...something about Eli was decidedly wrong. He was like one of those pictures full of small errors, the kind you could only pick out by searching the image from every angle, and even then, a few always slipped by. On the surface, Eli seemed perfectly normal, but now and then Victor would catch a crack, a sideways glance, a moment when his roommate’s face and his words, his look and his meaning, would not line up. Those fleeting slices fascinated Victor. It was like watching two people, one hiding in the other’s skin. And their skin was always too dry, on the verge of cracking and showing the color of the thing beneath.
The paper called Eli a hero.
The word made Victor laugh. Not just because it was absurd, but because it posed a question. If Eli really was a hero, and Victor meant to stop him, did that make him a villain?
Victor Vale was not a fucking sidekick.
Mais ces mots que les gens lançaient -humains,monstres, héros, méchants- pour Victor, c'était une histoire de sémantique. Quelqu'un pouvait s'autoproclamer héros et se balader partout en tuant des dizaines de personnes. Un autre pouvait être labellisé méchant parce qu'il essayait de l'arrêter. Bon nombre d'humains étaient monstrueux, et bon nombre de monstres savaient paraître humains.
(traduction perso ^^)
"Tu as une cape ?"
"Tu te moques de moi ?"
"Tu es plus du genre masque, donc".
"Où veux-tu en venir ? demanda t'il alors qu'ils atteignaient le bâtiment suivant.
"Tu es le héros..." dit-elle, trouvant son regard, "...de ta propre histoire, en tout cas."
"Non, Sydney," dit-il. "J'ai besoin que tu restes ici."
"Pourquoi ?" demanda t'elle.
"Parce que tu ne penses pas que je suis une mauvaise personne," dit-il. "Et je ne veux pas te prouver le contraire."
Hate was too simple a word. He and Eli were bonded, by blood and death and science.They were alike, more so now than ever. And he had missed Eli. He wanted to see him. And he wanted to see him suffer. He wanted to see the look in Eli’s eyes when he lit them up with pain. He wanted his attention.
Eli was like a thorn beneath Victor’s skin, and it hurt. He could turn off every nerve in his body, but Victor couldn’t do a damned thing about the twinge he felt when he thought of Cardale. The worst part of going numb was that it took away everything but this, the smothering need to hurt, to break, to kill, pouring over him like a thick blanket of syrup until he panicked and brought the physical sensations back.
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