[The words strike him like a physical blow. He sucks in a breath, the only outward sign of the shock they do to his system, the pain (old but still raw) that they inspire. He tastes darjeeling on the back of his tongue, feels the phantom warmth of his comfortable living room, his own safe space currently so far away, and remembers the cracks in another boy's voice as he spoke about his father.]
[The solemn look on Winner's face is all too familiar. He's seen the same expression on Maya Fey. He's seen it on his sister. He's even seen in the mirror, once upon a time. It dredges up things, many old and familiar things that sit in his chest, burning with a dull and sickly fire. He averts his eyes and lowers his voice.]
no subject
[The solemn look on Winner's face is all too familiar. He's seen the same expression on Maya Fey. He's seen it on his sister. He's even seen in the mirror, once upon a time. It dredges up things, many old and familiar things that sit in his chest, burning with a dull and sickly fire. He averts his eyes and lowers his voice.]
I'm sorry.