CHARLES HAS DECIDED OVER TIME that he hates that look, the dark expression on the other's face settling deep under his skin. it made him sad, in a way that the boy couldn't explain. he KNOWS it's not his fault, he knows that no matter what he does he can't make the man at home, the head of the house happy... and yet when beck looks at him like that...
guilt runs through his frame.
❝ i said i'm alright, beck. ❞ but he's not, is he ? he's uncomfortable where he sits, and that persona he puts up, the one where he's all smiles and cheerful words, just doesn't come as easy as it should. it was hard to be the STRONG one when so much was broken right under the surface. shifting along the fabric of your clothes.
he sits up a bit straighter, dark brown eyes on those blues he has an incredibly HARD time saying no to... and sighs. after a moment he goes to pulling off his jacket, and it's slow, steady. unable to move too much because he's sure, now, that he might have dislocated his shoulder in climbing through the window to the basement. to his room.
his shirt, too, bunched around his stomach as hands lift. he's not shaking, he doesn't DARE, but he wants to. he wants to fucking cry. they're red. inflamed, swollen, like a brand across his flesh. but they're not the only ones, the others from earlier that week sit a little lower, purple and green.
he's EERILY silent for a long second. ❝ he just had a bad day. ❞ excuses.
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