[ things in the house are constantly getting stranger, in bad, uncomfortable ways, which says a lot because embry hasn't exactly lived a polished lifestyle. or maybe he has, and he's just starting to realize that being a sexually deviant war veteran has left him uniquely unequipped with coping with finding corpses in beds and watching a girl purge blood into the toilet. why couldn't it be death via guns and bombs? why couldn't it be someone calling him a faggot so he could laugh in their face and then break their nose? (technically, danny johnson has that part covered.)

ah, yes. parisa's sharp tongue does exactly what he wants it to do, which is soothe over all the nice things over people have said to him. ]

I hate you, too.

[ he slides her hair from her face again, fingers brushing the curve of her cheek, then pulls a towel down from one of the golden beams above and starts wiping her hands, cleaning her palms first and then going finger by finger, red stains soaked into her nail beds. your boyfriend sets his teeth absurdly on edge, which then splashes him with guilt. his first instinct is still denial, and he thinks maybe it will always be that, because how can you erase fifteen years of hiding, of lying, of knowing that the one happy thing he never thought he'd find is also the thing that would ruin the person he loves most? he's meant for so much greater than you.

ash isn't even his boyfriend anymore, really. he's his husband, laws be damned, and embry hasn't said a word about it to anyone. he's just walking around wearing his ring and trying to make sense of what it means to belong to a man like ash colchester.

well. parisa knows, now. ]

What the hell is wrong with you? [ it's obvious as soon as he says it, hitting him like a wet dick smacked across his face. ] You're different, too. You died and you're fucking different, just like me, just like Hawk. You're fucked up, too.

[ we should just kill ourselves again is the part he doesn't say, because. his panic is not productive. ]