#self 1ess

his  hand  was  tangled  into  her  golden  blonde  locks,  his  lap  was  nice  and  perfectly  warm  — sue  had  parked  herself  right  against  it  after  coming  home  from  a  long  two  days  at  the  lab.  she  was  sighing,  his  fingers  dug  into  her  scalp,  massaging  it.  her  words  catch  bruce  off  guard,  his  upper  lip  curl  slightly,  his  dark  brows  pinch  at  his  forehead.  ❝   too  much.  ❞

It’s not worth very much,　no.　As if such vulnerable admission could make up for whatever the fuck this back-and-forth is doing to him　⸻　as if it could make it go away.　And so it insists upon himself that he does not look to Sam,　and he does thereby not allow the equally fragile glassiness of his eyes to reflect such rugged countenance.　Whatever pools,　he knows it cannot be tears,　the fickle little things,　and he knows furthermore that he is much better than to weep for another man.　No matter what he is doing,　no matter what he will do.　Sam is not worth that much.

The rain.　It patters against the window,　gathers in a slough on the sill.　A gentle cascade to contrast vividly against the deafening roar of thunder to follow,　the acerbic strikes-down of lightning,　every spindly white vein illuminating the night sky.　He is stuck here with him,　that Dae-ho is,　and neither the aggression nor the vague approximation of tenderness can soothe the perturbation flaring wildly in his chest.　They could engage in the violence,　throw firm-knuckled punches and grab and tug and pull until it means something;　it won’t,　it never will,　and when the adrenaline tapers off into nothingness,　the thorns of having lost himself will dig in.　Indent the flesh.　Make him feel something besides the unpleasantry.　

❛❛　You　—　do you think that changes fucking anything?　❜❜　Maybe the joke is on him,　and it will be him directing his greatest sympathies to Sam.　He will tell a story and Dae-ho will listen,　tilt his head as to convey his understanding,　force the niceties that fight to burst forth from his ribcage.　Maybe it is a matter of spinning circumstances into reverse.　Sam hates himself,　and so he seeks out Dae-ho as guilty pleasure.　Something　(someone)　he shouldn’t be doing and yet he does anyways.　Vice-grip of Dae-ho’s throat constricts,　voice forced into a breathy whine.　❛❛　You’re an asshole.　❜❜