I chugged at least a half-pint of vodka before I stitched myself up. Give me a little credit, please.
[ only a slight exaggeration. for how high he was on a mixture of hard liquor, vicodin, and searing pain, delta thinks he did okay for himself.
he plucks at his bandages, gingerly unwrapping long strips of bloodied gauze from his hand and tilting his palm toward ashe, under the light of an overhanging lamp. not as shitty as some of his previous work was mostly right, but not by much: his palm is sectioned in two, divided by an angry red gouge stitched together in a jagged line, as if he lacked a steady hand. the injury still throbs, hot to the touch, black thread pulled tight around puffy skin stained with purpling bruises and dried blood.
then further down near the heel of his palm, zigzagging across his wrist and forearm — a full bloom of slivered white scars split into smaller branches all connected together, like the naked limbs of a dead tree. i stuck a fork into an outlet just 'cause is what he tells anyone who asks, or i was struck by lightning, or it's a tattoo. he could say the same thing here, but he doesn't feel like lying. delta clears his throat and curls a finger under his cuff, wiggling his bunched sleeve down his scarred arm.
( genevieve can't be dead if she isn't here to haunt him, but he sees her eyes almost every night, more whites than pupils, wide and wild like a dying animal. last night he dreamed of a boy with silky hair and a split lip, his lashes wet with unshed tears. )
suddenly delta's never seen anything more fascinating than the lamp hanging above the kitchen island. he squints against the light, allowing ashe to inspect his hand. ]
I'm not going to tell anyone. [ fucking duh. it's stupid that there's even a possibility of ashe being worried about that, but delta steels any potential snark from his voice and does his solid best to sound stupid and earnest. ] Who the fuck would I even tell? The friends I don't talk to anymore? Fucking Six and his MIA ass? It's not like how it was in high school, dude. Your fire-bending secret is safe with me.
[ he looks down quickly, scrunching his nose to stave off a sneeze. a moment as he wriggles in his seat, index finger idly tracing the rounded edge of the countertop, then before he can lose his nerve: ]
no subject
[ only a slight exaggeration. for how high he was on a mixture of hard liquor, vicodin, and searing pain, delta thinks he did okay for himself.
he plucks at his bandages, gingerly unwrapping long strips of bloodied gauze from his hand and tilting his palm toward ashe, under the light of an overhanging lamp. not as shitty as some of his previous work was mostly right, but not by much: his palm is sectioned in two, divided by an angry red gouge stitched together in a jagged line, as if he lacked a steady hand. the injury still throbs, hot to the touch, black thread pulled tight around puffy skin stained with purpling bruises and dried blood.
then further down near the heel of his palm, zigzagging across his wrist and forearm — a full bloom of slivered white scars split into smaller branches all connected together, like the naked limbs of a dead tree. i stuck a fork into an outlet just 'cause is what he tells anyone who asks, or i was struck by lightning, or it's a tattoo. he could say the same thing here, but he doesn't feel like lying. delta clears his throat and curls a finger under his cuff, wiggling his bunched sleeve down his scarred arm.
( genevieve can't be dead if she isn't here to haunt him, but he sees her eyes almost every night, more whites than pupils, wide and wild like a dying animal. last night he dreamed of a boy with silky hair and a split lip, his lashes wet with unshed tears. )
suddenly delta's never seen anything more fascinating than the lamp hanging above the kitchen island. he squints against the light, allowing ashe to inspect his hand. ]
I'm not going to tell anyone. [ fucking duh. it's stupid that there's even a possibility of ashe being worried about that, but delta steels any potential snark from his voice and does his solid best to sound stupid and earnest. ] Who the fuck would I even tell? The friends I don't talk to anymore? Fucking Six and his MIA ass? It's not like how it was in high school, dude. Your fire-bending secret is safe with me.
[ he looks down quickly, scrunching his nose to stave off a sneeze. a moment as he wriggles in his seat, index finger idly tracing the rounded edge of the countertop, then before he can lose his nerve: ]
— I really am sorry.