for the best || septiplier

49

much like the beer seeping out from sean's bottle, tears escaped mark's cinnamon orbs helplessly.

mark was a crier; he'd cry at fucking anything and he knew.

hell, he would even cry at a plant.

he never reckoned he'd cry into his sheets about perverted, alcoholic, fucked up, 32 year old sean.

motherfuckin,,,

a sob unleashed itself from those trembling pink lips of his; damn it, he was supposed to be pretty for tonight.

fuckin,,

sean.

sean.

Sean.

Sean.

alone, mark cried into his pillow, arms wrapped around it beside him, being the substitute of a chest or shoulder to cry on.

he wanted a particular someone to be his chest to cry into- a shoulder to cry on seemed far too cliched.

well,

we can't always get what we want.

sean and mark found that the hard way.