even when evan's face is covered with bruises and scratches with inflamed edges, he still can be called beautiful. when there are bruises blooming on his hands and broken finger joints sticking out, they still can be called elegant. when rosier isn't smiling, you don't even want to punch him in the face.

rosier wants to smirk, but his split lip hurts and it turns out to be a crooked grimace, as if he had just been kicked in the balls. at such moments, you think that from afar evan will not be given even fifteen, but up close, when you see those eyes of the color i fucked up living like this, then all thirty and all his.

you have to bring a cigarette to his bloody mouth yourself, because the joint on one of the blond's hands is knocked out, and the knuckles of the other look like they were passed through a meat grinder. of course, evan could have handled it himself. without you. with regular reserves of moral strength. and the size of this reserve worried you almost from the very beginning, because if one day evan says, "I’m bad, guys," it will mean the end of the world.

rosier would definitely look at his reflection, a mirror a meter away from him, but he is afraid of having a heart attack at such an early age. you're not going to mess with him, drag him from the bottom, wipe the blood off the bathroom tile, explain anything.

You're not his mom. Rosier is a grown boy, he'll figure it out for himself.

And then you would have dragged that mutt to you anyway, so that he would stain the wool carpet with blood and smoke from your hands.

When Ev isn't smiling, like now, you even want to kiss him. And you don't care that his lip is split, rosier is to blame for this. When you stop alternately swearing at pig iron, then at Evan, you hear a hoarse laugh under your ear.

He laughs. Blood is running down his chin.

"You can take the carpet to the dry cleaners later," Rosier throws the bull into the toilet and looks at his crippled hands.