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    Summary

    To think, Garlond had the absolute temerity to be angry that he’d taken that risk onto his own shoulders (shoulder?), literally, figuratively, or otherwise? He had the audacity to lash out at him? It’s as though nothing could make the man happy—or, more likely, there was not really anything Nero could do to please him, except that brief moment, where neither of them had been looking at each other, just ten heartbeats worth of a space—

    (“‘tis hardly fair to compare my youth to omega’s solitary existence...”)

    From here, it is unrealistic to believe that there is a world or a time or a future where Nero stays here, where he enjoys staying here, where Cid enjoys him staying here, where they work toward a common goal. The possibility that they lean close and share secrets, that they share coffee and humor, and whatever else, feels just as unviable. The potential for that future had slipped by long ago, too long ago to measure. Maybe that future had never been meant for this Nero and this Cid at all.

    Language:
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