02-25-2019, 06:17 PM
To explain the entirety of the truth to Near was equivalent to wounding him, and whether that wound was surgical or a mangling depended on Near's own receptivity. Jude assessed the present injury to be superficial; he'd given Near a shove, and Near had fallen and scraped his knee. No broken bones, no severed arteries. The only one bleeding here was Jude. There was no taunt in Jude's face or in his tone - just tiredness, both from the magic itself and from the pretense leading to it. What was a need? When was its necessity genuine, and when was it an irrational craving? Was there anything rational about this entire situation?
He caught the dust cover with his good hand and stared at it, initially not sure what it was for. He started to say, No, I don't want to ruin it, but reconsidered that maybe Near didn't want him bleeding all over the floor. He wrapped one edge around his palm, but the remainder of the dust cover hung and dragged on the floor, giving Jude the look of a sleepy child with his blanket, wanting to be put back to bed after a bad dream.
"Then don't," he said simply. "It's bad enough with people who do want to know. And it's a long story," he added, as an afterthought, guessing that the promise of boredom would help mollify Near. Why be curious now? Pride? Fear of missing out? Jude didn't move from his spot. He was suddenly anxious that, if he turned, Near would rush up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder in some misguided gesture of camaraderie, or he'd hit Jude over the head with the same bloody bottle, or some other wild, unpredictable move outside of Jude's narrow tolerance. Jude was left standing in the rubble of his own destruction, alone for the first time with the aftermath, and he was realizing how little he'd ever had to think about these things. Just the look on Near's face was oppressive.
He caught the dust cover with his good hand and stared at it, initially not sure what it was for. He started to say, No, I don't want to ruin it, but reconsidered that maybe Near didn't want him bleeding all over the floor. He wrapped one edge around his palm, but the remainder of the dust cover hung and dragged on the floor, giving Jude the look of a sleepy child with his blanket, wanting to be put back to bed after a bad dream.
"Then don't," he said simply. "It's bad enough with people who do want to know. And it's a long story," he added, as an afterthought, guessing that the promise of boredom would help mollify Near. Why be curious now? Pride? Fear of missing out? Jude didn't move from his spot. He was suddenly anxious that, if he turned, Near would rush up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder in some misguided gesture of camaraderie, or he'd hit Jude over the head with the same bloody bottle, or some other wild, unpredictable move outside of Jude's narrow tolerance. Jude was left standing in the rubble of his own destruction, alone for the first time with the aftermath, and he was realizing how little he'd ever had to think about these things. Just the look on Near's face was oppressive.