[ He'd been prepared for a knife in his heart, not warm lips pressed against his own, and so Dokja is left stunned, frozen in place, as his mind races to catch up with what had just happened. And what had just happened? They've kissed before, either by accident or by some outside force, but never once like this. Not sober and coherent, not while under any influence other than their own. He's barely given any time to react, nothing more than wide eyes and an open mouth when Eustace pulls away.
How had it fallen to this specific moment for Dokja to realize? Why hadn't he noticed it sooner? He thought he'd known himself, but like this? A red face, uncontrollably beating heart, and emotions that threaten to drown each other out as they fight their way to make it to the surface. Incredible. Impossible. It was always written out for him, what kind of ending he'd have, the one he deserved after everything he'd done, the way he'd try to atone, if not there, then here. Nothing for himself, nothing after he'd already taken, and taken, and taken.
Until Eustace.
There's so much that Dokja could say, some of them complaints about this timing, most of them words that he would never speak out loud, but he's not given that chance to play clown or coward before the knife is plunging into his heart, and the familiar feeling of death cradles him close.
What the hell is his very last thought, and his failing vision must be deceiving him when he catches what look like tears in Eustace's eyes. How unfair for this to be happening right this second, right as Dokja slips away, falls into the all-consuming darkness beckoning for him, his consciousness breaking apart. Now, more than ever, he has to come back. ]
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How had it fallen to this specific moment for Dokja to realize? Why hadn't he noticed it sooner? He thought he'd known himself, but like this? A red face, uncontrollably beating heart, and emotions that threaten to drown each other out as they fight their way to make it to the surface. Incredible. Impossible. It was always written out for him, what kind of ending he'd have, the one he deserved after everything he'd done, the way he'd try to atone, if not there, then here. Nothing for himself, nothing after he'd already taken, and taken, and taken.
Until Eustace.
There's so much that Dokja could say, some of them complaints about this timing, most of them words that he would never speak out loud, but he's not given that chance to play clown or coward before the knife is plunging into his heart, and the familiar feeling of death cradles him close.
What the hell is his very last thought, and his failing vision must be deceiving him when he catches what look like tears in Eustace's eyes. How unfair for this to be happening right this second, right as Dokja slips away, falls into the all-consuming darkness beckoning for him, his consciousness breaking apart. Now, more than ever, he has to come back. ]