[He lifts a hand casually, as though waving the suggestion off. Ryo can take his words and spin them however he wants, claim he doth protest too much or any number of references that Shinjiro won't recognize or care about. His life is protesting, be it in earnest or just as token show of being contrary, carving out a space for himself in a million small nuisances to everyone else.]
Nah, I don't. But I'm sure it's something bullshit.
[The dealer shows, and Shinjiro wishes he had something to do with his hands and eyes aside from dig at the pilling fabric in his pockets and watch the subtle exchange. He's not sure if it's more or less overt, given that all the currency exchanges happen in their minds here, everything tied into the bit of metal and wiring nestled snug inside their skulls, but he's sure that no one around them particularly cares. It's a club, and everyone is wrapped up in themselves and their own cocoon of noise and body heat and drink and drugs. A casually-dressed guy stopping over for a quick exchange is nothing.
And then Ryo is talking again, because of course he is. He's either in love with his own voice, or just terrified of the absence of it- and before he can admit that, no, he's not dabbled in any allegedly fun drugs, the other teen has him pegged. Of course he wouldn't be. Bliss, chemical or otherwise, is anathema to Shinjiro Aragaki.]
...You're right, I ain't. Most of the shit I took back home just fucked me up. [And not even a crazy high fuck up-- more a painful, slowly-body-killing fuck up of shoving more and more poison to suppress his very soul, leaving him shivering in the heat of the summer and waiting to die. But that's not an explanation he's ever likely to give.
He reaches out for his water, fingers leaving streaks against the condensation beading across the outside of the glass.] Benefit? What, you'd rather it just kill you? [It's dry, without any tint of concern-- but perhaps a tinge of curiosity.] 'Cause you could just do that, unless you get off on leaving it up to fate.
no subject
Nah, I don't. But I'm sure it's something bullshit.
[The dealer shows, and Shinjiro wishes he had something to do with his hands and eyes aside from dig at the pilling fabric in his pockets and watch the subtle exchange. He's not sure if it's more or less overt, given that all the currency exchanges happen in their minds here, everything tied into the bit of metal and wiring nestled snug inside their skulls, but he's sure that no one around them particularly cares. It's a club, and everyone is wrapped up in themselves and their own cocoon of noise and body heat and drink and drugs. A casually-dressed guy stopping over for a quick exchange is nothing.
And then Ryo is talking again, because of course he is. He's either in love with his own voice, or just terrified of the absence of it- and before he can admit that, no, he's not dabbled in any allegedly fun drugs, the other teen has him pegged. Of course he wouldn't be. Bliss, chemical or otherwise, is anathema to Shinjiro Aragaki.]
...You're right, I ain't. Most of the shit I took back home just fucked me up. [And not even a crazy high fuck up-- more a painful, slowly-body-killing fuck up of shoving more and more poison to suppress his very soul, leaving him shivering in the heat of the summer and waiting to die. But that's not an explanation he's ever likely to give.
He reaches out for his water, fingers leaving streaks against the condensation beading across the outside of the glass.] Benefit? What, you'd rather it just kill you? [It's dry, without any tint of concern-- but perhaps a tinge of curiosity.] 'Cause you could just do that, unless you get off on leaving it up to fate.