"I hate this."
It comes between doses of morphine. Drops of acid. Licks of candy. It creeps in like bursts of dye in glasses of water, branching out, slowly morphing it into something new, something distorted. D likes to pretend he knows how to help—how to fix it—but he doesn't. He never will, probably.
Myles sniffs, and his jaw tightens, a sob raking through his whole body and out his mouth, but he attempts to muffle it. The sound is downright pitiful. D shifts, and his hand reaches out, gently, wiping a tear, maybe two, away from the younger boy. It doesn't help. Nothing helps, not really.
"I just…" Step. Sob. Two steps. "I hate it. I hate it so much, D, I just…"
D likes to pretend he pulls Myles close, and wipes him free of the pain of the world. Like to pretend he magically fixes everything with a wave of his hand.
But, that doesn't happen. Myles wipes his eyes and, in the morning, they'll forget it ever happened. Maybe it's a lesson. Maybe it's a gift, meant to show just how emotional life could be, and it's not like D has ever been happier then he is now.
Instead, though, it's just sad.