floratic:

 ❝ —LISTEN , I  TOLD  YOU .   in  recoiling  defense , he  shrugs  himself  away  from  parrish’s  reach ,  digging  the  bruise - battered  knuckles  harder  down  the  small  of  his  pockets .  here  he  was  again , always  evading  &  evading , —since   when  did  running  become  a  defense  mechanism ?  maybe  it  was  from  seven  years  back ,  him ,  cowering  behind  the  oak  drawer ,  dodging  the  shattered  throw  of  his  father’s  beer  bottle .   oh  elliot ,  what  happened ?  nothing .  absolutely  nothing  at  all .  it’s  always  nothing .     ❝  the  bastard  started  it ,  oh  actually ,  he  was  fuckin’  asking  for  it .  next  time  i’ll  send  him  off  to  a  month - long  vacation  hospital .  i  hate  him . ❞   truthfully ,  he  could  have  evaded  that  too .  the  fight .  of  course ,  in  flight  or  fight ,  flight  was  always  an  option — , but  not  for  him .  silently ,  he  falters  into  a  long  solitude  of  silence ,  waiting  for  the  familiar  phrase  to  fall  from  his  boyfriend’s  lips :   well . .  want  to  talk  about  it ?    

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@helleborae

He opens his mouth to speak, to offer some sort of supportive words, you_’re not alone, you can talk to me. Please, god, talk to me. _But he feels like a broken record, like he’s running in circles in the same way a dumbfounded dog chases its tail and doesn’t know what to do once it catches its “prey.” He debates reaching for Elliot again, part of him desperate to maintain some kind of physical contact – that way it wouldn’t seem so much like he was losing his boyfriend to the firestorm of destruction welling up around him, engulfing him like an unavoidable natural disaster to which he could only be a trembling witness.

“At this rate, you_’re both _going to wind up in the hospital. What’re you gonna do then, El? Stab each other with scalpels when you’re asleep in your beds?”

He’s running out of things to say, he feels it in the pit of his stomach. Running out of ways to put an optimistic spin on it, running out of ways to distract Elliot from the pain he felt. There was only so many times they could go out to eat together before the lack of money was noticeable, and road trips, no matter how far the distance they spanned, had to end someday.

There’s worry creasing his face, and his hands still itching to be anywhere but stuffed inside his own pockets, longing to examine Elliot’s bruises, so only he could convince himself the wounds wouldn’t, in fact, be permanent this time.

“I love you, Elliot… That’s about all I know how to say when this happens. God, sometimes _I _want to land a few punches on the bastard.” He dips his gaze away for a moment, waiting for the tidal waves of emotion to retreat from the shores of his mind and wash back out to sea. When he’s recovered, he looks back at his love, the love that makes his heart feel like it’s _burning _some days when he stares a little too deeply into those blue eyes.

He isn’t about to back down from this, not this time, not right now. He reaches forward, knowing full well he was risking being slapped or kicked or whatever else Elliot was capable of doing when he felt like a cornered animal, and takes hold of Elliot’s arm, all but _yanking _one of his wrist’s free and out into the open light.

“Jesus, these look worse than last time…” He breathes, looking down at the purple and blackened flesh stretched across Elliot’s knuckles. “This needs to stop. I-I don’t know how, but – you need to leave that house.” He pauses for a moment, eyes alight with an idea. “Why don’t you come stay with me? Doesn’t have to be for long, but, just enough until you heal. Seriously, El, you need time outside of there. Please.

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  1. helleborae reblogged this from floratic
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