taste, bitter, on a guilty tongue
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When it was still warm and tolerable, when he found himself hovering on the edge of sleep because he’d done nothing but lay in his bed all night, staring at the ceiling, thinking of hospital beds and cheap headstones and the smell of the old vodka spilled in his carpet - he poured himself a cup.
The machine was old, yes, but functional. And with the way his eyes drooped, the exhaustion that permeated his bones no matter how much he slept, it didn’t seem like it could hurt. So when Peter would make a pot, Martin would begrudgingly pour himself a cup (never one for Peter), leave away the adornments that made it tolerable, and sip on it until it grew too sour and tepid to stomach. He hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of tea since Jon got hu— since the Unknowing, and the caffeine was necessary for the work Peter wanted him to do.
The discomfort was something a little extra, just for him.
(He wondered, idly, how some people existed without the little dashes of pain to ground them.)Series
- Part 1 of taste, bitter, on a guilty tongue
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“Oh. Well…Peter was…I mean, he was fine, actually, I think?”
Martin laughed lightly, the sound catching somewhat in his throat, blurred a little under the slow roll of the water just starting to boil.The flippancy in Martin’s voice dug at him, made something in him turn and twist and convulse. Peter had been…fine. It had all been fine. The man had forced Martin into whatever this hellishness had been, irreparably torn him down to nothing over the last year, and…and he was –
“…Fine.”
Series
- Part 2 of taste, bitter, on a guilty tongue