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in a way, he probably does deserve it.
there's blood on the cuffs of his sleeves. the orange coat his father gave him, the one he said would always connect them. and yet damon's own father, dante, has smeared the blood on the coat. his hands are cut and calloused from wrenching glass bottles away from a man much stronger than he.
his hands grip his biceps. he knows the blood will stain and that he needs to get this coat washed by monday, because he always wore this coat, but god forbid he acknowledge that now. he knows he's taken care of himself for months and years and pretty much his whole life and he knows he needs to stand up and get over it. but glass digs a bit too deep into his fingertips from a shattered bottle of alcohol and his socks are wet at the heels from the liquid seeping into cracks in old tile flooring.
gant stands up, reluctantly. there's the roar of a car engine that manages to penetrate through the ringing of his ears and he knows his dad is driving off with molly, his mom. he knows his dad is still drunk and that what his dad is about to do is very, very illegal. but he can't do anything. after all, dante would just get even more mad if he piped up again.
only now does everything begin to register. all the events fully click into place and he starts to go about what he needs to do. he throws his coat in the washer, takes the glass out of his hands (he's done it before, so it doesn't phase him much), starts to boil some water for dinner. in the back of his head, the ocean roars, calling him back. just for a moment of comfort, a treat to the abyss.
and he does not listen, for that is the one thing he doesn't deserve. comfort.