Tony nods silently at Gene's request, but inwardly, he cringes. This is going to be a doozy, isn't it?
By the time Gene makes it to the crux of the issue, Tony's head is in his hands. He doesn't say anything while Gene's talking, and even after he's finished, it's a while before Tony speaks.
All he says is, "Dammit, Gene."
Hurt and anger and disappointment are roiling in his stomach, hot and fierce. He can't believe that Gene kept this from him for so long; that he did it in the first place, after all his talk of having changed—! Malicant was right, he'll never change, a small, hateful part of him thinks. Gene's betrayed him, again, and Tony comes to the bitter realization that he's not even surprised.
And yet, at the same time, he has to concede that all of this had happened before he arrived and Gene had really started turning himself around. There's also the fact that Bakura's doing pretty well, for a dead guy.
Strangely, the extenuating circumstances almost make Tony angrier. What does murder mean if it's not permanent and everyone knows it? Is it fair to condemn Gene for a crime he committed before he'd reformed, when the admission itself is proof that he's changed for the better? Does Tony have the right to make any judgements when the victim himself has already absolved Gene?
What does any of this mean? What is he supposed to do with Gene's confession?
He's not even sure if he's angry at Gene, or at the circumstances, for muddling everything up, for putting everything in a context he doesn't know how to parse, for smearing the familiar contrast of black and white into a million different shades of gray.
He's angry, but it's a formless, directionless anger. He's not sure he should take it out on Gene. He's not sure he wants to take it out on Gene. It burns like acid inside him, and only burns all the more for having no outlet, but he clamps down on it. Tony's trying to be better, too: he's trying not to lash out in thoughtless anger anymore. So, for now, he just stays silent.
no subject
By the time Gene makes it to the crux of the issue, Tony's head is in his hands. He doesn't say anything while Gene's talking, and even after he's finished, it's a while before Tony speaks.
All he says is, "Dammit, Gene."
Hurt and anger and disappointment are roiling in his stomach, hot and fierce. He can't believe that Gene kept this from him for so long; that he did it in the first place, after all his talk of having changed—! Malicant was right, he'll never change, a small, hateful part of him thinks. Gene's betrayed him, again, and Tony comes to the bitter realization that he's not even surprised.
And yet, at the same time, he has to concede that all of this had happened before he arrived and Gene had really started turning himself around. There's also the fact that Bakura's doing pretty well, for a dead guy.
Strangely, the extenuating circumstances almost make Tony angrier. What does murder mean if it's not permanent and everyone knows it? Is it fair to condemn Gene for a crime he committed before he'd reformed, when the admission itself is proof that he's changed for the better? Does Tony have the right to make any judgements when the victim himself has already absolved Gene?
What does any of this mean? What is he supposed to do with Gene's confession?
He's not even sure if he's angry at Gene, or at the circumstances, for muddling everything up, for putting everything in a context he doesn't know how to parse, for smearing the familiar contrast of black and white into a million different shades of gray.
He's angry, but it's a formless, directionless anger. He's not sure he should take it out on Gene. He's not sure he wants to take it out on Gene. It burns like acid inside him, and only burns all the more for having no outlet, but he clamps down on it. Tony's trying to be better, too: he's trying not to lash out in thoughtless anger anymore. So, for now, he just stays silent.