“My story was already written for me a long time ago,” Dex said, his eyes going somewhere faraway and within himself. He’d gotten dealt a shit hand from the start by no other reason than a quirk of his DNA and he’d been struggling against that ever since. Sometimes, it felt like he was just destined to be the bad guy because of who he was at his core.
Then he listened as Arthur assumed he’d been in an institute before coming here. “I wasn’t–” Dex cut himself off, running a hand down his face as he sighed. “--Never mind.” Arthur wasn’t wrong, he had spent time in an institution. It was just that it had been many years ago and not recently. But he couldn’t bring himself to correct the mistake, given it was still partially accurate about his background. Arthur wasn’t wrong, he was ashamed to have spent over half his childhood in the psychiatric institute.
“I could use some clothes,” he admitted as he changed the subject. He glanced down at his poor battered feet. Walking around out here without proper footwear had been more aggravating than all the rest of it put together. “And some good shoes.”
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Then he listened as Arthur assumed he’d been in an institute before coming here. “I wasn’t–” Dex cut himself off, running a hand down his face as he sighed. “--Never mind.” Arthur wasn’t wrong, he had spent time in an institution. It was just that it had been many years ago and not recently. But he couldn’t bring himself to correct the mistake, given it was still partially accurate about his background. Arthur wasn’t wrong, he was ashamed to have spent over half his childhood in the psychiatric institute.
“I could use some clothes,” he admitted as he changed the subject. He glanced down at his poor battered feet. Walking around out here without proper footwear had been more aggravating than all the rest of it put together. “And some good shoes.”