy weight of a single mug in his lap... and his own heart aches in a very familiar sort of way.
that boy's angry, bitter words repeat in his head. the weight behind the dejection in his friend's posture... it, too, seems to validate something the priest had already suspected, feared-- even if he had been desperately hoping to find evidence to the contrary. right now, everything is screaming that what that boy said was no fabrication or provocation. ]
I wasn't hurt, [ he starts with-- because assuaging that worry comes first and foremost. he won't have Dokja concerned with something that's irrelevant; Abel hadn't been injured. ] ...and he left with Miss Ciel. He wasn't hurt any further, either. She will take care of him, Dokja.
[ his voice is gentle, soft, as if he knows he's speaking to someone who's hurt himself far more than Abel ever could - or would ever want to. ]
But you very nearly... if I hadn't happened to be there-- if I had come just a few moments later, you...
[ ...'you would have died.'
though his chest is tight with a pressure, a sense of discomfort and uneasiness-- he doesn't look away, watches his friend for any signs, any tells. the last nail in the coffin, so to speak.
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the pang in his chest could be seen on his face, but it isn't as though Dokja can bring himself to look at Abel, anyway. the priest watches the miserable slope of Dokja's shoulders, the heavy weight of a single mug in his lap... and his own heart aches in a very familiar sort of way.
that boy's angry, bitter words repeat in his head. the weight behind the dejection in his friend's posture... it, too, seems to validate something the priest had already suspected, feared-- even if he had been desperately hoping to find evidence to the contrary. right now, everything is screaming that what that boy said was no fabrication or provocation. ]
I wasn't hurt, [ he starts with-- because assuaging that worry comes first and foremost. he won't have Dokja concerned with something that's irrelevant; Abel hadn't been injured. ] ...and he left with Miss Ciel. He wasn't hurt any further, either. She will take care of him, Dokja.
[ his voice is gentle, soft, as if he knows he's speaking to someone who's hurt himself far more than Abel ever could - or would ever want to. ]
But you very nearly... if I hadn't happened to be there-- if I had come just a few moments later, you...
[ ...'you would have died.'
though his chest is tight with a pressure, a sense of discomfort and uneasiness-- he doesn't look away, watches his friend for any signs, any tells. the last nail in the coffin, so to speak.
would that truly be what you wanted, Dokja...? ]