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#broken nose
kikker-oma · 5 months
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Warning: Blood, Broken Nose
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linecrosser · 1 month
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Febwhump 2024 - Day 15 - "Who did this to you?"
MBJ did harm him by proxy. SQH was not paying enough attention to where he was walking (because he was oogling his King).
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zoddamnlt · 1 year
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My face when I hear other men say they would literally fight to earn your attention and affection.
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blockygraphics · 7 months
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COSMOS1.GIF, retrieved via the GIF Galaxy shareware CD (1993) via cd.textfiles.com. Artist credit: Broken Nose, 1992.
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how-much-for-a-whump · 6 months
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WHUMPTOBER day 8:
Prompt: "I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier."
Aşk Bu mu? (2018)
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andaboop · 11 months
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Wouldn't be Mark if he didn't come back with a broken nose
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aceofwhump · 5 months
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Einstein and Eddington (2008)
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mahatka · 5 months
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spookyboywhump · 8 months
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Just a. Weird little thing with Zander and Nicholas
CW: pet whump, blood, beatings
***
Even though he should’ve been used to rough treatment by Nicholas, it never got any easier, no matter how much he tried to tell himself it eventually would.
A lot of it was things he was used to, just, from other people, be that Cain or Vanessa, but he knew it was different from Nicholas. While he didn’t think the other two were especially kind to him, he understood that they didn’t seem to hate him, or in Cain’s case, he didn’t hate him all the time. But Nicholas was different from them, every time he looked at him Zander could see absolute hatred in his eyes, everything he did to him seemed to be motivated by anger and spite, making the situation all the more painful for Zander. If he thought about it later, he would roll his eyes, he’d think it’s pathetic, Nicholas had so much control and yet he still felt threatened by him? He’d be able to think of how truly ridiculous it was when he wasn’t actively suffering the consequences of that man’s attitude towards him.
He hated that tears filled his eyes, even though he could reason that it was an involuntary response to being hit in the face. He’d clasped his hands over his face, as if it would stop the blood gushing from his nose, he knew it was broken, he was familiar with the feeling by now. He didn’t think Nicholas had hit him that hard ever before, even in prior beatings he’d come out bruised and bloodied but usually nothing would be broken. It had only taken a single, brutal hit to his face, leaving him knelt on the floor, trying to glare up at him angrily. It was hard to look intimidating when he was holding his face the way he was, tears running down his cheeks, but he didn’t have to look intimidating, he’d already lost, he just wanted Nicholas to know he wasn’t scared of him, he was furious.
“You look even more pathetic when you try to act scary, you know that?” Nicholas said, a hint of amusement in his voice. He was looking down on him like he was satisfied with his work, like he’d finally put him in his place. It wouldn’t satisfy him for long, days, maybe even hours later he’d be angry with him again for simply existing, and he’d make that very clear to him. “But you’re a lot more appealing like this too. You have very pretty eyes for such a worthless mutt.” He said, like he was just trying to make him uncomfortable. If that’s what he was trying for, he succeeded, it made his skin crawl anytime Nicholas felt “nice” enough to give him something resembling a compliment.
“Shut the fuck up.” He muttered, too exhausted to snap at him the way he would’ve liked to. He didn’t want to admit defeat, but he was tired, and it was just the two of them, nobody he had to protect, nobody he had to prove he could protect.
“Hm, and are you going to make me?” Nicholas teased him. He knew there wasn’t anything he could do in this state, and he loved it, as if he only liked Zander when he was broken down and vulnerable. He seemed to only be of any use to him when he felt completely useless to himself.
Zander didn’t want to grace him with a response, he looked away from him, trying to wipe away the tears and blood that had stained his face. He realized he wasn’t very successful, he was just smearing blood everywhere as it had covered his hands as well, and he felt about as pathetic as Nicholas said he was, pathetic and disgusting and just stupid. His face ached already, he knew it would be far worse tomorrow but as he sniffled, trying to hold back more tears, he made the softest whine in the back of his throat, it felt like everything was just another slap to the face. Of course Nicholas picked up on it immediately, he knelt down beside him, Zander flinched as he gently ran a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his face. Sometimes gentle contact felt more like a threat than violence, especially from Nicholas.
