[ he doesn't like this feeling. is it concern? guilt for leaving? it's as if he's done something wrong and he isn't sure what, but it's something. something that set tross off, because it's obvious that he's not happy. tross is even harder to navigate than delphi in her moods, and he's entirely too fucked up for this level of emotional scrutiny.
the drink is pushed into his hands — a surprise, because he already forgot about it — but his eyes are focused on tross instead of his punch. ]
I'm sorry I broke into your house. [ his face feels too warm. is he too drunk? is this shame? ] I'm sorry I left you at the party. Don't be mad at me. I didn't fucking — I didn't mean to piss you off. Are you crying? I didn't want to make you cry, I just — I wanted to... I don't know. I don't fucking know.
[ his hand shakes, and then he throws the cup on the sidewalk, blue punch splashing onto both of them. his rage threatens to swallow him whole, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip so hard that he nearly draws blood, and then he rushes forward, grabbing tross by his collar with both hands. ]
I know I fucked up. [ he shakes him, his eyes turning desperate. is he going to leave? is this the end? ] I didn't mean to make you cry. I'm sorry. Don't... don't be mad. I'll never leave you again.
[ somewhere between sena throwing his cup on the ground and shaking him like a ragdoll, tross thinks how easy it'd be to bait him a second time. full eye contact, so close he can smell the liquor on his breath, like candied coconut and honeyed rum. he could pull him under in a heartbeat and leave him with another crippling migraine, and if that's dangerously petty and cruel he doesn't fucking care.
what does it matter if he left him alone? he's been alone. he is alone.
his hands circle sena's skinny wrists, thumb touching forefinger. he roughly jerks him into his space, catching the brunt of sena's weight with his chest, and squeezes his arms hard so he'll shut the fuck up for five seconds or stop apologizing. ]
We're cool. Don't worry about it. [ no gusto, all monotone, as hollow as he feels. like he hadn't spent almost a half hour in near hysterics at some stranger's house, slamming two consecutive lines to keep from breaking down in front of a hundred watchful, curious eyes. like his face isn't still damp with damning evidence. like sena doesn't already know.
raw discomfort cracks his apathy in half. he can't look sena in the eye, so he drops his wrists and turns to punch in the code for his building, holding the door for him. ]
[ don't worry about it, he says, but sena knows they're not cool, and he is worrying about it — mistakes are the one thing he hates to make because he never knows what they'll cost him. sometimes it's a band-aid and a scolding. other times it's broken bones and his entire world.
he doesn't yet know what this one will cost, but he feels sick thinking about it as he walks through the open door, following tross with completely silent footsteps. it was supposed to be fun. a couple of nudes in tross' bed and a quick raid of his fridge. a harmless joke.
he's so fucking stupid. he made tross cry.
did he do this to delphi, too? ]
You don't have to fucking lie. I know you're mad. Just — say whatever you want to say. You want to hit me? Just don't go for the face. And you only get one shot.
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no subject
the drink is pushed into his hands — a surprise, because he already forgot about it — but his eyes are focused on tross instead of his punch. ]
I'm sorry I broke into your house. [ his face feels too warm. is he too drunk? is this shame? ] I'm sorry I left you at the party. Don't be mad at me. I didn't fucking — I didn't mean to piss you off. Are you crying? I didn't want to make you cry, I just — I wanted to... I don't know. I don't fucking know.
[ his hand shakes, and then he throws the cup on the sidewalk, blue punch splashing onto both of them. his rage threatens to swallow him whole, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip so hard that he nearly draws blood, and then he rushes forward, grabbing tross by his collar with both hands. ]
I know I fucked up. [ he shakes him, his eyes turning desperate. is he going to leave? is this the end? ] I didn't mean to make you cry. I'm sorry. Don't... don't be mad. I'll never leave you again.
no subject
what does it matter if he left him alone? he's been alone. he is alone.
his hands circle sena's skinny wrists, thumb touching forefinger. he roughly jerks him into his space, catching the brunt of sena's weight with his chest, and squeezes his arms hard so he'll shut the fuck up for five seconds or stop apologizing. ]
We're cool. Don't worry about it. [ no gusto, all monotone, as hollow as he feels. like he hadn't spent almost a half hour in near hysterics at some stranger's house, slamming two consecutive lines to keep from breaking down in front of a hundred watchful, curious eyes. like his face isn't still damp with damning evidence. like sena doesn't already know.
raw discomfort cracks his apathy in half. he can't look sena in the eye, so he drops his wrists and turns to punch in the code for his building, holding the door for him. ]
no subject
he doesn't yet know what this one will cost, but he feels sick thinking about it as he walks through the open door, following tross with completely silent footsteps. it was supposed to be fun. a couple of nudes in tross' bed and a quick raid of his fridge. a harmless joke.
he's so fucking stupid. he made tross cry.
did he do this to delphi, too? ]
You don't have to fucking lie. I know you're mad. Just — say whatever you want to say. You want to hit me? Just don't go for the face. And you only get one shot.