Vincent let out a dry huff of laughter, “Oh yeah, I’m really loving performing sutures on oranges and being forced to sit through Matthias giving a show-and-tell of the worst injuries he’s ever seen—You’re an honorable mention, by the way.” Vincent sneered, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. When he spoke again, he moved into pacing around, his eyes locked firmly on the ground in front of him.
“I don’t know what they all see in it. I don’t think broken femurs are fascinating, I don’t think antiseptic smells comforting, I definitely do not think I look cool covered in someone else’s blood. It just makes me lose my appetite, and—” he gave a large root growing out of the grass a half-hearted kick.
Vincent turned to face her again, the blue of his eyes exaggerated by the tears threatening to fall from them, “—And I really don’t want to talk about it,”
She must’ve somehow made a face that told him she noticed that he was crying, which she had never seen him do outright before, and with another almost disgusted noise in the back of his throat, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Can we please not deal with this?” He asked as he did.