“Oh, you poor thing.” He said, the line between sympathy and faux sympathy blurred as usual with him. “You know I just love doing this to you, but it really is easy to avoid. You’ll learn someday.” He told him, and Zander tried to pull away, only for Nicholas to grab him by the hair and roughly pull him back, holding him in place so he wouldn’t move again. “Until then, I’m happy to teach you this lesson as many times as it takes.” He said, and Zander felt like he meant that, he felt certain that this would never get old for Nicholas. The thought made him ill. He didn’t want to break first.
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phantomdoofer · 1 month
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So a while back, I did a drawing of the first time Peppino lost control... and almost killed somebody. I didn't particularly like how it came out- didn't feel like it conveyed the demented nature of his rage properly. So I redraw it, and I'm happier with this result. CW for blood
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studyofwhump · 4 months
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Whumper when whumpee cries out “You broke my nose!” after they punch them:
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Whumptober No. 13: Cold Compress | “I don’t feel so good."
TW: blunt force trauma, loose teeth, blood, swelling, broken nose, carewhumper
"I don't feel so good," Whumpee mumbled, bringing a hand to their cheek.
Whumper grabbed their face, examining the source of their discomfort. They were much gentler than usual, something Whumpee was very grateful for.
"You don't look so good." Whumper tilted their head. "I didn't know hitting your head on the table would make your face swell up so much. I was only trying to break your nose."
Whumpee wasn't sure whether this was meant to be comforting or not. But they were sure that it was in their best interest to shut the fuck up. Hopefully Whumper was in a good mood.
"Honestly-" Whumper slowly shook their head "-you should be more careful."
"I'm sorry," Whumpee said, trying valiantly not to press their bloody tongue against the teeth Whumper had knocked loose. "I'll do better. I promise."
Whumper fished an ice pack out of their freezer and pressed it to Whumpee's cheek. It was horribly cold, but Whumpee forced themself to hold still, knowing that using the ice pack and not pissing off Whumper would both be good for their health.
Taglist: @hugh-lauries-bald-spot @whumpsday @whumpshaped @heavenlyeden @whumpytine
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sunshiline-writes · 4 months
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A Rose Amidst Thorns #12: The Beginning of the Nightmare
This chapter took me a while to write because I wasn't sure where I wanted to go with it. Well... I have a few ideas. Things are about to get REAL wild now. Thanks for reading!
CW: POC whump, Lady whump, Caretaker whump, deaf whumpee, mentions of hand whump, creepy/intimate whumper, sadistic whumper, crude language, guns, defiant whumpees, broken nose, blood, thoughts of death, fear of death, beat down, punching and kicking, bruised ribs.
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The cicadas sang in the heat, a loud communal hum. A coyote sat under the mezquite tree, blood coated its mouth. Its pelt was almost a sickly grey color twinged with yellow. It was emaciated, bones nearly sticking straight out of its skin. Underneath its paws was another coyote, and golden coat, well fed. Somehow the starving coyote had ripped out its throat, half of it on the dirt in front of it, the other half was hanging from the other's jaws. 
The coyote opened its jaw, tongue hanging out, oddly shaped. It looked awkward but a voice came from its mouth, hoarse and raspy. Like it couldn’t quite get out the words. 
Never underestimate a starving dog, Solomon. 
**
Solomon woke in a cold sweat. Breath catching in his throat. His mouth felt like cotton. He sat up from his place on the floor, running a hand over the different indents in his braid. Counting them. Taking a few deep breaths. How long had it been since he had a dream like that? Something that had spoken to him, some sort of warning. It was still so clear in his brain. He still felt like he could reach and touch the coyote in front of him. 
He stared at the ground for a moment longer before a sound made him look up. Miguel was watching him. His eyes were less far away and they were filled with concern. He was here, at the moment. Solomon wanted to keep it that way. 
“I’m okay,” he signed quickly, offering him a small smile. “You’re awake early.” 
Miguel frowned and simply shrugged. Solomon started to stand, pushing himself up, using the bed as leverage to help him stand. His body ached. His joints in his knees cracked as he moved them. He was getting too old for this. 
 “Would you want to come downstairs and eat breakfast with us?” 
The boy shook his head. Swinging his legs over the edge and getting himself up. He’d been needing less and less help lately. Sturdier on his feet. His left hand was getting stronger, but his right was still splinted and in the sling. In order to communicate he was rendered to single handed signs and spelling out his answers. Which frustrated them both greatly. But one of his exercises to strengthen that left hand was to sign the alphabet. Some of the letters were easier than others. He was trying at least and at the moment, that was all Solomon could ask of him. 
