[ There's always been something off about the two of them.
Whether it be the contrast or combination — the jury was out on it, but it Ryo takes Shinjiro's grumblings as nothing more than that. He'd become accustomed to the progressive discontent toward his nature, fostered by nurture and bred against environment. In a world that desired to devour him whole, what else was left to do except claw and scrabble and throw the weight of your own body against ineffable and ultimate inevitability? Might as well enjoy what little was left to enjoy as he and Akira dug their heels in against the insurmountable odds that rounded in against them. It didn't matter that Ryo often woke up terrified, that he often didn't recognize day from night, that all that could have been hurt him more than all that was. It hardly mattered at all, that all that he ever loved was stripped from him — except Akira. Except that one, lone exception.
And at the end of the day, in this future that made no sense at all to him, who gave a shit?
Humans love death as much as they hate it. Ryo isn't anything new. If his consciousness could be struck down by artificial bliss, even if just for a little while, then who was he to deny it? To forget was less painful than remembering and Ryo has forgotten more than he could ever conceive of forgetting. ]
Don't tell me you're protesting, [ Ryo lulls, though the mischief stays beneath. His nails clip into the seams of the booth. The faux leather feels as cheap as it suggests beneath his fingertips and he thinks of the talons he'd pulled from his chest. Sirene had been beautiful, as vicious as she was. She loved, as much as he claimed that demons had no capacity to. He thinks — he shakes his head. Or, perhaps, it's a pale imitation of it. In the strobed light, it cuts motion still and lengthwise. Like a flip-book or the rapid blinking of eyes, Ryo moves faster and smoother than the senses can suggest.
He peels up an edge of the cushion, head turning to frenetic sea of bodies. It smells of salt and sex and alcohol, the barest hint of Ryo's gunpowder underneath. ] You know what they say about doing that too much.
[ It'd be funny to any who knew him better that Ryo doesn't startle or straighten as one body breaks free of the crowd. He's a tall man, dressed in a way that suggests he'd hope he'd blend in, but he does it too well. As a result, in the glitz in the glam, he stands out. He dips by Ryo's closest ear and Ryo doesn't smile. He doesn't wear much expression at all, as he tilts his chin up and opens a palm.
He's done this so many times before, that Ryo knows just when to look up at the dealer through the thick of his lashes and convince him he'll get the money back to him. In the end, he never does. Why bother, when he knows how to get it for cheap or nothing at all? He considers it a talent.
The exchange is over almost as soon as it begins. Ryo's palm closes and the man departs with a lingering touch at his wrist. Ryo's gaze hardens and that too is quickly extinguished before Ryo's twisting back to Shinjiro, revealing his spoils with the outward bloom of his fingers. They're small pills, compressed and refractory in this light. They look like anything you'd find in a medicine aisle, if not for the insignia imprinted on their topside.
It's a halo.
Ryo lifts one to his lips and swallows it, chases it with the last dregs of alcohol that Shinjiro'd poured for him. He doesn't wince. ]
Are you familiar with MDMA? [ He pockets the rest and leans forward, the tops of his cheekbones brushing against the high collar of his coat. He rests his elbows against his knees, but his attention doesn't settle directly on him. His eyes, as always, seem to be averse to meeting anyone else's. But, then he's talking again, almost as if he's reconsidered. ] No, of course you wouldn't be. [ Ryo takes a breath. His tongue tingles. It feels full, almost numb. ] MDMA is the technical term for ecstasy. Research suggests that its secondary effects are close to the calm it eventually gives. [ He blinks once. It's been about four minutes, he thinks. He has another sixteen to get this out. But, his mouth quirks in a way that suggests he isn't going to be that merciful already. His mind is already erring toward its typical bravado and difficulty, a need to be abrasive in all the ways a seventeen-year-old can be.
The blue of his eyes, when they settle again on Shinji, are almost glassy. ] Provided it isn't rat poison. But, at this point, that might be a benefit.
