#RIGHHHHT when they start working together for heartsteel

[weldfists]

not just a scratch in hs verse pls ...

send me    ‘ not  just  a  scratch ‘    for your muse to catch mine trying to patch up a wound in secret…

Maybe he shouldn’t have stormed off—

What’s the point in being collaborative if he was just going to take everything to heart? This wasn’t like before. He wasn’t nineteen standing before his own flesh and blood, where he was presenting something and already bracing himself for it to be torn apart. It’s so far divorced from everything he’d gone through for years with his music and yet it still made the weight on his shoulders unbearable, the strain in his jaw almost crushing. And before he could let the wounds from the past tear open at the drop of a simple critique he’d excused himself from the studio, despite the odd look Yone had thrown him as he shoulders past K’sante roughly (much to his offense). 

He doesn’t care what it looked like, up and leaving and shoving his seat backward with a growl as he did it. But the sting from just… he can’t even fucking remember what it was that Ezreal commented on that triggered that dread that manifested bone deep within him. But he knows it was enough to echo the words of his father once upon a time and it was enough to make him fly off the handle. This is how he ends up outside the studio; his back pressed firmly against one of the trees nearby as his ears pin flat against his hair despite hidden in the pockets of his beanie as an itch spreads across his arms while he tries to shake out the trepidation. Fruitlessly, really— he knows better than anyone how to shake it.

Is he overreacting? Maybe. 

He can’t think about it now, not when the sting of wood splintering beneath his knuckles scratches that itch far better than talking this out ever could. At least that’s what it feels like. Another wind up, another punch, more wood cracking beneath the hit and digging into his skin. It doesn’t stop till his breathing evens out and it doesn’t feel like there were ants crawling all over him. Doesn’t stop till he realizes just how stupid he was to start in the first place. A flex of his hand blooms a new pain, knuckles bloodied with skin split. Fuck.

Sett up and leaves, angry but not really, set off by something he can’t quite put into words yet with the boys, doesn’t have the patience to talk about it anyways, but to then come back with his hand fucked up? How the fuck was he supposed to explain this? As soon as the adrenaline is gone the regret begins to flood in as he holds his hand carefully, fangs bared at no one but himself. 

Sett thinks he’s been gone for what feels like forever, rushing back inside and moving as quickly as he could to a bathroom. He had to wash it away, hide the fact he wasn’t as in control as he thought he was. Suddenly he’s nineteen with watery eyes and a busted lip and a bloody nose, washing his face silently until the water ran clear and he could stand to look at himself again.

So, no— he doesn’t hear when the door to the bathroom creaks open. Doesn’t hear the footsteps that approach him cautiously, methodically, before stopping not too far behind him— watching. Sett’s only concern was cleaning his hand until he could stand to look at himself again. When the sting of the cold water blasting away the splinters and scabbing was enough to make him wince, that's when he catches the glimpse of white hair posted behind his reflection and he stills completely. Mouth falling open to try and speak only to find nothing to say, distress lingering in the crease of his brow while the water continues to run down his mangled handiwork.

Sett doesn’t try to hide it, but it’s evident in how he sucks in a harsh breath and clenches his fists that being found was frustrating him beyond what he’d ever admit. Perhaps it’s good then, that his ears stay pinned closely to his head, his tail flicking roughly from side to side as he begins his ritual of cleaning his fist once more. In moments like these, Sett’s rather thankful he has them opposed to the myriad of times where they’ve done him dirty. Either way, Yone of all people finding him bloody knuckled and mere moments from panic had not been something Sett was looking forward to.

“I don’t need ya checkin’ on me. S’fine.”

The words cut clean and dry when he does eventually speak, his eyes locked on the other man through the mirror. He wasn’t planning on opening up about what he felt right now or about what dragged a knife across the tender scars within his chest in the studio any time soon. Silently, Sett just hopes that the image of him frantically scrubbing away blood stays hidden within Yone’s mind, and dies with him really. 

But he knows better.  He knows what this will lead to later when the two cross paths in the early mornings and Sett wants nothing to do with it.