“I think you should join us for breakfast. It would be nice to have you there.” 
Miguel stared at him for a moment, pausing from making the bed. He chewed on his lip and Solomon sighed softly. Lately, it had been frustrating dealing with Miguel. His mind was far away half the time and the other half, they spent arguing. Solomon was so tired. He was half sure that Miguel was arguing for the sake of arguing. Probably because he wanted some semblance of control back. 
Most times when Solomon asked Miguel to join them at the table, Miguel refused. But today, Miguel nodded. Sitting down on the edge of the bed and looking up at Solomon. His hair was getting long again, waves going past the bottom of his ears. 
“Hen?” the boy asked, shifting in his sling slightly. 
“Yeah she’ll be down there too. Why wouldn’t she be?”
Miguel made a frustrated sound, rolling his eyes. 
“Oh. About last night? She asked me to do her hair. I just did her hair.” 
Miguel made a face, raising his eyebrows and then offered a small smile. Solomon couldn’t help but be endeared. He was still so young. To him there was no difference between platonic and sexual intimacy. He’d never really had a friend his own age that didn’t want something from him. 
Solomon pressed his index and middle finger on his thumb, shaking his head. No. 
“We aren’t like that. It’s.. difficult to explain. But we’re friends. She asked me to do her hair and she fell asleep. Nothing more.” 
Miguel kept smiling, nodding his head. Solomon put a hand on his shoulder and gently shook him. He was at least getting his humor back a little. Which was a good sign, he wasn’t shattered. Well he had been, but Solomon was helping him piece together the broken parts. That was his job. Putting back together the people that Xavier broke. He wanted to do more. He wanted to be the person that could save them. But he was just as trapped. 
Solomon nodded toward the door, and Miguel got up. They made their way down the stairs. Today’s breakfast was pancakes. The table was already set, Xavier at the head of it, and there were two more plates. Henrietta placed another one when she saw Miguel was with him. Smiling softly at him. 
“Well, look who decided to wake up from the dead,” said Xavier, taking a sip of his coffee.  
Miguel refused to look him in the eye. Sitting down in his seat quietly, shifting in it idly. Solomon rubbed the bridge of his nose and moved over to where Henrietta was preparing to give out the pancakes. 
“Do you need help?” he asked, taking the milk that was on the counter and starting to pour it into everyone's cups. Xavier was the only one of them who drank coffee anyway. Solomon was more of a tea person himself. But still, they set the table together. Solomon served himself and Miguel. Xavier watched, the tension in the air thick. 
“So, he’s feeling better then?” Xavier asked, looking pointedly at Solomon.
Solomon nodded, picking up his fork and starting to pick apart the pancakes. 
“Yes. He’s sturdier now. Still weak, he's been doing exercises to strengthen his left hand. He should be out of the sling in a month or so. Then he would work on strengthening his hands more.” Solomon took a bite of the pancake, trying to ignore the growing anxiety pooling in his gut at the sight of Xavier’s darkened expression. 
“Good, that's good,” Xavier said, sipping his coffee again. 
Solomon didn’t say anything in response, letting the silence reign supreme. There was something different in the air today, it tasted stale and dark. Xaviers mood seemed to be in the same way. They ate mostly in silence. Until Henrietta stood up to take everyone’s plates. 
“Leave them.” 
“What?” 
“Sit down Etta,” Xavier said slowly. “I want to talk to you both.” 
Solomon shifted in his seat, hands placed on the table. Taking a deep breath. Wondering what this could possibly be about. What was it that he had done that could warrant such a foul mood? Solomon replayed the past few days. Could it have been his conversation with Henrietta the night before? It had to be. There was nothing else that could warrant this sort of reaction. 
“Xavier.. What is this about?” 
Xavier raised a hand, and Solomon stopped talking. Talking would do nothing here. 
“I want to know how long.” 
Henrietta spoke next, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. “How long?” 
“Do not fucking act stupid with me. How long have you two been fucking each other?” 
“We haven’t-” Solomon and Henrietta said at the same time. A fist slammed on the table, shaking the utensils, making them clatter. Miguel flinched, staring at the table. Not daring to look up. But he was starting to shake and Solomon looked at Xavier. 
