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A Delicate Machine
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"Don't gimme any of that shit, Ty. You shouldn't have to be caught up in any of 'that', either," Harold said, dramatic air quotes making it clear what he thought about Ty's implication.

Being on the wrestling team together had generally kept Harold away from Ty's explosive side, but he wasn't blind to the fact that he had hurt people in the past. Maybe not physically, ever since he'd joined the team, but violent shouting and threats were almost just as bad. Sticks and stones break your bones, words slip between your ribcage like a knife and cut you even deeper. He couldn't blame anyone who still held a grudge, even after all the years that had passed.

Ty had changed, though. He was making an honest, earnest effort to make up for what he'd done, to be a better man. Everyone deserved at least the offer of second chance, and Ty was making the most of his. The people he had hurt obviously had no obligation to forgive him, and their feelings were no less valid, but to actively seek revenge? To hunt and kill someone for a past they were already paying the debt for? Harold couldn't allow that.

"You know I can take care of myself. I know you can take care of yourself. Sticking together and watching each other's backs is the obvious thing to do, yeah?" Harold was half-tempted to plop down in one of the circled seats, make it clear he wasn't going anywhere, but there was something weirdly ominous about the way they were arranged. 'Hi, I'm Harold, and I'm going to die.' 'Hi, Harry,' he could almost hear. It'd be best to leave this room sooner rather than later.
a tribute for the dead and dying

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Thirteen Steps · Group Therapy