[If he was truly living in squalor, maybe Takasugi would regard his conditions with more familiarity. Sleeping in a row of bodies, some of which turn to corpses in the night, he'd been calmer. More exhausted, falling dreamless and waking to frantic movement so common the urgency had drained from it; there's life in that existence.
Here, he has nothing more than the way the misty Wyver sun splays over the grime of his windows, painting pictures in shadow that gouges deep into the floorboards. Everything is still, the dusty too heavy to disrupt as he passes through.
Not comfortable.
Not uncomfortable.
Adrift.
Having another share that space with him doesn't imbue him with any purpose, it doesn't make the hovel open up into some quaint dwelling to be shared.
But he isn't bored.
Solomon's complaining sounds suspiciously dulled. If he's on the cusp of sympathy, Takasugi doesn't want it. He'll spit in the face of anything other than inane criticisms, and questions that are on the brink of understanding something.
Teetering on the precipice of knowing each other, but not-
Annoying.
Everything about the bastard is annoying.
There's life in hatred, even the most diluted sort.
Takasugi's arm twitches, instinct to jerk away quelled by alcohol or by a desire he doesn't care to recognize. He curls his grip into the man's, pulling him closer, bringing their linked hands to his lips.
He bites more than he kisses, dragging teeth and lip over knuckles.]
no subject
Here, he has nothing more than the way the misty Wyver sun splays over the grime of his windows, painting pictures in shadow that gouges deep into the floorboards. Everything is still, the dusty too heavy to disrupt as he passes through.
Not comfortable.
Not uncomfortable.
Adrift.
Having another share that space with him doesn't imbue him with any purpose, it doesn't make the hovel open up into some quaint dwelling to be shared.
But he isn't bored.
Solomon's complaining sounds suspiciously dulled. If he's on the cusp of sympathy, Takasugi doesn't want it. He'll spit in the face of anything other than inane criticisms, and questions that are on the brink of understanding something.
Teetering on the precipice of knowing each other, but not-
Annoying.
Everything about the bastard is annoying.
There's life in hatred, even the most diluted sort.
Takasugi's arm twitches, instinct to jerk away quelled by alcohol or by a desire he doesn't care to recognize. He curls his grip into the man's, pulling him closer, bringing their linked hands to his lips.
He bites more than he kisses, dragging teeth and lip over knuckles.]
It's good enough for fucking. [Romancé.]