sorry about the blood in your mouth, i wish it was mine
"There was a fight?" There is no longer even an attempt to keep an edge out of his voice, Nate's words surprisingly clear, surprisingly concise. Anger is a focus like no other, is easy to grip onto. "I thought it was just a crowd." It's a plus, to know Sunjata hadn't been simply brandishing his dagger in a crowd doing nothing, but the relief is mere drop in the bucket compared to what now almost consumes Nate, all that emptiness inside of him consumed, paper and dry wood for the little bit of flickering he'd let in.
It only grows, roars higher into a conflagration that Nate really has no control over. Every word out of Sunjata's mouth is another piece of kindling, a log, a cup of gasoline. "What," the first word comes out dangerously softly, though Nate's voice grows, a hiss, an accusation, "were you thinking?" One of his hands comes up to push through his hair, heedless of the bandage, just so he has an excuse to not ball his hands into fists.
He shouldn't say anything more. He shouldn't do this. He should keep his mouth closed, should hold his tongue.
"Have you listened to anything I've said? A single thing? Be safe. Be careful. Don't poke what happened." Every word grows louder, never quite dipping into the territory of yelling, but edging against it. "Is this what you do every time you leave? Poke hornets nests, get into shit, because, what? I'm here to fix your shit every time you walk through that door? Because I put you back together, just so you can fucking go and rip yourself apart again?" He's glad for the darkness, glad for the shadows that shroud his face, because as steady as his voice is, he can't stop the tear that slips down his cheek, the undercurrent of pain, beneath his blow up.
It only grows, roars higher into a conflagration that Nate really has no control over. Every word out of Sunjata's mouth is another piece of kindling, a log, a cup of gasoline. "What," the first word comes out dangerously softly, though Nate's voice grows, a hiss, an accusation, "were you thinking?" One of his hands comes up to push through his hair, heedless of the bandage, just so he has an excuse to not ball his hands into fists.
He shouldn't say anything more. He shouldn't do this. He should keep his mouth closed, should hold his tongue.
"Have you listened to anything I've said? A single thing? Be safe. Be careful. Don't poke what happened." Every word grows louder, never quite dipping into the territory of yelling, but edging against it. "Is this what you do every time you leave? Poke hornets nests, get into shit, because, what? I'm here to fix your shit every time you walk through that door? Because I put you back together, just so you can fucking go and rip yourself apart again?" He's glad for the darkness, glad for the shadows that shroud his face, because as steady as his voice is, he can't stop the tear that slips down his cheek, the undercurrent of pain, beneath his blow up.
i couldn't get the boy to kill me
but i wore his jacket for the longest time
NATE