“We have never slept toget-” 
Solomon should have seen it coming. He should have known better, but he was still surprised when Xavier grabbed Henrietta by the back of her head and slammed her face into the wooden table. The cutlery clanked again and Solomon heard her gasp. Xavier let go of her head and her head popped up. Hands going to her nose, which was now certainly broken. Blood streaming down her face, over her mouth, through her hands that were now trying to staunch the blood flow. 
“Xavier, stop! We haven’t done-” 
“Shut up Solomon,” Xavier said darkly, now focusing on Henrietta. “How long Etta?” 
“You asshole! We haven’t” “Then why were you in his room last night? Why were you there?” Xavier said, grabbing one of her wrists and wrenching it away from her face. Twisting her wrist and Henrietta whimpered. 
“I didn’t do anything wrong! We were just talking!” 
Xavier growled and Solomon started to stand. The click of the gun stopped him in his tracks. His eyes glanced down to the gun in his other hand. The simple revolver that was cocked and ready. 
“Don’t fucking move, you stay right there Solomon.” 
“You’re a big man aren’t you?” Henrietta said, voice nasally and tense with pain, “Threatening him with a gun? What are you? Afraid of him?” 
Xavier laughed, dark and loomed over her, changing the gun's position from pointing at Solomon to pressing it against her forehead. Solomon felt like his breath was in his throat, choking him. He only stared, terrified, as Xavier grinned manically down at Henrietta. 
“What is it darlin’? Cat got your tongue?” 
Henrietta growled slightly, it sounded gurgly like blood was inside her throat. Solomon's hands twitched. Eyes glancing at Miguel who was watching the scene unfold in front of him with a blank expression. He was far away again, that was probably for the best. It meant Solomon could focus on what was in front of him. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. 
“Xavier put the gun down,” he said calmly, surprised at the way his own voice didn’t even shake, “You don’t need it. Hen asked me to braid her hair, she wanted it out of her face.. Please. Just.. the gun..” 
Henrietta whimpered as the gun pressed harder into her skin. Then the gun uncocked and Xavier put it back in its holster. His grin died. His grip on her braid lessened and he instead ran his thumb over it. Staring at it. 
“You know.. I never quite liked the idea of braids,” Xavier said, untying the hair tie at the end and undoing it. “I do like the smell of her hair though. Even if it does smell like you, Solomon.” He ran a hand through it idly. 
“I just did what she asked..” Solomon said cautiously. 
Henrietta still had a hand covering her nose, even though the blood had slowed, it still dripped onto her blue dress. 
“Fucking,” the hand fisted her hair again, and he pulled Henrietta close to himself, nuzzling his face into her jaw, “Just shut the fuck up Solomon. Stand up Etta. Stand up.” 
“Xavier you’re going too far okay.. It wasn’t anything like you’re thinking. She fell asleep. I didn’t want to wake her.”
“I saw that. I saw it. She was asleep in your arms like that. Fucking stand up,” he shoved her forward, and she stumbled to stand. “Clean yourself up.” 
Then he looked at Solomon, working his jaw, as Henrietta took a rag and pressed it to her nose with a soft whimper. Solomon laced his fingers together and squeezed, as if the pressure would help. Their gazes met. Xaviers eyes were filled with hatred, burning with fiery rage. He leaned forward to Solomon, grabbing a hold of his jacket, and pulled him forward. Their faces almost touched, he could smell the coffee on Xaviers breath. 
“If you ever touch her like that again, if I even think that you two have talked without my permission. I’ll cut out your tongue,” Xavier pressed his forehead against Solomons, making Solomon shiver. “I don’t think a doctor needs his tongue to do his work. Yeah?” 
His stomach was pressed into the edge of the table, and one of his hands was on a plate. Solomon wasn’t sure if he was supposed to respond to this. He was actually quite sure that it was a rhetorical sort of question. But Xavier didn’t release him yet. The man sighed softly, and coffee and shit wafted in his nose, and Solomon fought the urge not to gag. His world spun as he was thrown to the ground. He tried to scramble backwards, but Xavier was on him in seconds. 
Pain exploded in his cheek bone as Xaviers knuckles connected. Solomon raised his hands to cover his face as more punches were thrown. He heard Henrietta scream at Xavier to stop, but Xavier kept going. His vision went blurry as the assault stopped for a moment, his entire face was pulsating. He realized that Henrietta had tried to stop Xavier by grabbing him, but she was thrown to the ground too. Hitting her head against the cabinets. Her eyes glazed over slightly as she groaned. 
“Xavier.. Please stop. Just stop. I’m sorry.. I’m sorry.” 
