floratic:

WAS  PLANNING  TO .  ❞   his  dad  might  have  been  looking  for  him  by  now ,  but  as  long  as  he  didn’t  show  his  face  back  in  the  house , . . —  he  could  deal  with  the  brewing storm  later .  right  now ,  he’d  decided  that  the  time  was  reserved  just  for  him  &  parrish  ,  there  was  no  intention  of  ruining  the  hard  reached  peace .  

he  was  no  stranger  to  june’s  unconditional  concern  &  care  for  him , &  often  enough ,  she  was  more  of  a  mother  towards  him  than  anyone  else .  her  care  was  overwhelming ,  a  thing  that  no  matter  how  long  he  spent  his  time  around  parrish ,  that  he  could  become  used  to .  he  would  often  forget  the  ways  to  respond ,  only  responding  with  a  silent  nod  or  a  small , shifting  grin  towards  her  .  &  with  that  too ,  june  always  appeared  to  be  more  than  pleased .  

reaching  over ,  he  takes  the  container  of  food  from  parrish ,  one  scribbled  so  neatly  with  his  name  in  a  sharpie . ELLIOT .  gently  he  presses  a  thumb  over  his  name  before  running  it  down  the  length  until  the  last  letter  of  his  name  finally  ends .      ❝  didn’t  want  to  go  back  anyways . heard  it  was  going  to  storm  today .  what  if  i  was  walking  back  &  it  started  pouring ? ❞     it  was  a  lame - found  excuse ,  &  he’s  certain  that  parrish  knows  as  well . but  he  only  tilts  his  face  up ,  offering  a  lop - sided  grin  before  clacking  the  container  in  his  lap  open , &  spearing  through  the  mac  &  cheese  with  his  fork .   

the  truth  was  that  mary  anne  had  already  texted  him  prior  to  his  coming  to  parrish’s  house .  you  big  fucking  lousy  idiot . pissed  him  off  again  didn’t you ?  don’t  come  back  to  the house  or  he’s  going  to  break  your  neck  for  sure .  stay  somewhere  safe , i’ll  take  care  of  it .   &  he’d  left it  at  that , decided  he  would  hang  about  until  he  would  receive  the  safe  OK  from  his  sister  again .  quietly ,  he  digs  through  the  food  with  his  fork ,  wincing  at  the  sharp  aches  across  his  jaw . 

  ❝ he  was  throwing  shit  about  something  my  mom  did .  dunno  what ,  it’s  always  something  irrelevant .  &  i  knew  she  wasn’t  going  to  fight  back .      so  i  did .  naturally  , he  would .  it  was  something  he’d  always  done ,  &  parrish  was  aware  of  it  as  well .  countless  of  times   he’d   thrown  his  fist  across  the  jaws  of  threatening  faces  against  parrish ,  which  included  his  step - brother  .  the  sensation  memory  was  still  clear  as  daylight .  the  cold  kiss  of  the  gun - metal  across his  skin , the  momentarily  panic  that  bloomed  somewhere  deep  down  in  his  chest  at  the  realization .  he  had  been  lucky  that  the  bastard  wasn’‘t  smart  enough  to  pull  the  trigger  on  him  fast  enough .  

he’d  been  afraid —- although  it  had  been  just  for a  moment ,  he  had  been .  it  was  something  he  would  never  tell  parrish ,    ❝  tell  your  mom  i  had  some  horrendous  fall  down  a  staircase . ❞  the  last  time  they’d  used  the  excuse ,  june  had  better  mind  not  to  reason  or  argue  with  them . she  however ,  had  her  eyebrows  raised  in  question ,  arms  folded  as  she  examined  the  darkening  bruises  near  elliot’s  eye .  a  staircase  that  fights  back ?  she  had  asked , smiled  kindly .  she  knew &  elliot  only  nodded  his  head  meekly .   she  didn’t  ask  any  further .      ❝  i  know  she  won’t  believe  it ,  but  she’ll  pretend  that  she  does .

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Parrish simply leans his head against Elliot’s shoulder for a moment, the smell of the food in his container wafting up to hit his nose as his eyes flit over to his open window. Clear blue skies rolling overhead, not a cloud for miles. He could pick Elliot’s excuses apart like clockwork these days, like prying faux meat back to expose the bone, the truth hidden underneath. But right now, he doesn’t mind the flimsy lie, and he nuzzles his face deeper into Elliot’s shoulder to prove that. He’d rather Elliot tell a small bad excuse, if that meant he wasn’t going to leave just yet.

“I wish things were different.” His tone is somber, words that he’d spoken so often that they were somehow feeling stale drifting through his mouth. He means them, though, and tries to make their meaning stronger, each and every time. Not only the situation with Elliot’s father, but with everything. He loves Elliot, but he loves having Elliot safe and sound at home even more. Whenever he went on his signature punching sprees, whenever he arrives on his doorstep, covered in bruises, sometimes nearer to death than he even realizes, Parrish is afraid. He tries not to show it, but he knows Elliot can see the widening of his eyes and the slack of his jaw (he still shudders when he remembers Elliot recount the story of his step brother. He’d wanted to punch Elliot himself, for acting so reckless that night. But, hug him, too. Such was the struggle between what he thought was best for Elliot, and what Elliot thought was best for Parrish).

He wraps an arm around Elliot’s torso, brings his lips to his cheek, tries to forget that the kiss will probably sting because of his cuts. He doesn’t want to think about such a thing, knowing that the scrapes and scars would become a physical barrier, separating them with the promise of pain and a knife-sharp ache. He’s quiet for a second, pondering the last segments of Elliot’s words. June wasn’t dumb, but she was also not one to pry.“It’s not my place, P,” she’d told Parrish one night, in between mouthfuls of her favorite take-out food, “If he wants to say something, I’ll let him. But… I don’t want to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

And he’d hated that mentality, still partially did. How could a person just stand by, willingly let something continue when they knew it was hurting someone they love? God, he couldn’t begin to count the nights when he’d let his fingers hover over the emergency numbers on his cellphone, knowing it would only take that much to possibly help, and he couldn’t count the times when he’d held himself back, imaginary audio of Elliot screaming at him, so angry because “what, you think I can’t handle this myself, Parrish? What the fuck, do you think I’m not tough enough?”

He’s taking a risk when he speaks now, his voice partially muffled by Elliot’s shoulder, as he murmurs, “And I kinda wish she didn’t believe every word out of your mouth sometimes.” He reaches closer, goes to take his own fork and stab a piece of macaroni onto it, gingerly bringing it to his mouth. “El, don’t you get tired of making excuses? Don’t you want to do something, bring that bastard to the cops? Something?”

Do you want to die in your own house? Do you want the last thing you see to be your father, punching and kicking you to death? The rest of his questions are stopped up in his throat, and he can’t bring himself to speak anymore of the increasingly awful thoughts in his mind. He feels weird even posing those questions, like he’s somehow going against Elliot, but he can’t help it; they were eating him alive, wracking his brain in a way that made it near impossible to keep any of it in for much longer.

“I’m just… afraid for you. I’m afraid to ever find out the hardest way possible what your breaking point is.”

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