I had a-

( He starts dimly, distantly, allowing himself to be led along toward his bed. He had a what? Why the fuck would he conjure up a-

It's about then that it all sinks in, that it properly metabolizes. )

Oh, fuck. Oh, shit-

( On instinct, on impulse, his hands tighten around Kyle's forearms. Eyes gone wide with alarm and concern, bright and green as he searches Kyle's expression. )

I came at you with a boxcutter- I didn't-

( Mean to. He didn't mean to, and it's only now that he registers the warm blood on one of his hands. Not his own. Kyle's, from the gash on his arm. From Jack. He moves with a new urgency, pressing a quickly-summoned cloth tightly against the wound to try and stem the bleeding. )

I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, fuck, I'm so sorry, I didn't- I didn't mean to-

( This might actually be the most expressive Kyle's ever seen him, the most distraught. The most emotionally affected. Nervous outright, anxiety quickly climbing.

Because Spencer's whispering in his mind: just like you didn't mean to slit my throat with one either, right Jack?

This isn't the first time this has happened. Maybe Kyle can pick up on that. )