“You don’t fuck things up!” Michael protests into the dead lack of air. It comes out in Hebrew. He barely notices.
Maybe he managed to spit that out because they’re both thinking the same thing. The affection and the hatred are traveling in circles inside them, between them, and he’s starting to feel slightly insane. For a long moment he’d thought I always fuck something up, I don’t know why I’m like this had genuinely been his own thought about himself. He’s still not completely sure. He could be talking to himself now. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The other side of the coin—someone else’s adoration for him steadily growing inside his own brain—is much harder to handle than a common self-hatred. The sentiments hit him like flashing lights, and he wants to cover his eyes. He’s not like that, brave or compassionate or someone people should be kissing, not even close. It’s nearly violent how much he wants to reject these ideas, their proximity frightening and sudden. Simultaneously, though, he feels beautiful, good, like a vision of someone else, an out-of-body experience. He wishes he could touch something and be touched back.
Wolfgang. Right, they’re doing something here. He wonders how long it’s been, looks up at the sky again. Even though his heart rate is up, it seems like his body wants to get cold but can’t quite manage it. He should calm down.