A fist connected with his mouth and Solomon tasted blood. He choked on it as he was hit again and again. He was going to die here. Beaten to death by Xavier for something he didn’t even do. It was bound to happen eventually. He’d do something wrong and Xavier would lose it. 
A crash interrupted his thoughts and Solomon attempted to open his eyes. Only his left one would open. A plate was shattered on the floor around them. The assault stopped, Xavier stood up slowly. Turned around and Miguel was standing on shaky legs. Had he thrown the plate at Xavier’s head? 
Solomon groaned and turned to the side to spit blood on the floor, tongue going over his teeth. He had surprisingly not lost any. His head was filled with cotton and his world spun as he tried to push himself to his knees. A kick to his ribs knocked the wind out of his lungs, and he coughed. Falling to his side and curling up, hands over his stomach. 
“Please..” he begged. 
Xavier laughed, “You’re lucky Solomon. I think someone wants me to stop. Guess he’s feeling good enough to throw things at me. He has to be feeling well enough to sleep in his room now. And to take a punishment.” Another well placed kick to his ribs had him wheezing. There was the sound of more cutlery clanking as it bounced off Xaviers back. 
“Enough, Miguel.” 
Solomon didn’t look up, but Xavier was walking away. Solomon didn’t have the strength to stand or try to stop him. It was useless anyway. He couldn’t save him. Solomon couldn’t save either of them. 
Time flowed differently when someone was in pain, Solomon realized. His body ached and he barely registered that he was alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the broken plate. He didn’t try to get up or move. Solomon was unsure as to what was broken or bruised. 
It wasn’t long before Xavier came back and put a hand on his head. 
“You know, if you just minded your business instead of stickin’ your nose where it doesn’t belong, this wouldn’t have happened. You should have just left her alone. Next time.. You know better right?” Solomon groaned and Xavier grabbed his face, which throbbed, and clicked his tongue. “Hey, hey, look at me.” 
Solomon opened his eyes as far as they would allow him. Xavier was a blurred mess and he winced as Xavier squeezed his thumbs into his cheeks. 
“Now you know better right? You don’t touch Henrietta without my permission. Yeah?” Xavier was grinning at him. He looked wild. Like a coyote. 
Never underestimate a starving dog Solomon. 
“Ye..s” he slurred, and Xavier released his face. 
Solomon was unconscious before his head hit the ground. ***
Taglist:
@demondamage @burntcoffeewhump @angst-after-dark @just-a-silly-little-whumper @tictac-murder-spaghetti @crash-bump-bring-the-whump @whumpifi-reads
@flowersarefreetherapy @badgerwhump @whumpbees
ask if you'd like to be added or removed!!
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whumpypepsigal · 2 years
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Warrior s01e09: Ah Toy has taken a very beaten up Ah Sahm to her private quarters and with Lai, helps take care of his injuries, using opium to relieve him of pain.
“Do you know where you are.” “Yeah.” “Where?” “Here.” “That’s right.”
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Slunečná (29)
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painsandconfusion · 1 year
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Ship in a Bottle
Whumping the Whumpers - Part Twenty-Five
(tw: child abuse, bad caretaking, broken nose, broken glass, character death, alcohol consumption, mourning, loss of parental figure, homicidal compulsions, hallucinations, blood, corpse mention, knife, a very unhealthy outlook on handling emotional pain)
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“There- n-n-n-no no no- not quite like th…..YES - right there. That’s perfect - hold it exactly like that and I’ll do the glue…”
Ethan bit down on his tongue, eyes beady and focused on the little rope and the narrow piece of wood between his fingertips that held it in place. Every breath, heartbeat, and thought shifted it from position - but he was determined to prove to David that he could do this. That letting him help wasn’t a mistake.
David grins. Warm. His fingers pinch the piece just above Ethan’s to give the glue a little testing tug as it sets. “Perfect - I think that’ll do it.” He twists it away again, and picks up the minuscule bottle, looking over the fine details and the line of thread they’d just run from the foremast.
Ethan smiled too - smiling came easy with David. His was infectious - Caroline always said so. When David was gone, the little foster family was mundane if anything. They kept to themselves and kept quiet. Just the constant thrum of reality tv buzzing through the house and down to Ethan’s room in the basement.
But then David would come. And the tv would turn off. The house would light up - Caroline would smile, giggling even, when he kissed her. 
