[ Iain almost swallows the two words up completely. (Don't ask. Please don't ask me that. I don't know. I don't know.
He hates himself, for that. He isn't used to not knowing — hasn't been for a long time. Perhaps, for some smaller matter, it'd be something he could let go, but the devil is in the details, and he's afraid the devil will run rampant. He'd almost forgotten what fear was like, too.)
The scape of his back shifts and winds, the muscles underneath like the gears of a clock, each sure of its place where his thoughts are not. He knows what to do with his body, with his hands, but his weak point bleeds, cut open like a red stripe, uncertainty furling from the wound. (He'll bleed out if he's not careful.) ]
✘
He hates himself, for that. He isn't used to not knowing — hasn't been for a long time. Perhaps, for some smaller matter, it'd be something he could let go, but the devil is in the details, and he's afraid the devil will run rampant. He'd almost forgotten what fear was like, too.)
The scape of his back shifts and winds, the muscles underneath like the gears of a clock, each sure of its place where his thoughts are not. He knows what to do with his body, with his hands, but his weak point bleeds, cut open like a red stripe, uncertainty furling from the wound. (He'll bleed out if he's not careful.) ]