The assumption that he was at least eighteen was good, anyway. Sometimes people thought he was younger than he was. He knows he's still on the younger side compared to a lot of people around here, but he's not a child. He shrugs his shoulders a little, and figures he might as well answer. "Twenty-one." Almost twenty-two, but the months and particulars aren't actually important. But he's not a kid, even if the words don't really bother him.
Even if his history wasn't all horror, he's still a mess. He'd never really had a chance to be a child, not with the world he'd lived in, and by the time things got better the only option was pushing forward. Some things were too broken to fix, and maybe he was like that too. He's all wired wrong and damaged, probably too late to take it back. But what childhood he had once had burned behind him.
He shrugs it off when Bullseye calls him out on getting off on it, but doesn't argue with it. Figures it's probably a bit late and that particular ship has likely sailed, since they both know he's right. "Well, I'm not particularly into you bleeding out all over me, either." He comments as he picks up the knife the man drops on his chest. Francis sitting up slowly as he watches him take off his shirt. He only looks for a few moments, before trying to settle on where to put it.
"Yeah, alright. I'll make it quick," he breathes as he leans in, pressing the knife to skin. Left side, just above his shoulderblade, more muscle and tissue and not so close to bone, the other side from that earlier injury. He's careful, keeps the cuts shallow, just enough to cut the skin, to bleed. Francis is good with a knife, and he doesn't go slow, since that just drags out the pain. So he makes short work of each letter, quick and confident, just a beat before he moves to the next one, even and careful. He writes that same word on Bullseye's skin, though the man hadn't made any attempt to hide that he was a killer. He could guess for something different, but it seemed better to leave it like this.
"There," he says when he finishes, voice soft and quiet as his thumb swipes briefly against where the blood wells up, and then he's pulling away. He didn't hear the door unlock, but it's open now anyway, along with an eerie sense of warm approval that Francis chooses not to think about too hard. He grabs his jacket off the floor as he gets to his feet. Least they can get out of this sorry excuse for torture. "You ever wanna play without all this pretense, gimme a call," he says with a twitch of his mouth. He's not quite sure he wants to leave him like this, but he's not going to insult him by asking if he needs help. But it did seem like he took it worse than Francis had, even if they're both flecked with blood.
oh good. I used to live along the coast and they can be horrible.
Even if his history wasn't all horror, he's still a mess. He'd never really had a chance to be a child, not with the world he'd lived in, and by the time things got better the only option was pushing forward. Some things were too broken to fix, and maybe he was like that too. He's all wired wrong and damaged, probably too late to take it back. But what childhood he had once had burned behind him.
He shrugs it off when Bullseye calls him out on getting off on it, but doesn't argue with it. Figures it's probably a bit late and that particular ship has likely sailed, since they both know he's right. "Well, I'm not particularly into you bleeding out all over me, either." He comments as he picks up the knife the man drops on his chest. Francis sitting up slowly as he watches him take off his shirt. He only looks for a few moments, before trying to settle on where to put it.
"Yeah, alright. I'll make it quick," he breathes as he leans in, pressing the knife to skin. Left side, just above his shoulderblade, more muscle and tissue and not so close to bone, the other side from that earlier injury. He's careful, keeps the cuts shallow, just enough to cut the skin, to bleed. Francis is good with a knife, and he doesn't go slow, since that just drags out the pain. So he makes short work of each letter, quick and confident, just a beat before he moves to the next one, even and careful. He writes that same word on Bullseye's skin, though the man hadn't made any attempt to hide that he was a killer. He could guess for something different, but it seemed better to leave it like this.
"There," he says when he finishes, voice soft and quiet as his thumb swipes briefly against where the blood wells up, and then he's pulling away. He didn't hear the door unlock, but it's open now anyway, along with an eerie sense of warm approval that Francis chooses not to think about too hard. He grabs his jacket off the floor as he gets to his feet. Least they can get out of this sorry excuse for torture. "You ever wanna play without all this pretense, gimme a call," he says with a twitch of his mouth. He's not quite sure he wants to leave him like this, but he's not going to insult him by asking if he needs help. But it did seem like he took it worse than Francis had, even if they're both flecked with blood.