okay but like, Guilt + ColdWave, because obviously I wanna see myself suffer
Mick sits in the juvie infirmary by Len’s bed, lights turned low so that if Len wakes up it won’t hurt his eyes. He’s been sitting there so long his legs are cramping and he is forced to shift a little when all he wants is to be still.
His shoulders are bowed as if beneath a heavy weight. His eyes are red with anguish and unshed tears, bloodshot with futile fury; his fingers – bandaged and taped from the abuse of hitting flesh and bone – try to tremble but fail. He stares at the wall, the ceiling, the floor, the air before him; anything by the motionless body in the bed beside him.
He swallows often, as if he can wipe out the taste of bile by sheer force of will, but he does not drink the water placed beside him by a sympathetic nurse. At times he reaches up and touches his chest as if surprised that that hollow, oppressive feeling is still there.
His most beloved possession, his father’s old silver lighter, lies in the corner of the room where it was violently thrown. It is dented from the force of hitting the wall. He looks at it often, instinctively seeking comfort, only to turn his face away in disgust at the thought. He knows he doesn’t deserve that comfort.
If not for that, if not for his distraction and obsession, he would have been there to stop them.
Just like he promised Len that he would be.