| [Nov. 30th, 2008|06:35 pm] |
Ryouma nodded jerkily. There wasn't much else you could say to that, after all. I'm glad he doesn't see it the way you do? If Tsume had flashbacks, she didn't mention them. She didn't cry in the night. She slept without drugs. That didn't mean she was lucky the way Kuromaru was.
He sipped his coffee--black and bitter, no sugar at all--and tried not to look down at her hand on his knee.
After a while, she took it away.
They dressed in as near silence as two people in a small apartment could manage. Ryouma cut himself shaving. He pressed his thumb against his jaw until the bleeding stopped, wiped away the red trail down his neck, and picked up his razor again. The eyes in the mirror stared straight through him.
If he pretended he was scraping the razor blade down someone else's throat, it went a little easier.
Tsume was pacing--rattling between four walls like a marble in a matchbox--when he hobbled out of the bathroom again. "Sorry," he said, before he remembered he wasn't apologizing; he hadn't been sure if he'd be able to stop, once he started. He blotted the back of his hand against his jaw. "I'm set." |
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