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I don't fucking care what you say. I'm done with it. Over it. Fucking finished.

Don't be like this. Surely you can see this is exactly what they want you to do.

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“I don’t care.” He snuffed out his cigarette, blackening a little burrow in the frosted railing, wisps of dead snow curling up past his dead eyes. “I don't give a shit. And I never have. Not about you, or your family, (that you hate), or any of your stupid fucking ‘friends’ who all want to fuck you.”

He lifted the hand with the cig, deliberately, and found to his muted surprise that it wasn’t trembling. He took a drag on the dead, wet thing.

“What do you think of that?”

Her eyes glimmered, sharply. He could tell her face was getting hot, he could feel it across the gulping chasm that separated them always and forever but especially now in the quiet cold of 2am air and asphalt and apartments, all biting their tongues reproachfully at the violent little monkey creatures breaking the calm with their angst and fury. Their stupid hot fat fucking tears, bubbling out and dribbling everywhere snottily, stringily swinging with heaving sobs.

Bullshit.

“Bullshit.” He stuck the cig in its burrow and patted snow over the top carefully, sealing it into a little tomb, tucked snugly away from the hic-hic-hiccuping cries— he noticed, and noticed himself noticing, her conscious effort to restrain herself, to hold back the tears and noise which she knew he hated, and he resented her for it, chose to resent her for it, rejected not resenting her for yet another act of self-subjugation which would fuel her own stupid fucking resentment which she staunchly refused to see as such. Retard.

"I'm sorry."

Three hours later, after he held her and rocked her and whispered that everything was going to be okay, for three straight hours of the most genuinely caring and godly parental tenderness he could imagine-and-therefore-act, she managed to get him deeper in her throat than he could recall her ever having gotten before. Remarkable.