David’s workshop made up the second room of the basement - right next to Ethan’s. Ethan usually just lingered in the doorframe, watching him work - but this time, David let him help. He couldn’t afford to mess it up.
-
The car door clicked shut behind him, muffled further by the snow that crunched under his feet.
It was a small cemetery. Rural. 
Evidently David’s family had some kind of plot.
It had taken Ethan weeks of searching for David when he finally escaped. After all those years of running and bleeding and screaming, all he wanted was to sit in silence next to the man and watch him build a boat. Even just one more time.
It took weeks because that’s how long it took Ethan to cave. To check the obituaries.
And there he was.
-
David ruffled Ethan’s hair. And for once, Ethan didn’t mind. The touch didn’t seem to be malicious or self-serving. Just absentminded affection and affirmation.
He handed the little bottle to Ethan to look over. The glass was warm at his fingertips, retaining light and that extant goodness that poured from David’s skin. Like a little of his life seeped into the boats he made.
Maybe that’s why they looked so real.
A three-beat stomp from upstairs made the little thing flinch at his fingers; it was quickly followed by a voice- “DAVID IT’S ALMOST TWO IN THE MORNING GET THE KID TO BED”
David blinked rapidly, and turned incredulous eyes to his watch. “Ah shit-” He knocked back the rest of his tumbler of whiskey and stood up, “YEAH- ONE SEC-” He sucked air in through his teeth, shrugging a ‘whoopsie?’
Ethan bit down on a laugh, setting the bottle carefully back on the tabletop as David snapped off the light. “Thanks for letting m-”
“No thank-yous, just get your ass to bed before she beats mine.” He nudged Ethan playfully toward the door.
Ethan squeaked, but moved easily, heading toward his room. “...tomorrow can we-”
“-oh yeah, I’ll be here when you get back from school. I won’t start without you.”
Ethan turned a grin to him as he reached his door, ducking inside. “Sweet - I’ll see you then.”
-
Graves lined up in only semi-reasonable rows. Some were off. Some were big. Some small. Some rusted over or draped in lichen. Some pearly and grand.
Ethan knew the name of the cemetery. 
He hadn’t gotten the time or the heart to check it - so he had no idea where it was. 
The cemetery was small, but not that small. There were hundreds of headstones here. 
And he had to check them all. 
Air pressed against his tight throat, elbowing its way inside. 
It pressed out again as Ethan’s phone buzzed.
He flicked a glare up to the dry, grey sky. Anything to put this off a little longer…
He slipped it out, scanning the message - then shooting back a reply, ignoring his quickly-numbing fingertips.
Bestie 😘: when r u coming home?
Me: I literally just left.
Bestie 😘: that doesnt answer the question
Me: Idk like an hour or two? 
Bestie 😘: cool, I got time then
Me: Time for what.
Bestie 😘: making soup
Me: What kind?
Bestie 😘: butternut squash
Me: Haven’t had it.
Bestie 😘: well ur gonna and ur gonna like it
Me: Optimist.
Bestie 😘: realist
Me: Again. Optimist.
Bestie 😘: whats wrong with a little optimism?
Ethan didn’t answer.
He just tucked the phone and his fingers back into the warmth of his pockets, finally starting his search in earnest.
-
Ethan bounded down the stairs with the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips long after he’d bitten it back. Time to finish the model. Add the last touches of stain and shading. 
It was going to be done.
Ethan was going to finish making something.
Something in his own hands that he could be proud of.
He dumped his backpack on the ground and rounded the corner into the little workshop. “I’m here! David, I-”
He saw the wreckage before he heard Caroline’s choked sob.
Splinters of boats littered the ground, haphazardly strung together with bits of rope and string. Frays of stretching glue that refused to let go.
Stomped to crumbled lumps of pieces.
The whole collection.
Ethan just…gaped at her as she swiped the little bottle off the table - the smallest piece yet, trying to process what he was seeing.
“N-no don’t! Don’t that one’s n-” his voice choked out into nothing as the glass shattered against concrete.
He lurched forward, a sob catching in his throat. 
He was barely in range as her elbow threw up to block his advance.
Whitehot embers exploded behind his eyes as his nose crunched back. It dazed him - sent stars sparking across the air.
Still, he scrambled forward, ignoring the warm wet spreading sensation as he scrabbled for the tiny ship stranded amongst the wreckage of its brethren.
-
There it was.
He’d missed it the first pass. The stone was small. Almost flush with the ground. The name, engraved in metal and bolted to the small rectangular stone. 
