[ he didn’t have plans to touch her, because saint rarely has plans that involve making things worse for himself, a lesson learned at a young age from a schoolboy’s shoe hitting his skull outside of a graveyard with the intent to kill — safety was a gift to which he would never be entitled. his last refuge was his mother’s arms, and a goddamn scratch had taken her away from him in prolonged agony. septicemia, of all things. after everything.
death is meant to be lived with, danced with, talked to. it’s what passes through his head as the stench rolls through the room, as the girl disappears into the bathroom and does what saint feels like doing. his mother’s voice repeating what death is meant to be to him doesn’t make him any less afraid of it, even after all these years.
following her to the bathroom feels like a death sentence, at least empty-handed, so he rifles through the closet first, finding a selection of very short, very shimmery dresses interspersed throughout clothes that look more normal. he considers a silky slip that looks like something a… whatever she is would lounge around in, but decides that would be incredibly stupid for the situation and the weather, so he pulls out an oversized sweater instead, maybe a little too library-chic, but it’s warm and sensible enough for a place that has blood on the walls and surprise splinters just waiting to find bare skin.
he stops in the threshold of the doorway with no intention of coming in, but even with his college experiences cut short when he dropped out to move back to england to help his mom live, he knows the proper protocol here is to not let her hair get in the vomit. very delicately, and pointedly avoiding touching skin, he gathers her dark hair into a messy bundle until she finishes emptying her stomach. ]
My name’s Saint. [ for lack of anything better to say, since every single topic they’ve broached so far has been inflammatory in some way. ] I brought you a sweater.
no subject
death is meant to be lived with, danced with, talked to. it’s what passes through his head as the stench rolls through the room, as the girl disappears into the bathroom and does what saint feels like doing. his mother’s voice repeating what death is meant to be to him doesn’t make him any less afraid of it, even after all these years.
following her to the bathroom feels like a death sentence, at least empty-handed, so he rifles through the closet first, finding a selection of very short, very shimmery dresses interspersed throughout clothes that look more normal. he considers a silky slip that looks like something a… whatever she is would lounge around in, but decides that would be incredibly stupid for the situation and the weather, so he pulls out an oversized sweater instead, maybe a little too library-chic, but it’s warm and sensible enough for a place that has blood on the walls and surprise splinters just waiting to find bare skin.
he stops in the threshold of the doorway with no intention of coming in, but even with his college experiences cut short when he dropped out to move back to england to help his mom live, he knows the proper protocol here is to not let her hair get in the vomit. very delicately, and pointedly avoiding touching skin, he gathers her dark hair into a messy bundle until she finishes emptying her stomach. ]
My name’s Saint. [ for lack of anything better to say, since every single topic they’ve broached so far has been inflammatory in some way. ] I brought you a sweater.