"and the blood just spills and spills / but here we sit debating math"
(The first draft of this was written via touchtxt to twitter while I was driving north on I-75, but part two of four disappeared into the ether. Low’s “Breaker” was playing and gave me the title.)
One hundred words on the dot.
title: my hand just kills and kills
with: Danny/Flack; Danny/Lindsay
Danny’s head is fuzzed with whatever they put in his IV. Lindsay hovers by the head of the bed, mouth flat with held back murmurs, while the wellwishers file in and out and in and in. Danny wants everyone to fuckoff on their separate ways. The walls are cottonpacked, and Lindsay’s stray hand is clammy.
Flack comes in, makes some jerkoff comment-literally. He stands by Danny’s good hand, like nothing more complicated than that grin he’s got always waiting in reserve. His fingertip draws figure eights on the inside of Danny’s good wrist. Lindsay doesn’t notice.
Danny opens his palm.
One hundred words on the dot.
title: my hand just kills and kills
with: Danny/Flack; Danny/Lindsay
Danny’s head is fuzzed with whatever they put in his IV. Lindsay hovers by the head of the bed, mouth flat with held back murmurs, while the wellwishers file in and out and in and in. Danny wants everyone to fuckoff on their separate ways. The walls are cottonpacked, and Lindsay’s stray hand is clammy.
Flack comes in, makes some jerkoff comment-literally. He stands by Danny’s good hand, like nothing more complicated than that grin he’s got always waiting in reserve. His fingertip draws figure eights on the inside of Danny’s good wrist. Lindsay doesn’t notice.
Danny opens his palm.