moved to casualtyloss

The Crain family knew better than anyone else how terrible Hill House truly was. It was just a matter of if they realized it or not. They knew that but Abigail was the one that knew what it wanted. How the house wanted to devour the entire family and how it would be better to stay away, even if the house needed to be destroyed. “You shouldn’t, though.”

there was something sweet about the fact that he had drawn something for her even if it hadn’t really been meant for her to begin with. the fact that he wanted her to have it? “sure! you can draw whatever you want-” the first piece of paper was held carefully in her hands as she moved closer to watch his work.

another grin and another nod. He looks down at the paper, tried to picture something in his head and started scribbling. Drawing something he thought he had conjured up in his head. A figure that soon morphed into a face. Some old setting. A look into a forest. Something he might have seen in a dream or a movie. Perhaps the latter. The latter makes more sense. It take shim a while to finish and be satisfied with the results. He turns the paper at an angle once he was and showed it to her. 

Confusion ghosts over his expression, hazy but still evidently there. Luke’s refusal causes it, and the more he thinks about it, the less sense it makes to him. Daxton has always viewed him as one of the more amicable people he met in rehab, but then he remembers. 

Addicts rarely view their better qualities as favorable as others do. He’s done it himself, downplayed his talents and abilities as an instructor. In light of what he’s done, Dax rarely if ever feels deserving of even the simplest praise. 

“I mean…you’re no Mother Theresa, but,” he quips lightly and elbows Luke in the side. Humor briefly lights up his expression, but then it’s overtaken with a subdued seriousness. His hands shift, folding somewhat nervously in his lap. Words have never been his forte, but he hopes they’ll be adequate this time. 

“You were kind to me during the worst part of my life. That means more than what I know to say. So, that’s something,” he adds, uncertain of how else to vocalize his appreciation.

compliments didn't often come around his presence. Not perhaps as genuine as ones Daxton has shared with him. It was a rare occurrence in general and not something he has come to expect with meeting old friends. More often than not he has used one or the other to get something to his gain. A fix. An escape. Someone else to blame.

It was often easy to say it was all the drugs. The addiction made him do it. The pull of it that dragged him down to the gutter. But then there are days he remembers making those decisions, consciously and without regret and it makes the compliment sound even weirder as it repeated in his head.

The bump to his side is enough to distract him from digging himself deeper down the rabbit hole. His eyes perking up slightly, expression travelling over the other boy. A smile and a soft chuckle following after. Uncertainty latching onto the back of his throat. What could he say to that?

Her heart ached with sympathy for him. “They won’t hurt you. I promise. —I’m Lydia by the way.” Unless he attacked them first but saying that would kind of ruin the whole vibe. “You can stay here til you feel better and if you decide to go back after that we won’t stop you.” Lydia’s brow furrowed in thought. “Out there… it looked like you were talking to someone. Who were you talking to?”