[He's trying not to look at them, and he's failing, he knows he is, and he knows that his eyes are dark with the splintering indecision that he hates. This kind of thing never used to matter. This kind of thing never made him blink, or stop, or second guess himself, because he didn't care enough for it to matter.]
no subject
And clean up my mess. Again.
[Do they ever do anything else, with him?]
[Is that all that you're good for?]