#tw wounded

@febuwhump 2025. Day 23. Gunshot Wound

Pissed off was the understatement of the century. Tristan Miller was livid beyond words. He was also in more pain than he would ever admit outloud; it was in his top three of worst sustained injuries. He was no less than limping out of the woods. His face was caked in his own blood, one side of his face was coated in crimson. A gnarly wound slashed across his cheek where Landon had landed his final blow. His lip spit open in the same impact. His backside was grazed in its entirety and whenever he moved too much, he could feel the burn-like sensation rocket through it. Boy, was he going to kill somebody. 

If his entire day hadn’t already been one for the memories, it certainly was now. His t-shirt was ripped, blood covering his neckline where he’d tried cleaning his face up only to find it hurt twice as much when he touched it. Miller hadn’t even began to consider how many bruises were forming all over his body. His knuckles were already purple and getting his body up to even a standard temperature was hard enough. His cousin had been an unwelcome participant in his already unorthodox day. 

He’d fought with Landon before - more than once, regularly. But he’d thrown a punch earlier than normal; he was already furious from the events prior and if anything, he wasn’t sure if he’d used the older Miller as an outlet for his rage. He’d tried to be a good friend to Harley earlier in the day, he was hurting more than he’d ever seen him and Tris had promised to pay a visit to the cause of the immortal’s slump. Tristan was fully aware Zane - given Har’s description and knowing what the bender was like, would not be at all appreciative of Tris’ intrusion. 

It had reached the point where Tristan was far too wound up and injured to care about the other man’s reaction. He wasn’t going to break a promise to the immortal and he wasn’t going to let either of his friend’s be each other’s downfalls. Groaning, the young Miller grabbed the back of his head and felt the lump forming at the base of it where he’d slammed the ground and like flashes, each of the thrown punches he’d exchanged with his cousin came to the forefront of his vision. 

He had to shake it off, he couldn’t be throwing punches around Zane. The guy would probably kick him out the window and Tristan wasn’t much in a state to argue, let alone raise his black and bruised fists to one of his best friends. 

It was a short walk stumble to the bloodbenders apartment. He found himself there a lot quicker than he figured he could manage and he was betting it was because he was working his aggression as a counter to the pain. Tris went to bang his fist on Zane’s door, but paused. He keeps it open, it’s Z. 

Tristan let himself in, clicking open the door and watching it separate from the frame as it swung open. He nudged it shut again with his elbow, huffing in agitation once inside. Tristan couldn’t have picked a worst ‘hello’ if he had tried: “I’ve just come from Har’s, Z.” He wouldn’t have been so blunt if he wasn’t feeling his own blood pooling on his face; everyone close to him knew his temper, he wasn’t going to be able to simmer it until he blew it out a little - Zane was fortunately, probably able to handle him better than most. He moved his hand to yank the top of his tee, the sticky blood clinging to the top of his chest and he finally noticed how ruined his top was. “I need a shirt too,” he grumbled with a grunt, throwing his arm down and wincing at his own self-inflicted fast movements. Looking back up with the same pissed-off glower in his hues, he did manage to add a: “Please.”