He stills, momentarily, and glances up, open and unguarded.
"I weep for the scars of maybe and never. Now. Fuck, I need a cigarette."
And yes, there's guilt in the back of his throat, enough to make him sick to his stomach, and yes, he's drunk enough that he can hardly keep upright but those are both pushed aside. He's also exhausted, drained, and sticky with his son's blood again.
But if there's one thing Random can do, it's accept that things can't always be alright. Tears are pushed out of his eyes, and the moment of weakness is pushed aside with shaking breaths.
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He stills, momentarily, and glances up, open and unguarded.
"I weep for the scars of maybe and never. Now. Fuck, I need a cigarette."
And yes, there's guilt in the back of his throat, enough to make him sick to his stomach, and yes, he's drunk enough that he can hardly keep upright but those are both pushed aside. He's also exhausted, drained, and sticky with his son's blood again.
But if there's one thing Random can do, it's accept that things can't always be alright. Tears are pushed out of his eyes, and the moment of weakness is pushed aside with shaking breaths.