[ It is only at night that Ryo considers the quiet of the courtyard.
When fleeting terrors brush at his elbow, settle in the silence about him — he finds himself out here, doors pushed open to the dim and the cobble, barefoot and restless as sits at the threshold without the persistence of spies chasing every last and dreary thought.
He's slept little since their arrival, his dreams laden with the scent and sound of ichor and the absence of a steady hand — the only voice he knows to trust. He's slept little for months, but the impact on blood and bone is gradual. The day done, there is no longer need to disguise the weariness that curves him over his raises knees, presses his cheek against them. There's no need to not to consider smoking what little left he has, if it means that his return to rest (should he manage it) would be dreamless, free from brimstone or the endless cast of light — so bright that it made him flinch and shudder upon awakening.
Still, he supposes he is not the only one among them that is on edge. He watches shapes move across the courtyard, but this is nothing new. What is, is the fact there's one approaching him and he recognizes it as likely a recruit, though he keeps aware of them even when they stop, body uncoiling and back straightening by muscle memory. He glances directly at them, no matter the discomfort it brings, tension in the line of his shoulders as Ryo flicks ash off the cherry of his smoke with a languid roll of his wrist. His eyes are dark and focused beneath the sweep of his lashes. ]
What? [ Even against the muted edge, there's something too aware about him. ]
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this is your brain. this is your brain on spiderland.
When fleeting terrors brush at his elbow, settle in the silence about him — he finds himself out here, doors pushed open to the dim and the cobble, barefoot and restless as sits at the threshold without the persistence of spies chasing every last and dreary thought.
He's slept little since their arrival, his dreams laden with the scent and sound of ichor and the absence of a steady hand — the only voice he knows to trust. He's slept little for months, but the impact on blood and bone is gradual. The day done, there is no longer need to disguise the weariness that curves him over his raises knees, presses his cheek against them. There's no need to not to consider smoking what little left he has, if it means that his return to rest (should he manage it) would be dreamless, free from brimstone or the endless cast of light — so bright that it made him flinch and shudder upon awakening.
Still, he supposes he is not the only one among them that is on edge. He watches shapes move across the courtyard, but this is nothing new. What is, is the fact there's one approaching him and he recognizes it as likely a recruit, though he keeps aware of them even when they stop, body uncoiling and back straightening by muscle memory. He glances directly at them, no matter the discomfort it brings, tension in the line of his shoulders as Ryo flicks ash off the cherry of his smoke with a languid roll of his wrist. His eyes are dark and focused beneath the sweep of his lashes. ]
What? [ Even against the muted edge, there's something too aware about him. ]