THIS IS JUST ANGER SPEAKING, jameson believes, and if it’s not, then fine —- siggy can toss him out and block his number the moment he doesn’t look like he’d been hit by a train. it will hurt, it will hurt so fucking much, but jameson doesn’t do pain, and so if it happens, he’ll ignore it. he’s an alcoholic for a reason, isn’t he? until that moment, though, jameson can tune out all the cursing, all the shouting and hitting and unsavory things that his friend is inflicting on him. he’s already hit him, already made him bleed with his fucking nails, and short of, well, making him take care of himself, or any such nonsense, he doesn’t think siggy can do him any worse.
still, when the other hits him this time, jameson pauses for a moment, and looks at the place where a light bruise will form on his arm, and then looks back to the other, and utters an annoyed “ really? ”
and then hands are back to putting the other down in bed, and while one palm is flat against a thin chest, the other grabs the blanket at the end of the bed and pulls it over siggy, then begins to gently secure it around him. there, bitch, he thinks. now fucking stay. stepping back, knowing that even if siggy does rise, he won’t get far in the house, and certainly won’t leave it, jameson gives his friend a stern look, points a finger at him, and says “ get over yourself and stay there. i’ll be right back. ”
and, though he doesn’t think he’ll be obeyed, still he leaves the room, pace picking up when he gets out of the bedroom. once in the kitchen, no time is wasted grabbing a plastic bag, filling it with ice, wrapping it in a towel, then heading back to the bedroom.
A YELP OF PAIN AS HE’S PUSHED BACK AGAINST THE MATTRESS. it flares against his sides like fire is caged between his ribs, dizzyingly sharp. he squirms beneath the hand pinning his chest, feet weakly kicking beneath a blanket he doesn’t even see coming until it’s already tucked over him. he’s breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, and he finds a dangerous tightness in his throat as he listens to footsteps fade. as soon as he is alone and only the four walls are there to hear it, he lets out a sob. wrist drags harshly over tears threatening to break off and roll down his face, erasing them before the other comes back. the thought vaguely flickers through his mind through a haze of rage to threaten to call one of his guys, but the weapon is dropped as soon as he reaches for it. it would be a threat he’d never follow up on, but a threat nonetheless, and he knows he cannot do that to people he cares about. gaze flicks desperately to the door, trembling fingers pressing against the mattress for a moment as if bracing himself to rise. if he crosses the room to shut the door and locks it, then he’ll be alone. soreness cries out within battered legs as they ease upward slightly and remain there. he can’t do it. the threat of collapsing as soon as he tries to stand is too great, and the cacophony of pain that would coincide falling scares him away from the thought. fingertips, cold as ice, quaver as they tuck back sweat soaked locks from his forehead then press harshly into exhausted hues, reddened from days denied rest.
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