[He finishes cleaning the head wound. He can't find reason to move his hand from his throat just yet. Less of a violent impulse running down his spine and nerves. Still there, unmoving. Relaxing almost, as Gilgamesh slowly sinks back into his typical lazy air.
Two out of three. Not bad. He dare not look at the clock, or flick the lights off. Once started, there's no point in stopping. No point in averting his gaze. No use. A hopeless case. Terminal.
He knows the way an arm catches when it bleeds. A spout of blood, more of a mess than a danger. Still, he's come this far. He'll clean that, too. The towels have probably gone cold by now. It is hard to tell, from the warmth that swims in the atmosphere.
The smile stays in place through the dull burn of alcohol.]
no subject
Two out of three. Not bad. He dare not look at the clock, or flick the lights off. Once started, there's no point in stopping. No point in averting his gaze. No use. A hopeless case. Terminal.
He knows the way an arm catches when it bleeds. A spout of blood, more of a mess than a danger. Still, he's come this far. He'll clean that, too. The towels have probably gone cold by now. It is hard to tell, from the warmth that swims in the atmosphere.
The smile stays in place through the dull burn of alcohol.]