( @schismers | cont. )
it doesn’t matter how swift lee is, because patrick’s bound to find out anyways -- but his hands still crawl for a bag of carrots in their freezer at record speed and legs nearly make it to his goal, also known as his brother’s bedroom. he places the ice uncertainly on his cheekbone, touching for sore spots, grasping for anything bloody, trying to figure out which parts of his nose are broken, crumpling the plastic packaging all the same with every painful movement. he sees patty poke his head out of his illuminated bedroom and hears the hockey game before he can make it up the stairs.
he doesn’t get why he has to say goodnight to him when he gets home, doesn’t get why he’s always gotta say shit like that whenever something’s wrong. let him invite his friends and happily watch his hockey and get busy doing homework like a normal teenager. lee doesn’t wait for him to finish, lifting his free hand to signal him to leave: ❛ -- i’m fine. shut up. go back to bed. ❜
