Well, it would seem they're not going to make it to his place after all. Will can't stand this ridiculous silence, punctuated only by Rosinante's escaping thoughts, and the most recent of those escaping thoughts has just made it even more unbearable. He only gets a few more steps before he stops and turns.
They're out of the carnival, at least, and they're alone. It's not the privacy of his little house with one of those bubbles of silence around it, but it'll have to do. Unlike Rosinante, he's never been good at keeping his words to himself, for better or worse.
Will turns suddenly, standing straight so that he can look up better.
"You didn't make a mistake," he says flatly. A statement of fact. "You didn't even do anything wrong. Or anything I didn't want you to do." It irritates him, for reasons he can't name, that Rosinante might see himself as the problem here. "None of that is—" Is what? What is he even trying to say here?
He feels like he's being pulled in two directions by two very different parts of himself: the part that's always blunt and honest, and the part that surrounds his real thoughts in a barbed wire fence. The need to speak his mind and the need to protect himself. But protect him from what?
"I don't do this." He makes another vague gesture, trying to indicate the space between them. "I don't do... whatever this is. What I do with other people, it's just— it doesn't mean anything. And I don't want—" I don't want to ruin this. But those words he manages to keep. All that comes out is a frustrated sigh.
He starts over, finally giving in to that brutally honest side of himself, as he eventually always does.
"I use people, you know. You have to know that, you're not stupid, and you've practically been in my head. I don't get into relationships, I get into temporary agreements with people who haven't known me long enough to realize the sort of person I am. Or people who are just as uninvested, only looking for the same thing. But this—" whatever it is— "You started at the other end. You know what I'm like, yet here you are."
Giving him compliments. Touching him. Practically asking to do more.
"I don't want to... I don't want to turn this into—" He can't find the words anymore. He's never had to articulate this particular emotion, and he doesn't even know how to name it. It's infuriating.
"Your head's not where it's supposed to be," he finally spits out. "I can't do to you what I do to everyone else."
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They're out of the carnival, at least, and they're alone. It's not the privacy of his little house with one of those bubbles of silence around it, but it'll have to do. Unlike Rosinante, he's never been good at keeping his words to himself, for better or worse.
Will turns suddenly, standing straight so that he can look up better.
"You didn't make a mistake," he says flatly. A statement of fact. "You didn't even do anything wrong. Or anything I didn't want you to do." It irritates him, for reasons he can't name, that Rosinante might see himself as the problem here. "None of that is—" Is what? What is he even trying to say here?
He feels like he's being pulled in two directions by two very different parts of himself: the part that's always blunt and honest, and the part that surrounds his real thoughts in a barbed wire fence. The need to speak his mind and the need to protect himself. But protect him from what?
"I don't do this." He makes another vague gesture, trying to indicate the space between them. "I don't do... whatever this is. What I do with other people, it's just— it doesn't mean anything. And I don't want—" I don't want to ruin this. But those words he manages to keep. All that comes out is a frustrated sigh.
He starts over, finally giving in to that brutally honest side of himself, as he eventually always does.
"I use people, you know. You have to know that, you're not stupid, and you've practically been in my head. I don't get into relationships, I get into temporary agreements with people who haven't known me long enough to realize the sort of person I am. Or people who are just as uninvested, only looking for the same thing. But this—" whatever it is— "You started at the other end. You know what I'm like, yet here you are."
Giving him compliments. Touching him. Practically asking to do more.
"I don't want to... I don't want to turn this into—" He can't find the words anymore. He's never had to articulate this particular emotion, and he doesn't even know how to name it. It's infuriating.
"Your head's not where it's supposed to be," he finally spits out. "I can't do to you what I do to everyone else."