i've never like i've never called anyone that i really didn't mean it not that it matters bc i'm sure it felt like shit anyway regardless of my intentions but i'm sorry, i panicked i thought of u getting hurt bc of my own stupid bullshit and wanted to fucking vomit
i don't talk to anyone except u anymore who would i even tell of sorts
[ first thing he did after he smeared blood on his front door trying to get inside the house was bang around in his bathroom for a small kit and splash vodka over his hand when he couldn't find the rubbing alcohol. the pain swept him to his knees, merciless even with two tablets of six's vicodin, but he stitched himself up once the nausea and dizziness passed then fell asleep on the couch watching old cartoons.
i can't imagine you would be good at stitches dude you know i can sew, i could've helped you if you asked i know i bailed pretty fast but i assumed you would go to a hospital
[ somehow imagining delta struggling through sewing his hand up makes him feel... like shit. he tries to shake it off, but emptiness still grows right in the center of his chest. ]
did you check on it today does it feel hot and look red or what
[ is it the expired macaroni he found in the pantry or the pain from his hand that clenches him by the gut, iron-fisted? it certainly has nothing to do with the prospect of seeing ashe's face again. he's nineteen. that'd be childish. ]
tbh i'm still reeling from our last incident so idt i even have any energy left to chuck us into another dimension i made some mac & cheese if ur hungry but it tastes like shit
[ this is stupid. to go running back to the same shit is so fucking stupid. he drops his phone on the couch and rubs his eyes, tired from lack of sleep and the few tears he'd shed last night when he thought about the words that hurt worse than delta's fist colliding into his mouth. ]
[ ttys. he's such a fucking baby. no comment on the sudden warmth in his chest.
it takes him thirty minutes to show up at delta's doorstep, frowning at the small smudge of blood still on the knob. he wipes it away with his sleeve, then stumbles inside when the door comes open on its own. ]
Can't even lock the fucking door. [ muttered under his breath while he pushes the door firmly shut and twists the lock. delta's house is nice, certainly nicer than most of the houses he's been in, and definitely several steps up from ashe's apartment. the few times he's stayed over have been relatively peaceful — even with the windows open there hasn't been any drunken yelling or cursing, and from here he can hear the seagulls by the ocean.
he pulls his worn vans off and sets them neatly by the welcome mat, then wanders in uncertainly, loudly clearing his throat to announce his presence. ]
[ delta is little more than a floating face when he rounds a corner from the living room into the open foyer, draped in a fuzzy blanket patterned in colorful neon cats wearing pajamas ( which belongs to six, an ex-girlfriend, a fucking homeless lady, if asked, innocent until proven guilty ). his good hand fists the blanket under his chin, creating a makeshift hooded cloak. ]
Hi — shit, my bad, dude. [ he pulls short to narrowly avoid a head-on collision with ashe's face and bare feet. too close, teetering unsteadily from heel-to-toe, and he smells like apples, on his breath or in his hair. he'd been lying about his face. the guilt he'd successfully drowned in a cocktail of vodka and vicodin returns with a sharp vengeance as his thumb feathers ashe's split lip.
then he twirls away, disappearing into the kitchen at the end of the foyer. ]
Are you sure you don't want anything? [ whether ashe follows him or answers him at all, delta slams open pantry doors, rifling for anything edible. he's well overdue for a grocery run, the fridge filled with half-empty condiment bottles and a single banana. as if he couldn't be less of a fucking adult. he places the banana on the island counter in a paltry offering, then slides onto a barstool and stares at his bandaged hand, picking at the frayed edges. ] There's rice cakes in the cupboard, too. And peanut butter.
[ he should've brought him adderall instead of the gel.
ashe follows silently after him, watching delta go through all of the cabinets in the kitchen with alarming speed, coming up with one banana that looks like it's twelve seconds away from turning completely brown. he takes the stool beside him when delta finally sits down, reaching into his pocket for the little glass bottle of clove oil, setting it carefully on the granite counter top. ]
This'll help. Just put a couple of drops on it and it won't hurt as much. I got it from my mom.
