[In the pool, submerged nearly to his throat, a lassitude claims him after weeks of volatile struggle. He shows no reaction to the criticism; in fact, he finds it intuitive of Laurent to say so when he is still ignorant of the Sharingan's history and extent of capability. If there is context behind the remark, Sasuke doesn't know it.
What shocks him back to rigidity is the touch. It skims the tender skin beneath his eye, perilously close to delicate eyelids and dark lashes, which flicker in reflex to the proximity. Fear ribbons through him, soon calmed — a learned response he's forced to control with effort. He is so rarely touched, and even rarer there, that it leaves a knot in his throat. The sharp sting of a cut is almost relieving, as a distraction, and he lifts his hand to wipe it clean with cold water.
His heart continues its quickened pace, an uptick of surprise not so easily schooled. Now more prominently conscious of Laurent before him, given what he is asked moments later; he has no thoughts for slaves, but he remembers what he was told of an alien world.]
You won't find me so obedient. Anything I choose to do is of my own will, whether or not it disappoints you. [With this he reaches out to grasp Laurent's slender wrist, wet fingers dampening cream fabric. The hold is strong. A tug pulls Laurent closer until he is pressed to the marble edge of the pool, as if imprisoned to it.] How many slaves did you keep?
[His head bends at the question, and white teeth find the knot of the laces, bypassing the difficulty of using only one hand as he had their first meeting. Tugging at string until it becomes loose, dexterous fingertips begin their unraveling and soon reveal the pale stripe of Laurent's skin.]
no subject
What shocks him back to rigidity is the touch. It skims the tender skin beneath his eye, perilously close to delicate eyelids and dark lashes, which flicker in reflex to the proximity. Fear ribbons through him, soon calmed — a learned response he's forced to control with effort. He is so rarely touched, and even rarer there, that it leaves a knot in his throat. The sharp sting of a cut is almost relieving, as a distraction, and he lifts his hand to wipe it clean with cold water.
His heart continues its quickened pace, an uptick of surprise not so easily schooled. Now more prominently conscious of Laurent before him, given what he is asked moments later; he has no thoughts for slaves, but he remembers what he was told of an alien world.]
You won't find me so obedient. Anything I choose to do is of my own will, whether or not it disappoints you. [With this he reaches out to grasp Laurent's slender wrist, wet fingers dampening cream fabric. The hold is strong. A tug pulls Laurent closer until he is pressed to the marble edge of the pool, as if imprisoned to it.] How many slaves did you keep?
[His head bends at the question, and white teeth find the knot of the laces, bypassing the difficulty of using only one hand as he had their first meeting. Tugging at string until it becomes loose, dexterous fingertips begin their unraveling and soon reveal the pale stripe of Laurent's skin.]
Give me your other wrist.