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    Summary

    "He was good at what he did, and it made him happy to help Sebastian. To feel useful, to be something to someone again. When his art failed him, when every stroke felt shaky and every colour clashed, he knew the hybrid was only a call away.

    When every choice felt like a mistake, when he couldn’t stand the sight of the colour red, when he felt like he was but one more kill away from shattering, he knew Sebastian would be there to pick up his pieces.

    (When he wanted to scream and cry despite his lack of tearducts because he couldn’t remember, he couldn’t fucking remember please no please they already took him away why would they do that why why why-)"

    Or; the events of chapter 4 of my other work, Adonis Divine, from the perspective of Painter.

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