Wheeling Gull Isle my fondest memory is getting stabbed with a variety of knives. (mtr.)

The afterglow wasn't a big deal to him when he was with women; especially now that Firefly had been through all that he had, the man would've more than likely gone back for seconds and thirds without a care for his partner's comfort or desires. Maybe it was this ceaseless desire to use those women (especially now that he'd been betrayed by so many) that made Firefly so resistant to the presence of the ghost here in the present. Afraid that he might want more — and when the distance between them diminished Firefly could not help but tense further.

He didn't want to listen to what came out of his mouth. That alluring voice, the soft-spoken memories-turned-lessons that he could've heeded, drawn some sort of understanding from. The ghost spoke of previous conquests and of discovering himself — or some illness that he claimed, was unashamed of — and Firefly felt the empty chill of his blanking mind churn, his gut twist and ache. He didn't need to hear what the ghost said to know that some part of the one-way conversation rang true for himself too, and Firefly didn't know what to do with that.

A part of him loathed being near this man. 

A deeper part was aching for him, but was confused with the ache of his body as a whole; an absence, a guilt.

—by all means, return to your females. I certainly wouldn't blame you. It was like the ghost had somehow filled his mind. It was another trick, he thought. Another aspect of the illness, of the corruption — no, it was wrong. All of this was wrong.

He had to get out of here. Without a sound he pulled away from the company of the ghost and made to leave, struggling a few steps — nearly tripping on himself, clearly walking with a hitch to his gait likely put there by Vonnaruil — and paused with his back to him. Just long enough to spit, Get away from my island.