[He heard Livio trying to stop him, shouting out for him to stop and the sound of his footsteps as he ran behind easy enough to pick up, but it only made him set his jaw, shake his head, and run harder.
If he was-...
If Wolfwood was-...
He had to check! He had to know, he couldn't bear the guilt if he let himself be stopped because it was the rational thing to do and it turned out that crazy little idea had turned out to be true, and he'd just left him out there! He could handle seeing him again, even if-...even if he was-...
When he finally rounded the corner and scrambled to a stop amongst the pile of rubble where a house had once stood, the sight of the old, unoccupied couch filled him with both immense relief and horrible grief. The bright, red stains of blood that coated one side of its surface did little to help matters, especially when his feet carried him closer and he could see that the blood...it was drying, yes, almost completely faded to a dark brown. But it was still fresh.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat, felt a wave of dizziness hit as he looked slowly down and around. At the bottle of whiskey on the ground, alcohol dripping from the neck, boot prints that matched his own in the sand leading away from the sofa and dug deeper in the sand than the ones he'd just made, as if he had suddenly weighed twice his normal weight when he'd finally walked away from the couch.
Carrying his body.
When he turned to look in the direction of the orphanage where he knew there should be a grave, he felt as if he were moving through quicksand, movements sluggish and dazed. And when he began walking in that direction, his steps were much less rushed.]
no subject
If he was-...
If Wolfwood was-...
He had to check! He had to know, he couldn't bear the guilt if he let himself be stopped because it was the rational thing to do and it turned out that crazy little idea had turned out to be true, and he'd just left him out there! He could handle seeing him again, even if-...even if he was-...
When he finally rounded the corner and scrambled to a stop amongst the pile of rubble where a house had once stood, the sight of the old, unoccupied couch filled him with both immense relief and horrible grief. The bright, red stains of blood that coated one side of its surface did little to help matters, especially when his feet carried him closer and he could see that the blood...it was drying, yes, almost completely faded to a dark brown. But it was still fresh.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat, felt a wave of dizziness hit as he looked slowly down and around. At the bottle of whiskey on the ground, alcohol dripping from the neck, boot prints that matched his own in the sand leading away from the sofa and dug deeper in the sand than the ones he'd just made, as if he had suddenly weighed twice his normal weight when he'd finally walked away from the couch.
Carrying his body.
When he turned to look in the direction of the orphanage where he knew there should be a grave, he felt as if he were moving through quicksand, movements sluggish and dazed. And when he began walking in that direction, his steps were much less rushed.]