[To say Diarmuid isn't terrified when he realizes where the mail had come from would be a lie. He only has to read the name on the front before he stands frozen in his cabin, the envelope shaking in his hand. He's not sure how long he stands there, thinking about the crunching noise the bones in his arm made. His shoulder seems to throb in response. He's in the dome, Peter carefully leading him along the river. He's in the bathroom stalls, vomiting while Thom anxiously stands outside of it. He's in the diner booth, flinching from Frank's hand.
He's in Shades' car, accepting all the blame, even though the man adamantly refuses to let him have it.
He slowly opens the envelope without moving, expecting to read something horrible. It wouldn't make sense, would it? That the writing is cruel or threatening. Quentin seemed like a good man, someone who was just... swept away in the bloodlust. And yet it's still so possible — he could see it in his mind's eye, a note that says he's coming for Diarmuid. When I'm back on my feet, I'm going to break all the bones in your body.
Stupid. Stupid little rabbit. Letting this send you into such an anxious spiral.
He shakes his head, swallows, and sits down on his bed, bare feet settled next to the death statue beside it. He clumsily tears open the envelope — and reads.
'I fucked up.'
He clenches his eyes shut.
'I'm sorry.'
The boy wrings the letter in his hands against his chest, body crumpling forward until his curls brush his knees, and he weeps in earnest. It's hard to say if it's a sound of relief or misery, but it's a flood of feelings all the same. He crawls into his bed and stays there for most of the following day, the twisted paper left on his nightstand where he can see it.]
Edited (ignore me fixing typos a whole-ass day later) 2019-09-10 20:10 (UTC)
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nothing; 1/2
He's in Shades' car, accepting all the blame, even though the man adamantly refuses to let him have it.
He slowly opens the envelope without moving, expecting to read something horrible. It wouldn't make sense, would it? That the writing is cruel or threatening. Quentin seemed like a good man, someone who was just... swept away in the bloodlust. And yet it's still so possible — he could see it in his mind's eye, a note that says he's coming for Diarmuid. When I'm back on my feet, I'm going to break all the bones in your body.
Stupid. Stupid little rabbit. Letting this send you into such an anxious spiral.
He shakes his head, swallows, and sits down on his bed, bare feet settled next to the death statue beside it. He clumsily tears open the envelope — and reads.
'I fucked up.'
He clenches his eyes shut.
'I'm sorry.'
The boy wrings the letter in his hands against his chest, body crumpling forward until his curls brush his knees, and he weeps in earnest. It's hard to say if it's a sound of relief or misery, but it's a flood of feelings all the same. He crawls into his bed and stays there for most of the following day, the twisted paper left on his nightstand where he can see it.]