I know there's this whole thing on etsy where people will write like comfort letters from the buyers character of there choosing and I think that's pretty cool.
But where's the uncomfort letters?
Where's my letter from Oscar delancey telling me he's gonna bash my head in with a rock?
I want a letter from orin scrivello telling me in detail how he's gonna rip out all my teeth one by one
I would pay for that.
87 notes
·
View notes
This was a genuine attempt at not writing angst, @fecklessfriggingdisappointments I know I wrote this ages but I still so appreciate the prompt of them saying “I love you” - I’m sorry that it devolved to this 😭😭
Cw: allusions to suicide
——
The bedroom door was closed, and Oscar hadn’t been at the kitchen table like usual so unless he was out, he’d taken refuge in their room from something,
Morris knocked the door lightly once with his knuckles, before he pushed it open.
“Jesus Os,” he breathed, “the hell happened?”
Oscar looked up at him from his place on the floor, legs crossed under him and back leant against the bed frame, shirt spattered with a coppering red, spots of it across his face, jaw tense as he scrubbed at the shoes he’d pulled off.
Morris left the door behind him open as he moved closer, dropping to his knees next to him, letting his gaze roam him again- there was blood, so fuckin’ much of it, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from, there was stab wound, no cut he could plug-
“It ain’t mine Mo.”
Morris paused. “What.”
Oscar didn’t look at him, kept his gaze fixed on the boot in his hand, on the cloth he was holding in the other, damp and stained pink, getting darker as he rubbed at the shoe with it.
“Ain’t my blood.”
“Then whose?”
“I dunno.” He frowned, eyebrows pulling together, “Some kid.”
He scrubbed harder at the shoes, more red came off, like it had been steeped in it, like it had enough time to seep in the fabric of the cheap leather.
“You’re not making any sense Os.”
“I fuckin’-“ he didn’t look at up at him, hunched further over, away from him. “I fuckin’ love you, you know that.”
Morris stilled where he kneeled, could feel his own expression morph to something of concern, something he so rarely felt directed toward Oscar who was unshakeable, Oscar who was built on roots and cemented foundations, who didn’t ever get like this. Who wasn’t meant to look vulnerable.
“Oscar, I got no fuckin’ clue what you’re tryin’ to say.”
A laugh, something more of a wheeze, humourless and quiet, shock maybe, Morris guessed, at whatever managed to make Oscar look like this.
“Some kid, he weren’t much younger than you, didn’t look, ran out in front a’ some horses.”
The silence in the room was heavy. Oscar still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“He fuckin’- I saw him see them comin’, it were no accident. And then he got tangled in the wheels of the carriage and. Fuck.”
“Christ Os-“
Oscar swallowed, shook his head a little, “He looked like you? Your height, dark hair.” He paused, opened his mouth then closed it before starting again, “For a second I thought it was you.”
He wrung out the cloth in the small bowl next to him, the water came out pink.
“I’m fine Oscar.”
“Fuck. I know. I know. I just.” He stopped, swiped the back of his hand under his nose, unintentionally smearing some of the red that had been splattered across his face that made Morris wonder just how close Oscar had been standing.
Morris shifted, landed in a sitting position and shuffled himself next to Oscar till they were sitting shoulder to shoulder.
He picked up the other boot, the one that still left a bloodied soleprint on the floor, nudged Oscar to pass him a cloth.
“I love you too.”
54 notes
·
View notes