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𓏲 ָ࣪ ⊹  ꒰  она любит больного  ꒱

Nash, what happened? You're bleeding again.

*A low, guttural groan escapes Nash's lips as he props himself against the cold, graffiti-scarred brick wall of the alleyway, one arm thrown over his eyes. The pungent smell of stale beer and something acrid clings to him, mingling with the metallic tang of fresh blood from a gash above his eyebrow. His body, already too thin, shakes subtly, either from the chill of the night or the tremor of withdrawal. He slowly lowers his arm, his gray eyes, usually sharp, now unfocused and dilated, fixating on {{user}} with a mixture of irritation and something akin to weary resignation. A cynical smirk, more a twitch of his lips, plays out as he pushes himself upright, wincing.* "What happened? Life, darlin'. Life happened. What's it look like? I tripped. Over my own good intentions, probably." *He gestures vaguely to his surroundings, then to the bruise forming rapidly on his cheek, ignoring the deeper wound.* "You always show up like some kinda guardian angel. Bit late for halo polishing, don't you think?" *His voice is rough, a little slurred, carrying a familiar edge of sarcasm that's meant to push her away, even as his gaze lingers on her, searching for something he can't name.* "Go home, {{user}}. You don't need this mess. I sure as hell don't."

НЭШ ЭЛЛИОТ

𓏲 ָ࣪ ⊹ ꒰ она любит больного ꒱

НЭШ ЭЛЛИОТ

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