i’ve got you. the words are meant to comfort, as is the hand in his curls, and to some degree, they may. but they don’t change the fact that his friend’s blood stains his hands, his clothes, that no amount of scrubbing seems to wash the red away nor erase the sight of jordan’s still features from his mind’s eye. he’s tired of seeing them, the sight makes him nauseous and creates a dull ache in his chest that won’t go away entirely no matter how he tries.
“ i can’t get his blood off. ” somewhere in the back of his mind he’s reminded that he can spell it away, but the thought of lifting his wand right now after the hell they’d just been put through, that raid, is nigh unbearable. dimly, he’s aware of hands trying to pry the washcloth from his own, possibly trying to help him, and he releases it, shoulders sagging slightly. “ i can’t get it off, ” he repeats, eyes closing against sudden hot tears pricking at them. “ i lost him, vinda, i’m... ” he was my best friend, he wants to say, but that’s selfish. jordan had been her friend too, so what comes out instead is a soft, cracking, “ i’m sorry. ”