Sickly.

Salvatore does not know if this pain is worse than a stab wound. With stab wounds, the pain is sharp. It's a immediate, screaming, in-your-face pain. But this? This is a yearning that stirs in your stomach, lays dormant until prayers rise to a crescendo in your throat and sits bitterly on your tounge. it is a cry for love that tumbles from your mouth, sickly and weak and wet, waiting for the water to wash it away. "oh, but Mother Miranda. If it's for you, I'll do anything-" he groans in his seat. It was true. He would bear this pain and the weight of words and humiliation for one look. One fleeting glance from his mother. The lycans would have to pick him apart piece by piece before he’d ever tear himself away from her love, her presence. Even if it never comes, he'd sit at her front door until the whole world fell apart.



Which, at the current moment, it might as well be falling apart, Because that bastard father has mothers special child gripped between his gnarly fingers like she belongs to him. "H....uh?" Salvatore blinks, in silence. Where did he come from? How did he get here? Salvatore’s brow furrows for a moment, the gears turning in his head as if he couldn’t possibly figure out how Ethan had gotten here. If Winters is here that means heisenberg has failed. Mothers favorite little experiment has failed her, and the key to her affection now lays in front of Salvatore like cake on a platter. For a moment, something churns in his chest, and he almost smiles. Yes.. Yes..! Miranda will look upon him with reverence! She will regard him as Son rather than thing! She .. she’ll.. !



The father raises his arm, waving the flask in the air. Was he.. Mocking Salvatore? Mocking him like he’s an idiot? Oh, Moreau will show you "Idiot" then, if that is what winters so desires.