[The eggs finish. He tips them out of the pan and onto a plate. Pours hot sauce on it. A thinness to it. Orange-red. Not at all like blood. Or ketchup, for that matter. Hears the kettle whistle. Pours tea into a mug. Plain. Ordinary. The steam rising off. The bag pressed down with a spoon. Stirred. Squeezes lemon in the amber-red liquid that grows and spreads like ink inside the cup.
Returns his gaze to Gilgamesh. Like a magnet, inescapably pulled. The hand near bandages that have not bled through just yet. He knows they way they do at times. The way they stick to skin. He knows it all by heart, or what counts as one with him. Sometimes he isn't certain he has one. He remembers the way she faded away. The conviction in her eyes as they dulled, beneath the bandages.
The mess left behind.
He raises a fork in Gilgamesh's direction. He lacks knives within reachable distance. The point is clear, regardless. A rumble of voice. Not quite a scoff.]
no subject
Returns his gaze to Gilgamesh. Like a magnet, inescapably pulled. The hand near bandages that have not bled through just yet. He knows they way they do at times. The way they stick to skin. He knows it all by heart, or what counts as one with him. Sometimes he isn't certain he has one. He remembers the way she faded away. The conviction in her eyes as they dulled, beneath the bandages.
The mess left behind.
He raises a fork in Gilgamesh's direction. He lacks knives within reachable distance. The point is clear, regardless. A rumble of voice. Not quite a scoff.]
Don't touch it.