[The last teacher who promised Paul that they would figure things out together had the same clumsiness of care that Johnny does, as if he had forgotten (if he ever knew) how to comfort anyone else. He'd understood what it was like to have fucked up, too.
So perhaps Paul should know better. Perhaps he should stop wanting this. Cut out the part of him that finds safety here, that clings to that assurance like a rope tossed to a drowning man. Cauterize the wound it would leave with purpose and with fury, until there was nothing left but black inside his eyes.]
Okay.
[Paul echoes back, throat raw. He sits up enough to drag one of his hands back to scrub at his damp face with a sleeve folded over his hand, teenage embarrassment finding an unexpected gap to slip back through.
no subject
So perhaps Paul should know better. Perhaps he should stop wanting this. Cut out the part of him that finds safety here, that clings to that assurance like a rope tossed to a drowning man. Cauterize the wound it would leave with purpose and with fury, until there was nothing left but black inside his eyes.]
Okay.
[Paul echoes back, throat raw. He sits up enough to drag one of his hands back to scrub at his damp face with a sleeve folded over his hand, teenage embarrassment finding an unexpected gap to slip back through.
He corrects himself, quietly:] Yes, sensei.