( And Sunday didn't deserve staying back doing nothing. Just like all those years ago. He carefully hoists up his palm using the tips of his fingers from below, pressing the damp cloth to soak in any blood without adding much pressure. He runs it over each crest and down the length of each finger. He can feel his calloused areas from below, so he inches his touch further towards this wrist, keeping his gaze lowered. As the blood is wiped away, it reveals more ugly bruising. )
I want to.
( He folds the towel over to the other side so he can repeat the process on his other hand. This is when he briefly glances towards his face. There are cuts there, too but he already has an inkling that touching him directly on the face isn't welcomed. Sunday won't push him for it. )
no subject
I want to.
( He folds the towel over to the other side so he can repeat the process on his other hand. This is when he briefly glances towards his face. There are cuts there, too but he already has an inkling that touching him directly on the face isn't welcomed. Sunday won't push him for it. )
If you want me to stop, then tell me so.