It's very cold, wherever he is. He isn't quite sure; somewhere dark. Somewhere alone, by choice, because he can't do this right now.
The other him, his other half, he's just going to leave. When everything is said and done, when their mission is complete, what will be left? What will there be?
Memories. Stories. Pictures in his head growing dimmer and dimmer with age.
Nothing.
Like he was never here at all. And wouldn't that have been better, in the long run?
Whoever said it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all must have been talking about something else. The very idea of losing this thing that they've built between them, losing this connection makes him sick, and he doesn't know what will happen when he actually has to do it. Doesn't know if he can.
But he has to, doesn't he? Isn't that the rub. He'll have to, whenever it happens. He won't be able to choose. That's what it all comes down to, that none of this is his choice. Never has been.
He wants to tell him everything, wants to make him understand, because he doesn't, he can't understand because if he did, he wouldn't be making these plans to just go, wouldn't be making this out to be some casual thing that has to be done, that they can't fight or go against or decide it isn't fair.
He wishes more than anything that what he feels could be called hatred, but he knows better.
Don't make this all a waste.