Arthur flinches when that raw, ugly smile gets turned on him, and his hands go still on the counter again as he listens to Charlie storm out.

His eyes lock on the raw, now-headless fish, at the flicker of pink internal flesh, gutted before it was frozen -

(empty, disembowelled, the memory of organs beneath his fingers and thumbs jammed in a too-small gap not meant for them)

- and he puts the knife down, breathing too slow and too quiet because the only other option is hyperventilating.