The world seemed to stop completely. Any remnant of a breeze ceased. Birds stopped chirping. Squirrels ceased their chases.
He just stared at the stone, feeling the burn of the nonexistent wind ripping the moisture from his eyes.
-
“Wh-why- what are you doing!? David’s gonna-”
“Do NOT say his name - cheating fucking bastard-!” An invisible string jerked him to a stop as her food crunched down on the tiny thing.
Ethan stared as her foot pulled away to punt some other bit of scrap - already torn asunder, though evidently not enough for her. 
Bits of glass and wood pressed into his jeans, pricking at his knees as blurred, bony fingers scooped up the precious tiny thing from the floor. 
The foremast was snapped completely off. He plucked it up, vibrating with the force of a sob he kept swallowing as he tried to pinch it back into place - but the ship was crumpled. Sideways and wrong.
Then was snatched out of his hand.
Ethan stared up at Caroline, tears spilling down his blank face. “Wh-where is he-?”
“It doesn’t fucking matter.”
“Pl-ease lemme see him-”
Ethan didn’t recoil as the slap snapped his head to the side. He just let his face turn, eyes dead on the ground as the pain wrapped around his head.
“Are you kidding me!? You’re never seeing him again. I don’t want to hear another word about that disgusting drunk.”
She stepped past him, pausing at the door to look back on his kneeling form.
“..don’t you dare cry over that piece of shit. You’re sixteen goddamn years old. Act like it.”
Then she was gone.
The creaking footsteps pulling a flinch from him every stair. 
He stared down at the tiny foremast between his fingers. Barely a sliver of wood now. 
He didn’t move for hours. His mind wouldn’t let him. He just stared at the little splinter, rolling it between his fingers as the blood ran from his nose. Gradually stopped. Dried. 
Then the puddle of it started to film. Fray at the edges. Crack.
Finally, numb, he tucked it into his pocket, stood, and grabbed a broom to clean up this mess.
-
Cool earth seeped into his jeans, chilling the skin at Ethan’s knees. It sent pinpricks of acid shooting up his leg - he ignored them. The pain was fake. Just cold. 
He swirled the little foremast between his fingers. Rain and decay has softened it a bit. Cracked it. Made it more akin to cork than mahogany. 
Still. It was David’s. Its condition didn’t change that.
Ethan didn’t want to have some dramatic fucking graveside speech. He didn’t want to pull the ‘I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can…’ bullshit. 
David wasn’t there. He couldn’t hear a thing. His ears were probably close to rotted off six feet under where Ethan stood. He hoped to hell that ghosts weren’t real. Ethan didn’t believe in heaven, so no good there. And if reincarnation was a thing, then David wouldn’t be here anyway.
So he didn’t say anything. There wasn’t a point.
He just set the little sliver of wood in front of the stone, tucking it a little under so it couldn’t blow away.
They’d keep each other company, these two dead, broken things.
They belonged together.
-
Ethan pressed the door open with half as much force as a breath, letting it slowly push away from him in a wide arc. 
Silent.
He stepped inside the room.
In the moonlight, everything glowed white. Caroline always liked white.
White shag rug on dark floorboards. White sheets. White blankets. 
White pillowcase stained with her smearing mascara and darkened by a puddle of tears.
White walls.
White sheer curtains that let in white moonlight.
But all Ethan could see was red.
Deep, thick, oily red splashed across the perfect, pristine room.
Red seeping through the blankets. Melding through her nightgown.
He could see it spreading dark and smeared across the floor, soaking into the rug as she dragged herself across the floor. Gurgling. Desperately reaching for the door.
Red splattering the walls.
Red pooling through her whiteblond hair. 
Red on his hands. 
On the knife.
It twitched between his fingers. Beckoned to him. Begged him.
But Ethan didn’t obey its call. 
He just walked back out of the room, closed the door softly, felt its weight between his fingers as he pressed it - still clean - back into its place in the knife block.
He didn’t sleep that night, riddled with woken dreams of what he might have done.
-
Ethan didn’t linger. Only a moment of silence marked his grieving before he pushed up off his knees.
Stood.
He turned back toward the car, leaving the graveyard without a word. Without a backward glance.
David was dead. There was no point dwelling on it.
Still. The tears were stubborn, skittering hot down his cheeks anyway.
He brushed them away as fast as they came.
Time to move on.
.
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