You had a taste of bitter tea on your tongue, unfortunately.
He was gone, supposedly a social gathering, with the house alone you didn't have much else to do but clean, sometimes drink from the expensive little tea bags in a wooden box, and talk to Elsie, well, not like anyone was talking to you. It turns out that being friends with like three people you're not that close with kinda sucks.
A scream.
A blow against the wood, dry, hard. You ran inside, half throwing the broom aside, and found the boy, Jonathan, at the bottom of the stairs with a bone sticking out of his flesh. Did you have to put a tourniquet on him? How was a tourniquet made? Did you put a napkin on top of it?
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The Hadean Aeon was named after the Greek god of the underworld, Hades(Pluton if we are talking about Rome). The hadic Eon, consisting of the beginnings of the earth, at the time a rocky mass covered in lava, toxic gases, etc.
"My son is sleeping...".
George expressed for the third time, a warm hand on your elbow, trying for the love of Hades to get you to stop talking about rocks.
Jonathan, the boy, was high out of his mind on Opium, which the doctor gave him, Mind you. Thick bandages were covering his leg, which was stiff in a kind of box elevated by a rope, Elsie refused to wipe off the sweat, sweat disgusted her, and out of convenience, George asked you, a cloth was resting in your left hand.
It was early morning, just three o'clock, and there was no light in the room other than a faint silver or bluish glow from the window, it was cold, but the window was open, supposedly so that Jonathan could get fresh air.
George shook his head, two fingers on his forehead.
"...This appears to not be my year."
a beat of silence, a deeply masculine sigh, his hand tenderly taking his son's.
"Yeah?"
You asked.
"Indeed."
He responded.
Another beat of silence.
"I would ask for a drink but that may be a bad idea..."
He mutters.
"Even so, that wouldn't fix what's ails me? Won't it?"
You sighed as he explained his thoughts loudly and explicitly, all secondary meaning out the window.
Even if it sounded ridiculous it was a bit nice, really nice, not like you were going to admit it, knowing what the other person was thinking, no games or puns was calming, your eyes half closed, heavy.
"I admit I feel like a lost, excuse my vulgarity, 'bullet'."
He said.
"So vulgar."
You answered.
"I know."
He responded, head down in shame, it made you smile.
George threw his hands up in an exasperated gesture, then looked back at his son, lying there like a sleeping prince, blue eyelashes grazing his cheeks.
"I'm a bad father?"
He asked, or muttered, contemplating, leaned forward in his chair, cold wind blowing and making the navy blue of his hair blow, hands on his lap now.
"My poor son, I can't help but worry..."
He said. Your hands rested around his firm arm, his suit was soft.
You measured your words carefully, savoring them as they rolled off your tongue.
"that sucks."
Ok, well, you never said you were the best at it.
Instead, you pressed your cheek into his warm shoulder.
"Yes..."
He said, pressing his lips gently to your forehead.
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