And even the birds have stopped singing...
For when all the world's malice is endured by these handfuls of teenagers, the hush of sorrow settles in.
Carly Wren Davies is her parents' boxing bag and the very reason they need one in the first place...
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SHIFTING YOUR BACK on all morality and ethics to defend those you care about is a rather unique characteristic. One with which merely a few may permit themselves to be defined. For, humans are a species of egoism and as soon as one is given causes to act against decency, they draw out the white cane and saunter past, choosing to ignore the assaults added to a cherished one right there next to. But even so, there are some individuals whose ego can withstand a breach in their image.
It is debatable whether some approaches are truly reasonable and necessary, but as the victim of such a foul act, you look up with an appreciative gleam at the sole being who cared about how you were doing without regard for their own prestige. And that – those very people – are worth more than the finest pearls this galaxy has to give.
"What happened to your hand?"
"It's nothing," Draco waves the notice off as rapidly as feasible, concealing his maimed knuckles beneath his intact palm. "Because it appears as though you beat someone up," Blaise laughs anxiously, his stare touring over Draco's face before awareness creeps up to him. "Please tell me you didn't— "
"It's taken care of."
"What do you mean it's taken care of?" Blaise hasps, his syllables stumbling, "Adrian, by the appearance of your hand, should also be tied to one of the beds here. What did you—"
"Blaise," Draco interrupts sharply, his jaw tensed, "It is dealt with. Do not fret."
"Fret? You say that—" But when he investigates Draco's face, he holds an influx of troubles in. What he observes is concern.
Blaise is doing well considering the circumstances, but he resents thinking about how genuinely concerned Draco must have been about him.
He does not remember much. He recalls saliva lacquering his face and soles repetitively kicking his thighs. Blood spurting from his nose and the wall that dispossessed him of all perception after he was flung against it. The happenings that follow are a garbled mess of irate voices and black dots.
But Blaise understands how far Draco would go for him, and even if he never happens to agree with such draconian measures, he can claim to have someone in his life who forsakes the main road and brawls his way through embankments only to provide a sliver of justice to those he cares about.
Blaise inhales and exhales then. He could, of course, attempt to lecture Draco for his unethical actions, but he realizes the futility of it. Draco Malfoy has his own head, his own perspectives, and opinions. And these are shielded by a massive steel door that hinders any efforts at manipulation from passing through. So, Blaise plainly speaks the simplest words of gratitude, followed by a nod of recognition from the blond.
Blaise's dark eyes wander into the distance then, over Draco's shoulder, and onto Carly. She nears the boys with prudence, not wishing to disrupt their dialogue. But Blaise's face is softening even further and a mild smile shapes on his lips. As though all his concerns have disintegrated as speedily as they have shown up.
