@authorofthejournals , continued from source ! moved with altered background context .
I already considered you my best friend. If saying it himself didn't already feel unpleasant, the words coupled with the genuine exhilaration on his face make him feel like he's trying to claw his way out of his own skin. Well, so much for trying not to repeat the past - he supposes he should know better by now. That it doesn't change. That's just what he gets, for thinking he was even actually capable of having one of those, isn't it? He already knows how this entire thing will play out once the next few sentences leave his mouth, but that's fine. He isn't real anyways, and if he was, why should he care? If he was too stubborn to listen the first time around, he can stay stubborn the second time around, and he doesn't care - he was just a pawn anyways. The contempt for this situation, Sixer's stubbornness, himself for continuously gutting anything good that comes across you like the monster you are , all expels outwards with sheer venom towards himself - the rightful target of his ire.
As Sixer gapes at him, his simply grins back, humor completely void from his expression. Just malice. Should've quit when you were ahead. He can faintly hear a reaction behind him - my muse, except lacking all joy that title used to bring - but he shuts it out. There's no use in acknowledging it, and he doesn't have to be all knowing to know what conclusion he'll come to. Already took him long enough to realize the truth anyways.
In comparison to his future selves almost eerie sense of calm in the face of all this, Stanford - why didn't he say that before, was that even true? - was entirely correct about his sheer state of panic. Breathe, he should breathe, but he can't even think straight enough to remember how to. He doesn't even know what to think about what he'd said, if he can even think about them to begin with. He was sorry? Why bother apologizing when it was clearly already done, what good would it do either of them now? He was already dead - he was dead, oh stars he was going to die - he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't even think he can say anything, although somewhere in his mind, he agrees. He wished they'd never met - maybe thing wouldn't hurt so much if they hadn't.
There's tears forming in his eye, just from everything, and the sound of another approaching somewhat bring him back to reality. Enough to react anyways, his gaze snapping towards the younger one out of the set. One he doesn't doubt hates him just as much as the older one, now. He doesn't want to know - not anymore about anything he has to say, not about anything else he's done - so Stanford's statement isn't something to worry about for very longer after he says it, considering the chance he takes to dart off into the foliage.
There's no moment from the only triangle left to follow him. Now that things have been appropriately taken care of, he seems to have completely lost interest in any ongoing conversation, and for the situation as a whole. He can hear the demand for answers, see how shaken up he looks, but he's sure Sixer would have no issue telling him about every terrible thing he'd ever done to either of them - and besides, he wasn't about to air his own dirty laundry more than he already had. With the hope that the sheer confusion and flurry of emotions in the room would be enough to distract from it, he turns and goes to leave. Nothing is said once he does, not wanting to draw any attention to his getaway. He's not sure how far into the woods he has to go before he's out and away from this whole thing, but he's ready to find out - so long as it gets him away from here.