by Deckard

Chelsea. Bella and Deckard's apartment. The living room.

A series of three paintings.

He stands upright before them because it hurts to slouch, ropy muscle cast in cords of stripped wire through the slack suspension of his forearms at his sides. Shirtless, all tattoos and bandages that don't hide blotchy bruising up his back half as well as they hide other scars.

It's been a couple of days since he's been awake, he thinks. The sun seems unnaturally white through the open window, bleaching denim's weathered sag away from his boxers.

They still don't make sense.

He should probably shower.

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