FIGHT OR FLIGHT , there it was again . he thinks about the switchblade sewn into the pocket inside his jacket as the fucker advances on towards him . and in tandem , one step forward , & he takes a step back , again & again , until his back finally meets against the wired fence . carefully , he digs his hand inside his jacket , considering the blade , lightly pressing against the sharped point of the weapon before his breath stalls by the mention of his . . boyfriend . now , there was no longer the tug of hesitation , but he cuts through the air with the switchblade , keeping it in a measured distance against the stranger before bracing himself .
❝ what’s he doing out here ? ❞ perhaps the right question should have been : who are you ? what do you exactly want from me ? or just fuck off . but the memory of parrish & alexandria catches him off guard , & for a second , a flutter of quick breath drains through his lungs . what was he doing here ? — how did parrish trace his footsteps ?
he ‘d managed to leave the town as safe as he could , no cookie - crumb trails left behind him or a pathetic mistake left behind for the crops to sniff him out . yet , parrish was here . he nearly forgets the blood welled dark against his face from the prior fight against a group of thugs , of which he’d avoided , but of course , not without a blood - struggle .
this man could be an enemy or something else , he wasn’t too sure . the first instinct was always to distrust , but he would need to play in with the man’s games if he wished for answers . the daring , lop - sided grin on the stranger’s face seemed to agree with his thoughts , & the blade is slowly wavered down from the threat - filled gesture . ❝ —-killed my mother . that’s what they’re all saying , ‘course they all fucking believe what the press says , & i dashed out from that hell - hole before they could swarm over me like maggots . ❞ he pauses then , wonders if trading his truth is worth the risk of speaking to this stranger . distrust , elliot , distrust . no , for the first time , he goes against his instinct , grasping against parrish’s name as a tug of hope . ❝ my dad , the sonuvabitch killed her . sure did a theatrical job telling the cops that his drug - addict delinquent of a son finally went out of control , all because his mom didn’t let him take his pills . real fukin’ funny though , because i’ve been clean since last december . ❞

His hands go up, but not with urgency; the action is slow and drawn out, and with the prospect of being stabbed with a switchblade, comes a bout of laughter, the most inappropriate action to such a potentially lethal situation. But he could see the exhausted way in which this frightened boy’s chest heaved for air, the weariness in the muscles of his arm that lifted the weapon. He was in no real danger, not from this kid. He was running on stale adrenaline, and it was going down, crashing hard and fast.
“You are quite the little character, aren’t ya? Got any more sharpened magic tricks up your sleeves?” He laughs again, raspy and cackling, throat shredded from smoking various things in pipes and bongs over the years. “And as for your adorable boyfriend, Parrish, he’s lookin’ for you, of course! What, you think you can just run away and no one’ll ever come after ya? Yeah, not quite. Been there, rode that angry pony, nearly got kicked off and landed on my ass. No matter how good you think you are at hiding your tracks, there’s always someone who’ll come sniffin’.”
He’s squinting now, emerald halos brought to half their size as he fully took in the extent of Elliot’s features, the blood caked against his face, some of it fresh, some dried and crusted against his skin in thick maroon flakes. “Jesus, I’m inclined to think the kid just followed the blood trail you’re leaving like paint on the sidewalks. You look like someone tried to give you facial reconstruction surgery with their fists.”
A look of concern flashes across his face, but he’s quick to hide it behind a chuckle. “Damn, they’re really trying to demonize you out there, huh? Media will do that. I don’t trust any of ‘em, no good fucking dishonest reporters. Always trying to put out a shocking story, truth be damned. If it means anything, I believe you. You wouldn’t have come all the way out here, lookin’ as horrified and fucked up as you do, if you weren’t innocent. Guilty people don’t have nearly as much sense of self-preservation.”
Looking at Elliot was becoming almost painful, what with the damage done to his body. Hearing his story was almost as rough. He couldn’t imagine it, his own father framing him for such a terrible crime. What kind of fucked up bastard did such a thing? And that thought was coming from a self-proclaimed fucked up bastard! A wave of empathy crossed his heart, as he said, “Hey, why don’t you come in for a bit, get yourself cleaned up, maybe some water or something? And honestly, I’m not taking no for an answer; you look like you’re about to pass out, and trust me, better inside than laying out here, prey to god knows who or what. Daddy issues are no reason to let yourself fuckin’ die on the city streets. Just, when you’re inside, don’t fuck with my stash, alright? Don’t need you messing up my business, or your sobriety. I ain’t in the mood to deal with a relapsed junkie today.”