[ which isn't exactly a seal of confidence, but he wouldn't have brought it over if he didn't think it would help. he tucks his hair behind one ear, all of it hanging loose because he couldn't be bothered to spend more than two seconds in front of the mirror. the mottled bruising around the corner of his mouth certainly isn't the worst he's ever had, but he doesn't like to think about how delta was the one to put it there.
he fiddles with one of his cloth bracelets, looking around the empty kitchen and struggling to weave together a sentence. fuck. ]
You're the only one that knows. About — me, I mean. Aside from my mom. [ he bites his lip out of habit and then winces, muttering out a curse. ] Just — let me see your hand. If your stitches are fucked up then I can do them better. You need to change your bandages anyway. They don't even look good.
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: ]
[ he takes delta's hand in his own, gently cradling it and immediately noticing how large it is compared to his own smaller hand — and softer, too, whereas his own fingers are calloused from plucking strings. the gash looks horrible, worse than he imagined, but redoing his stitches would probably make it feel even worse than that. his eyes travel down his wrist to the wispy path of scars decorating his arm. ashe can tell it's decidedly not a tattoo, and a shiver creeps down his spine when he thinks about how all of that might've gotten there. ]
Did you do that to yourself? [ the question comes after a brief pause of wondering if it's appropriate to ask such a thing. it's not, but he does anyway, awkwardly reaching for the bottle and unscrewing the dropper. when? the scars look old. did he have them when they used to pass each other in the hallway? when he sat beside him in chemistry? how did he hide something like this?
carefully, he squeezes several drops of the sweet-smelling oil onto delta's palm, keeping his eyes fixed on the jagged cut even as the apology hangs between them. ]
I know. Just — stop, okay? I get why you said those things. You were trying to protect me. [ in the dumbest possible way, but delta is one of the dumbest people he knows. he keeps that to himself. ] Just forget about it.
[ because the more he thinks about it the worse he feels. he'd ideally like to never think about it again. clearing his throat, he slides off the stool, keeping delta's wounded hand carefully in his own for a moment longer before realizing what he's doing and snatching his hand away to jam it into his pocket instead. ]
Can we go upstairs? I'll bandage you up again and then I want to take a nap.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
i've never
like i've never called anyone that
i really didn't mean it
not that it matters bc i'm sure it felt like shit anyway regardless of my intentions but i'm sorry, i panicked
i thought of u getting hurt bc of my own stupid bullshit and wanted to fucking vomit
no subject
it's whatever delta
i don't want to talk about it
i've heard it so many times it doesn't mean shit to me anyway
anyway in theory we're both fine
just don't tell anyone about me
i'm not like you i don't like fucking sharing with the class
did you get stitches
no subject
but ok
i don't talk to anyone except u anymore
who would i even tell
of sorts
[ first thing he did after he smeared blood on his front door trying to get inside the house was bang around in his bathroom for a small kit and splash vodka over his hand when he couldn't find the rubbing alcohol. the pain swept him to his knees, merciless even with two tablets of six's vicodin, but he stitched himself up once the nausea and dizziness passed then fell asleep on the couch watching old cartoons.
the blood he cleaned up in the morning. ]
i did a better job than last time
no subject
dude you know i can sew, i could've helped you if you asked
i know i bailed pretty fast but i assumed you would go to a hospital
[ somehow imagining delta struggling through sewing his hand up makes him feel... like shit. he tries to shake it off, but emptiness still grows right in the center of his chest. ]
did you check on it today
does it feel hot and look red or what
no subject
i wanted u to actually talk to me again sometime this century
hospitals + me don't rly gel
idk it doesnt look as shitty as some of my previous work
i don't think it's infected
no subject
no subject
tbh i'm still reeling from our last incident so idt i even have any energy left to chuck us into another dimension
i made some mac & cheese if ur hungry but it tastes like shit
no subject
[ this is stupid. to go running back to the same shit is so fucking stupid. he drops his phone on the couch and rubs his eyes, tired from lack of sleep and the few tears he'd shed last night when he thought about the words that hurt worse than delta's fist colliding into his mouth. ]
i couldn't sleep
your bed's more comfortable
no subject
[ into the dumpster it goes. ]
come over then
u can take a nap
i won't bother u
no subject
i'm gonna bring you some shit for your hand
it helped when i got drunk and let some dumbass tattoo me in the bathroom
no subject
no subject
clove gel
i'm not peddling drugs to your dumb ass
no subject
[ skeptical and disappointed. ]
ttys
no subject
it takes him thirty minutes to show up at delta's doorstep, frowning at the small smudge of blood still on the knob. he wipes it away with his sleeve, then stumbles inside when the door comes open on its own. ]
Can't even lock the fucking door. [ muttered under his breath while he pushes the door firmly shut and twists the lock. delta's house is nice, certainly nicer than most of the houses he's been in, and definitely several steps up from ashe's apartment. the few times he's stayed over have been relatively peaceful — even with the windows open there hasn't been any drunken yelling or cursing, and from here he can hear the seagulls by the ocean.
