Hans Larsson

He's wary about opening up farther because Bjorn ran last time but they are closed in now. He lets his arm fall and touches the long scar down his forearm. "I opened my arm once."

That one he remembered clearly because it took a long time and he was panicked about it while it was happening. That one had messed him up more than the others, if you can even say dying had degrees of messing with the mind. Rekker felt like people interfered and that was why he couldn't die. He understood some people would always try to stop him and came to terms with that long ago. The desire to shove Bjorn away so it didn't add another person to that list rose and fell away in a few breaths.

His gaze came up through the mess of hair. Bjorn couldn't get away but then neither could he. His eyes are unfocused while he tries to process what Bjorn means. He's not able to believe it but in all the blank staring he notices the signs that the Swede is having a bad trip on the coke that Rekker knows he snorted a few minutes ago. It's slow and purposeful when Rekker grabs his forearm and pulls. He hates being comforted but, often enough, feels better comforting someone else. Maybe this wasn't the worst that they were both shattered and nasty all the time?