[Barely edible food whose description nonetheless turns an empty stomach, further pushed from an appetite he's felt little in the haze of sleepless hours now stretched across these last few days. Hunger feels as phantom as the resurgent memories of pain and violence plaguing him, and which is truly better than the dreams of sexual intimacy with men he doesn't know? In this place, his rank is so low as to be forgotten; he could lose himself in the haunted hallways beneath this twisted place and never emerge, and no one would miss him.
Sasuke is standing by an open locker that contains basic essentials: a long-sleeved shirt, bottled water, spare unwrapped bandage, a key card to a closet-of-a-room, one white towel hung on a hook. When he hears that question asked, his right hand snaps the locker-door closed so hard that it clangs, metal on the latch, palm flat to the grated exterior. The noise is harsh in the sterile room. His head turns—there is something in his gaze that churns darkly paranoid, that he is unable to reason away.
Does this man know his thoughts, his dreams? Or, more realistically, it is just another consequence of the environment. Another one playing the game.
The cigarette glows gold on the tiled floor. Sasuke moves over and steps on it, bare heel crushing the hot-charred butt, pain like a candle on his skin easily absorbed. Then he picks it up and tosses it into the trashcan.]
I'm not interested in that, so don't waste your time with me.
[Discomfort shores up in Sasuke's body, already rigid beneath the weight of tension he carries as he approaches the blocked doorway. Their difference in height, more pronounced when standing, irritates him unexpectedly—anger brews despite his resolve not to show it.]
no subject
Sasuke is standing by an open locker that contains basic essentials: a long-sleeved shirt, bottled water, spare unwrapped bandage, a key card to a closet-of-a-room, one white towel hung on a hook. When he hears that question asked, his right hand snaps the locker-door closed so hard that it clangs, metal on the latch, palm flat to the grated exterior. The noise is harsh in the sterile room. His head turns—there is something in his gaze that churns darkly paranoid, that he is unable to reason away.
Does this man know his thoughts, his dreams? Or, more realistically, it is just another consequence of the environment. Another one playing the game.
The cigarette glows gold on the tiled floor. Sasuke moves over and steps on it, bare heel crushing the hot-charred butt, pain like a candle on his skin easily absorbed. Then he picks it up and tosses it into the trashcan.]
I'm not interested in that, so don't waste your time with me.
[Discomfort shores up in Sasuke's body, already rigid beneath the weight of tension he carries as he approaches the blocked doorway. Their difference in height, more pronounced when standing, irritates him unexpectedly—anger brews despite his resolve not to show it.]
You're in the way. Move.