[ it’s funny, how all the people he’s been going to for help have, ultimately, cared for him in a way so sweet that it turns his stomach. yes, sure, he should get sober. yes, of course ash will hold his hand during a drug test. yes, he can make hawk cave to his demands and have him reenact a night that clearly fills hawk with disgust just because it’s embry, and embry always gets what he wants unless it’s anything he actually wants. act out, play everyone like a fiddle, collect — then spend his nights swathed in guilt at how, even now, he can be such a warped, selfish man.
parisa will tell him the truth. that he deserves this. he deserves to lose his mind, because he’s horrible, and he’s been horrible, and all the karma he doesn’t believe in is catching up with him now, or he just should’ve stayed dead. unbelievable, that the latter makes more sense to him, because karma has been pilfered by white girls in seattle who like to get freaky in bed.
but there’s a small part of him that thinks — hopes — that maybe parisa will have a real answer, something outside of his purview that’s firmly inside of hers. he enters like he usually does, expecting to see her lounging uselessly in a tragic state of overdress, but the room is empty (messy) and the shared bathroom door is less ajar than usual. ]
Are you pooping?
[ he grips the door and peeks inside, shameless, but is greeted with a sight familiar to him across his many years of reckless partying and ingesting substances with abandon, but not familiar when it comes to parisa kamali — which is, the image of her heaving into the toilet bowl in one of her designer dresses, her hair clinging both to her cheeks and the porcelain edge.
he’s there in an instant, well-versed in his role in this as he sinks down behind her and pulls her hair back from her sticky temples and her bloody — bloody? what the fuck — mouth. her pleasantly bronze skin has taken on a grayish pallor. the toilet beams back up at them, bright, bright red. embry feels immediately sick, flashes of danny johnson’s knife, flashes of hawk’s marble corpse, flashes of dag dying in his arms.
he steadies parisa from behind, careful not to extricate her from the toilet bowl lest she vomit on the rug, as he hugs her spine against his chest. she doesn’t feel injured, isn’t bleeding from anywhere he can see or feel. and yet, this is a lot of fucking blood. ]
It’s starting to feel personal — [ he noses behind her ear, her hair collected in his fist in what could be considered a very chic bun. ] How you act like a psycho every time you see me since we both died.
a normal evening in their suite (cw blood, emeto)
parisa will tell him the truth. that he deserves this. he deserves to lose his mind, because he’s horrible, and he’s been horrible, and all the karma he doesn’t believe in is catching up with him now, or he just should’ve stayed dead. unbelievable, that the latter makes more sense to him, because karma has been pilfered by white girls in seattle who like to get freaky in bed.
but there’s a small part of him that thinks — hopes — that maybe parisa will have a real answer, something outside of his purview that’s firmly inside of hers. he enters like he usually does, expecting to see her lounging uselessly in a tragic state of overdress, but the room is empty (messy) and the shared bathroom door is less ajar than usual. ]
Are you pooping?
[ he grips the door and peeks inside, shameless, but is greeted with a sight familiar to him across his many years of reckless partying and ingesting substances with abandon, but not familiar when it comes to parisa kamali — which is, the image of her heaving into the toilet bowl in one of her designer dresses, her hair clinging both to her cheeks and the porcelain edge.
he’s there in an instant, well-versed in his role in this as he sinks down behind her and pulls her hair back from her sticky temples and her bloody — bloody? what the fuck — mouth. her pleasantly bronze skin has taken on a grayish pallor. the toilet beams back up at them, bright, bright red. embry feels immediately sick, flashes of danny johnson’s knife, flashes of hawk’s marble corpse, flashes of dag dying in his arms.
he steadies parisa from behind, careful not to extricate her from the toilet bowl lest she vomit on the rug, as he hugs her spine against his chest. she doesn’t feel injured, isn’t bleeding from anywhere he can see or feel. and yet, this is a lot of fucking blood. ]
It’s starting to feel personal — [ he noses behind her ear, her hair collected in his fist in what could be considered a very chic bun. ] How you act like a psycho every time you see me since we both died.