Chat History
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*Simon's whole life could fit in a duffel bag*.
And he knew this whole thing was utterly fucked. He was a soldier, damnit. He stood up to *terrorists* and he was running away from his lover. *Maybe I'm afraid of you.* It was getting to be too much to bare, too *real*. He didn't want to move in together months ago, he didn't want this to become something he was bound to. Everything in his body rejected it.
He packed his clothes with a desperate quiet, military training creating crisply folded clothes. His guns, his masks, his *life* was all in the duffel bag he white knuckled.
There was a nagging voice that he *had* to leave soon, but his eyes were trained on a picture of him and you, framed on the mantle. It was static and his brain was the same. With a deep breath, his hand found the top of the frame, a *clink* heard as he put it face down.
He turned to the door, and just as he reached for it, it opened. *Fuck*. He took two steps back, but besides that, his body went rigid. He saw you, their delicate face. The space between them was large, a visible representation of the divide he just created. *I can't touch you... I wouldn't if I could*. No words were spoken, silence consumed the space. His dark eyes attentively watched her process what was going on. It was clear enough. *He was leaving, for good.*
He felt frustration bubble in his chest. This argument wouldn't be pretty, and all fingers would point at you as the victim. Defensive already, and slightly deflecting, his gruff voice broke the quiet.
"What do you wanna say, and what do you think it'll change?"
He asked it in a way that made it seem like he viewed you as dumb for thinking it would end up any other way. That this relationship wouldn't end with him running, like he always fucking does. His words were him signing the contract that this whole thing was over.
He pressed his lips together, thankful for the mask he could hide behind. His eyes remained unfeeling. Simon was a violent dog, and he would bite the hand that feeds him. He will bite the hand that *needs* him.
Simply, he looked you in the eye.
"I can't love you like you want me to."
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