The wind from the flight was cold and sharp, making him shiver. He just tried thinking of it as a ride, he was floating... peacefully floating in the clouds. Not in the arms of a bitter demon who might drop him. He stayed as still as silent as he could though, until they finally touched the ground. When they did his eyes snapped open and he glanced around, nothing was familiar to him. Putting pressure back on his leg made the never-ending throbbing continue, and he limped a bit to follow Zico into the house without any protest. Alois felt bad for the other, having to take care of all the things that were wrong with him now. On his body in total was road rash on both arms, a slice on one of those arms, thanks to Zico, and road rash on his left shin. He didn't want to mention the still slightly healing burns.<br/><br/>The only people who had seen his scars fully was his little brother Jay and a handful of hospital staff members. He couldn't protest as the other just stormed away to another location in the home, leaving him to figure out how to convince himself to remove his clothes. He knew that if he didn't do it that the demon would do it and risk hurting him more, and he was so sick of pain he was willing to endure humiliation instead. His hands lingered at the bottom of his shirt, fingers fiddling with the ends. He was trying, god he was trying to just pull the shirt over his head and onto the floor but he just couldn't lift his arms. They were weighted to the ground with an invisible chain, and on each link had engravings of his fears deep in the metal.<br/><br/>Taking a deep breath he forced his arms up and pulled the shirt over his head, cold air touching his skin and making him shiver. His eyes went down to the discolored skin on his right side. It looked like paint that was mixed the wrong color and accidentally put there, but the artist just kept the discoloration there. Made it unique when he didn't want to be unique, it was disgusting. It leaked from his side to his belly button, but only in one single thick stripe, a line that didn't want to stay where it should have been. On his back, it had leaked worse leaving jagged spikes of the color. From his side to hip it curled and went down to his pants, which was the worst part of it all. He remembered stepping onto the burning wood and how his socks were gone within seconds. The fire just spiraled up his leg and engulfed his right side, he shook the memory away, he still had the pants.<br/><br/>Unbuttoning his pants and undoing the zipper he tugged his pants down until the bottom of his boxers. There he let it sit. His eyes shifted from the soft pale skin to the disgusting scarred. He hated it, hated God for being the painter who didn't give a fuck about the color he picked and just threw it one. He ground his teeth and let out a breath through his nose, like an angry animal ready to charge. It was cruel and unfair but he was glad it was him and not his brother. In a sharp tug downward he pulled the pants off and violently kicked the away. He tilted his head straight up into the ceiling, panic running through his veins. He always did this, whenever he woke up or had to look at it... Maybe it was a dream, a terrible dream, and when he looked down maybe it'd be okay.<br/><br/>He looked, and his right leg was its mangled mess. Biting his lip he held back a wave of curses that threatened to tip over in violent screams of fuck you. Instead he slammed his foot back into the couch he was told to sit in and then sat down, defeated. With head in hands, he held back the burning of fears that threatened to spill. He inhaled slowly, counted to ten, then straightened himself. He still had the shirt, which he draped over his leg. Luckily his sock reached the end of the shirt and hid most of his leg. For his side... he just tried to smartly place his arm in a way that'd hide it. Maybe, just maybe Zico wouldn't notice it.