[His hands could be a terrible work of art, with all the colors that mar them so. He's been out and about the training circuit all week, working tirelessly to "perfect his technique," or at least, that's what he's been telling himself. The smell of blood and flesh that's been wrapped for far too long enters his nostrils, and his chest draws sharply inward as he hisses from the pain.
Asher should say sorry, and he wishes he could, but his throat is dry and any other intelligible noise that could escape him is vanquished by a burning desire to stay.]
You can go, if you want.
[He utters this softly as shame curls its bony fingers around his neck again, silencing him for a few more seconds.
Jin's quiet kindness shouldn't make him so damn happy.]
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Asher should say sorry, and he wishes he could, but his throat is dry and any other intelligible noise that could escape him is vanquished by a burning desire to stay.]
You can go, if you want.
[He utters this softly as shame curls its bony fingers around his neck again, silencing him for a few more seconds.
Jin's quiet kindness shouldn't make him so damn happy.]
You don't have to do this for me.
["I'm the worst."]