[It is better to be left alone, Sasuke reasons, given the state he is in. Dressed in silks like a woman, perfumed delicately, made submissive by chains — it's a fate anyone of his world would consider severely emasculating. He shows no care either way when he is bathed and dressed in solitude. Whatever embarrassment he may feel is securely fastened, not useful. Cool discipline allows him to weather this new reality and reveal nothing of his thoughts. Not that there is a soul around him, day after day, who would care to ask.
The books are a refuge, then, though he does not look further into the motive behind Laurent's choice, whether it is intentional or negligent. He reads at every spare moment. He learns more of Vere, its geography and history both alien to him, but worthwhile knowledge to have; he studies the nature of this unfamiliar world as a student cast unfairly into the thick of it. He has no choice. Part of him, too, wants to know more for the sake of a deep curiosity — one centered on a man who has decided to ignore his existence. Each late night, half against his will, Sasuke starts at the quiet sound of the door; his head turns to watch the slender figure cross the room to the bed, silhouetted by warm lamps, golden hair and pale skin, untouchable. He never successfully falls back asleep. Those quiet, crawling hours near dawn see his heart too quick in his chest for rest.
Until one night. The chain clatters as it loosens, unspools, and he is free, but he doesn't dare move. Dark eyes watch Laurent's graceless, stumbling display. Something is wrong. He knows it even before gilded cups roll across the rug at their feet.]
'Attend you'. [The words are an echo, brow furrowed in the uncertainty of that request. He's still assessing Laurent, whose speech is too articulate to suggest inebriation. It's enough to look past the rest of it; it's not killing he has imagined, at least not of Laurent, but the mention of a banquet stops any disagreement.] You'll need to tell me what happened to you first. You're not in a state to go anywhere.
[And how familiar this action is, rising up, reaching for the complicated fastenings of Laurent's sleeve — how they had met like this once, in a street somewhere else, and Laurent was wounded in a different, visible way. It is much easier to use two hands to untangle the strings and peel back fabric, eyes on that flushed face. There is no hatred or disdain in the intensity of his stare.]
no subject
The books are a refuge, then, though he does not look further into the motive behind Laurent's choice, whether it is intentional or negligent. He reads at every spare moment. He learns more of Vere, its geography and history both alien to him, but worthwhile knowledge to have; he studies the nature of this unfamiliar world as a student cast unfairly into the thick of it. He has no choice. Part of him, too, wants to know more for the sake of a deep curiosity — one centered on a man who has decided to ignore his existence. Each late night, half against his will, Sasuke starts at the quiet sound of the door; his head turns to watch the slender figure cross the room to the bed, silhouetted by warm lamps, golden hair and pale skin, untouchable. He never successfully falls back asleep. Those quiet, crawling hours near dawn see his heart too quick in his chest for rest.
Until one night. The chain clatters as it loosens, unspools, and he is free, but he doesn't dare move. Dark eyes watch Laurent's graceless, stumbling display. Something is wrong. He knows it even before gilded cups roll across the rug at their feet.]
'Attend you'. [The words are an echo, brow furrowed in the uncertainty of that request. He's still assessing Laurent, whose speech is too articulate to suggest inebriation. It's enough to look past the rest of it; it's not killing he has imagined, at least not of Laurent, but the mention of a banquet stops any disagreement.] You'll need to tell me what happened to you first. You're not in a state to go anywhere.
[And how familiar this action is, rising up, reaching for the complicated fastenings of Laurent's sleeve — how they had met like this once, in a street somewhere else, and Laurent was wounded in a different, visible way. It is much easier to use two hands to untangle the strings and peel back fabric, eyes on that flushed face. There is no hatred or disdain in the intensity of his stare.]