@singingfreedom
The artistic piece that Xiang called a clock ticked against the wall with a reverberating chime that seemed to fill the emptiness of the entire apartment, counting each second with what felt like an uncomfortablly long metronome. Since Alfred had come to visit, Xiang couldn’t bring himself to speak much more than “yes,” “no,” and “thank you.” His consciousness weighed down on him like a terribly heavy sack, and its only growing.
His eye uncomfortably pulsates below the bandage and grew worse under the subconscious weight. His mind was full of thoughts that kept him from focusing on virtually anything else, and he found it practically unbearable. Sitting next to Alfred, his head on his shoulder, the sensation eventually becomes too much for him.
“Alfred.” He finally speaks up, yet not turning his head at all towards his partner. His fingers nervously touch each other, and grip at the bottom of his shirt. His mouth feels dry from nerves-- he remembered clearly how Alfred reacted when he told him about his previous injury. Yet, he felt he had to tell him-- he couldn’t take the lump in his chest that persosted more and more everytime he was with him. He drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly; his knuckles practically turn white with how hard he was gripping his shirt.
“We... we need to talk. I know who did this. I remember.” He motions to his bandage, yet still refusing to look up at him.
