( he leaves the cigarette in between aaron's lips, momentarily debating making him eat it. ( he'd never, but thinking it does quell his rage, a bit. ) andrew's eyebrows go up at the question, flickering briefly before he tames them to his regular look of bored nonchalance, taking a step back. aaron will lose this game, andrew already knows. it's just a wonder how far he's willing to go.

inside his mouth, aaron might feel the familiar sweetness of cracker dust tickling his tongue. )

It's poor form to answer a question with a question, and it's a bad move to joke around with me when I'm angry. Consider that a warning. You won't get another one.

( said aptly before he props himself up against a nearby window sill, crossing his arms over his chest. streaks of blood line down his mouth and nose, apparent linears to the pattern now becoming aaron's shirt. there are dried blood streaks that abruptly end at his elbows, previously worn armbands having protected the rest of his skin -- but it's no secret now, really, the multitude of bumpy lines andrew inflicted on himself that have since grown into scars, and the bite marks proust left over top them that have now been added to his collection. andrew doesn't take his eyes off aaron, boring holes. )

The therapist back at Eudio said I should attempt to be more bluntly honest with you, and it seemed like her pea-sized brain had the occasional entertaining or logical thought, so. ( he shrugs. ) You were fucking Katelyn, behind my back. Back at Palmetto. It's pointless to lie, it'll only piss me off more. Now you've found a new cancer to get sick with, one worse than that cheerleader skank.

Which brings me back to the question: what was our agreement?