Isaac had a lot of scars. He saw them with his eyes closed. He felt them splitting open. Fat red drops running down his fingers and onto the sink counter. There was truth in blood. It told him he was alive. The engine roar didn't tell him that. Derek's tongue didn't tell him that. His ribs were on the outside of him and he still drew breath. It didn't really bother him anymore, except when he wanted something to remember pain by.
It all goes away. "Don't go."
They were ghosts in their own lives.
"I don't know how to let you go."
Isaac wrapped his arms around him. It was a childish thing to do. He rested his chin on his shoulder. His hands grasped at his leather jacket.
Derek sighed. His eyes fluttered closed. He wished he could stay here, like this, only for a moment. "Get off me."
He threw stones at him. Every goodbye was a loaded gun. The muzzle was pressed against his temple and Derek had his finger on the trigger. Like a beaten dog he stayed. He crawled on his stomach and licked at the hand that struck him, lapping up his own blood.
"You're giving up. Deucalion will kill you."
"He tried to kill me once."
"You got lucky."
A cold wind trembled through the house.
He was in dark waters sailing away from him.
It was a war he could win, but wasn't willing to fight.