he pulls his worn vans off and sets them neatly by the welcome mat, then wanders in uncertainly, loudly clearing his throat to announce his presence. ]
no subject
Hi — shit, my bad, dude. [ he pulls short to narrowly avoid a head-on collision with ashe's face and bare feet. too close, teetering unsteadily from heel-to-toe, and he smells like apples, on his breath or in his hair. he'd been lying about his face. the guilt he'd successfully drowned in a cocktail of vodka and vicodin returns with a sharp vengeance as his thumb feathers ashe's split lip.
then he twirls away, disappearing into the kitchen at the end of the foyer. ]
Are you sure you don't want anything? [ whether ashe follows him or answers him at all, delta slams open pantry doors, rifling for anything edible. he's well overdue for a grocery run, the fridge filled with half-empty condiment bottles and a single banana. as if he couldn't be less of a fucking adult. he places the banana on the island counter in a paltry offering, then slides onto a barstool and stares at his bandaged hand, picking at the frayed edges. ] There's rice cakes in the cupboard, too. And peanut butter.
no subject
ashe follows silently after him, watching delta go through all of the cabinets in the kitchen with alarming speed, coming up with one banana that looks like it's twelve seconds away from turning completely brown. he takes the stool beside him when delta finally sits down, reaching into his pocket for the little glass bottle of clove oil, setting it carefully on the granite counter top. ]
This'll help. Just put a couple of drops on it and it won't hurt as much. I got it from my mom.
[ which isn't exactly a seal of confidence, but he wouldn't have brought it over if he didn't think it would help. he tucks his hair behind one ear, all of it hanging loose because he couldn't be bothered to spend more than two seconds in front of the mirror. the mottled bruising around the corner of his mouth certainly isn't the worst he's ever had, but he doesn't like to think about how delta was the one to put it there.
he fiddles with one of his cloth bracelets, looking around the empty kitchen and struggling to weave together a sentence. fuck. ]
You're the only one that knows. About — me, I mean. Aside from my mom. [ he bites his lip out of habit and then winces, muttering out a curse. ] Just — let me see your hand. If your stitches are fucked up then I can do them better. You need to change your bandages anyway. They don't even look good.
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.
no subject
Did you do that to yourself? [ the question comes after a brief pause of wondering if it's appropriate to ask such a thing. it's not, but he does anyway, awkwardly reaching for the bottle and unscrewing the dropper. when? the scars look old. did he have them when they used to pass each other in the hallway? when he sat beside him in chemistry? how did he hide something like this?
carefully, he squeezes several drops of the sweet-smelling oil onto delta's palm, keeping his eyes fixed on the jagged cut even as the apology hangs between them. ]
I know. Just — stop, okay? I get why you said those things. You were trying to protect me. [ in the dumbest possible way, but delta is one of the dumbest people he knows. he keeps that to himself. ] Just forget about it.
[ because the more he thinks about it the worse he feels. he'd ideally like to never think about it again. clearing his throat, he slides off the stool, keeping delta's wounded hand carefully in his own for a moment longer before realizing what he's doing and snatching his hand away to jam it into his pocket instead. ]
Can we go upstairs? I'll bandage you up again and then I want to take a nap.