Broken Glass

Green eyes are half glassy as he shuts the door, slumping against it, the smell of sex still thick against his skin. The apartment is silent, dark, softly black and lacking warmth — the shadows leech satisfaction and contentment from his bones as he drops his shoes, heading up the stairs.

He undoes his tie and closes his eyes as it slides from around his throat — when it catches, his breath does, and there’s the faintest whine as he flicks at the knot with his fingers, feeling the silk come undone under his touch.

A slow trail of clothing shows where he’s been; it leads to the bathroom, where he turns on the hot water and lets his small world fill with sweet steam.

Standing in front of the mirror, he runs his hands over his tattooed frame, sliding fingertips down over bared skin.

He remembers, years ago, his hands on scarred skin, asking her what happened? Who did this? Who hurt you? Why did they hurt you? Why?

Green eyes catch green eyes in the mirror; the sound of shattering glass is harsh and snarling in the night. Silverwhite shards tinklepingsmash against the counters and fall into the sink.

“I usually bring my own, you know. You didn’t need to make sharp things for me,” a quiet voice says, sounding amused.

“I didn’t know if you’d actually come.”

“Yes, you did.”

He says nothing, but turns to meet grey eyes. There is something of grief in the both of them, lonely and broken. Something familiar, the same thing lost.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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