Re: Ocean's Eleven
[Yeah, no, there was no window there. So, Daniel more or less just let his hand fall, clammed up, and turned to stare at bland paint and blander bulk art (featuring a cactus) like a fucking weirdo, or, yk, like a barely recovering alcoholic trapped in a hospital room the size of a giant's shoebox, while simultaneously and very poetically trapped in his own self-made, oh, so dramatic cocoon of guilt, trying to look all cool and uncaring, wistful even, by staring off in one direction of a room that held about zero vistas to contemplate all wise-like. Under fluorescent lights, the man's face was blanched a translucent white, his eyelashes long and black.
Lin studied him, from the blue continuation of veins to tubes and wiring. His own eyes were a calculating black, a sharp stone sparking against flint under a sweep of thick lashes as he considered the man of the man's profile, the sink of his eyes in exhaustion, the dryness of his lips in purled pink. The boy unfurled his legs, letting his toes brush the ground in a smudge of rubber. He moved then to try to recline on the bed without tripping any of the machinery hookups, arm under his head as the thing was propped up to allow Daniel to sit, and his knees against the man's thighs, his own breath warm on the bare skin of his bicep.
With newly purple nails, he picked at the blanket that separated them, pulling away stray hairs and giving himself something to do with the jitter of energy that continued to strafe through him.] I think sometimes you did, [he said finally in his deep voice, eyes trained on the tongs of his fingers and away from Daniel's face.] I think destruction is the name of the game. [He smiled at nothing.]