[ He never said his sense of humor wasn't questionable at best. ]
no subject
Whether it be the contrast or combination — the jury was out on it, but it Ryo takes Shinjiro's grumblings as nothing more than that. He'd become accustomed to the progressive discontent toward his nature, fostered by nurture and bred against environment. In a world that desired to devour him whole, what else was left to do except claw and scrabble and throw the weight of your own body against ineffable and ultimate inevitability? Might as well enjoy what little was left to enjoy as he and Akira dug their heels in against the insurmountable odds that rounded in against them. It didn't matter that Ryo often woke up terrified, that he often didn't recognize day from night, that all that could have been hurt him more than all that was. It hardly mattered at all, that all that he ever loved was stripped from him — except Akira. Except that one, lone exception.
And at the end of the day, in this future that made no sense at all to him, who gave a shit?
Humans love death as much as they hate it. Ryo isn't anything new. If his consciousness could be struck down by artificial bliss, even if just for a little while, then who was he to deny it? To forget was less painful than remembering and Ryo has forgotten more than he could ever conceive of forgetting. ]
Don't tell me you're protesting, [ Ryo lulls, though the mischief stays beneath. His nails clip into the seams of the booth. The faux leather feels as cheap as it suggests beneath his fingertips and he thinks of the talons he'd pulled from his chest. Sirene had been beautiful, as vicious as she was. She loved, as much as he claimed that demons had no capacity to. He thinks — he shakes his head. Or, perhaps, it's a pale imitation of it. In the strobed light, it cuts motion still and lengthwise. Like a flip-book or the rapid blinking of eyes, Ryo moves faster and smoother than the senses can suggest.
He peels up an edge of the cushion, head turning to frenetic sea of bodies. It smells of salt and sex and alcohol, the barest hint of Ryo's gunpowder underneath. ] You know what they say about doing that too much.
[ It'd be funny to any who knew him better that Ryo doesn't startle or straighten as one body breaks free of the crowd. He's a tall man, dressed in a way that suggests he'd hope he'd blend in, but he does it too well. As a result, in the glitz in the glam, he stands out. He dips by Ryo's closest ear and Ryo doesn't smile. He doesn't wear much expression at all, as he tilts his chin up and opens a palm.
He's done this so many times before, that Ryo knows just when to look up at the dealer through the thick of his lashes and convince him he'll get the money back to him. In the end, he never does. Why bother, when he knows how to get it for cheap or nothing at all? He considers it a talent.
The exchange is over almost as soon as it begins. Ryo's palm closes and the man departs with a lingering touch at his wrist. Ryo's gaze hardens and that too is quickly extinguished before Ryo's twisting back to Shinjiro, revealing his spoils with the outward bloom of his fingers. They're small pills, compressed and refractory in this light. They look like anything you'd find in a medicine aisle, if not for the insignia imprinted on their topside.
It's a halo.
Ryo lifts one to his lips and swallows it, chases it with the last dregs of alcohol that Shinjiro'd poured for him. He doesn't wince. ]
Are you familiar with MDMA? [ He pockets the rest and leans forward, the tops of his cheekbones brushing against the high collar of his coat. He rests his elbows against his knees, but his attention doesn't settle directly on him. His eyes, as always, seem to be averse to meeting anyone else's. But, then he's talking again, almost as if he's reconsidered. ] No, of course you wouldn't be. [ Ryo takes a breath. His tongue tingles. It feels full, almost numb. ] MDMA is the technical term for ecstasy. Research suggests that its secondary effects are close to the calm it eventually gives. [ He blinks once. It's been about four minutes, he thinks. He has another sixteen to get this out. But, his mouth quirks in a way that suggests he isn't going to be that merciful already. His mind is already erring toward its typical bravado and difficulty, a need to be abrasive in all the ways a seventeen-year-old can be.
The blue of his eyes, when they settle again on Shinji, are almost glassy. ] Provided it isn't rat poison. But, at this point, that might be a benefit.
[ He never said his sense of humor wasn't questionable at best. ]