[ the chair creaks faintly, wooden feet scraping against the bare part of the floor not covered by the rug (bright, cheery, with a pattern threaded yellow and green through red; he'd asked for a cheerful room) as vash shifts his weight. he's sitting astride as he is usually wont to do when he's feeling awkward or nervous or apprehensive or all of the above - with both the elbows up on the backrest, resting his chin against his arms as he looks from wolfwood, to the trinkets on the shelves, to the window, and then back again as though he expects the other to have disappeared in that scant gap of time.
finally, he cracks a smile; hesitant and tired, with his eyes drooping more than usual with effort. ]
Wanna get some rest? We can talk in the morning?
[ considerate as ever; but it's as much selfishness for himself as it is for wolfwood, trying to slide out again. ]
not that wolfwood is picky. they've slept in enough shithole motel rooms to fill a travel magazine, and this is far from the worst of them-- the lack of sand in every crevice is a strong point in the inn's favor alone. but there's something nauseating about it, the saccharine colors and knick-knacks, like a pasted-on grin smearing under the overwarm, yellowed lamp light.
speaking of pasted-on grins... vash is pretty good at conjuring them up, even if the rest of his face tells the real story all too well. a scowl pulls at wolfwood's mouth, counterweight to vash's smile, and he scoffs as he plunks himself down onto the bed. figures. he thought he'd never see vash again, and here he is, already trying to wiggle out of the conversation. it's wolfwood, so he refuses to take the bait. ]
I ain't tired, 'n I don't wanna talk in the morning. Get comfortable.
[ wolfwood fishes in his pocket and comes up with a pack of cigarettes, already short a few lights. he tips one out, tucks it between his lips, but doesn't light it. just savors the feeling of it in his mouth for a moment. it's the most familiar thing in this whole place. he pulls the cig back out between two fingers and points at vash with the unlit tip. ]
What is this place? How'd we get here? Is this... [ wolfwood pauses, gaze flicking to the side for half a beat-- tiptoeing around what he really should say, my fault-- ] 'cause of yer brother?
[ of course he refuses to take the bait, digging his heels in until there are grooves marked out on the ground beneath - it's wolfwood.
he should have expected it, maybe, but it's been a long time, he isn't quite used to it anymore, somehow, having those dark glowering eyes fixed on him again, vaguely accusatory as always. with a start, vash realises that all the seasons (ones he'd only read about in books and watched through the small bluetinted screen of the tablets) have run through their courses and it's back to bare branches and bone-chilling winds that gust through between the buildings. pretty soon, it'll start snowing - his second ever.
his smile feels brittle, thinned out and shiny worn, even to him; like a piece of toma saddle left out forgotten on a fence to dry out in the sun too long, but he holds on stubbornly anyway, the chair creaking beneath his weight as he rocks, tipping his ankle until something clicks through the familiar ache of it being pulled too tight. ]
It's called Aldrip. [ better to start bluntly, matching the other's disposition. ] And no, it's not ... at least, I don't think so.
He was here for a little bit, too.
[ the words are meant to be casual, sounds casual enough to his ears as he drops them like pebbles down a well, and vash smiles again - eyes crinkling in a determined, stubborn way. ]
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action; late oct, early nov?
[ the chair creaks faintly, wooden feet scraping against the bare part of the floor not covered by the rug (bright, cheery, with a pattern threaded yellow and green through red; he'd asked for a cheerful room) as vash shifts his weight. he's sitting astride as he is usually wont to do when he's feeling awkward or nervous or apprehensive or all of the above - with both the elbows up on the backrest, resting his chin against his arms as he looks from wolfwood, to the trinkets on the shelves, to the window, and then back again as though he expects the other to have disappeared in that scant gap of time.
finally, he cracks a smile; hesitant and tired, with his eyes drooping more than usual with effort. ]
Wanna get some rest? We can talk in the morning?
[ considerate as ever; but it's as much selfishness for himself as it is for wolfwood, trying to slide out again. ]
no subject
not that wolfwood is picky. they've slept in enough shithole motel rooms to fill a travel magazine, and this is far from the worst of them-- the lack of sand in every crevice is a strong point in the inn's favor alone. but there's something nauseating about it, the saccharine colors and knick-knacks, like a pasted-on grin smearing under the overwarm, yellowed lamp light.
speaking of pasted-on grins... vash is pretty good at conjuring them up, even if the rest of his face tells the real story all too well. a scowl pulls at wolfwood's mouth, counterweight to vash's smile, and he scoffs as he plunks himself down onto the bed. figures. he thought he'd never see vash again, and here he is, already trying to wiggle out of the conversation. it's wolfwood, so he refuses to take the bait. ]
I ain't tired, 'n I don't wanna talk in the morning. Get comfortable.
[ wolfwood fishes in his pocket and comes up with a pack of cigarettes, already short a few lights. he tips one out, tucks it between his lips, but doesn't light it. just savors the feeling of it in his mouth for a moment. it's the most familiar thing in this whole place. he pulls the cig back out between two fingers and points at vash with the unlit tip. ]
What is this place? How'd we get here? Is this... [ wolfwood pauses, gaze flicking to the side for half a beat-- tiptoeing around what he really should say, my fault-- ] 'cause of yer brother?
no subject
he should have expected it, maybe, but it's been a long time, he isn't quite used to it anymore, somehow, having those dark glowering eyes fixed on him again, vaguely accusatory as always. with a start, vash realises that all the seasons (ones he'd only read about in books and watched through the small bluetinted screen of the tablets) have run through their courses and it's back to bare branches and bone-chilling winds that gust through between the buildings. pretty soon, it'll start snowing - his second ever.
his smile feels brittle, thinned out and shiny worn, even to him; like a piece of toma saddle left out forgotten on a fence to dry out in the sun too long, but he holds on stubbornly anyway, the chair creaking beneath his weight as he rocks, tipping his ankle until something clicks through the familiar ache of it being pulled too tight. ]
It's called Aldrip. [ better to start bluntly, matching the other's disposition. ] And no, it's not ... at least, I don't think so.
He was here for a little bit, too.
[ the words are meant to be casual, sounds casual enough to his ears as he drops them like pebbles down a well, and vash smiles again - eyes crinkling in a determined, stubborn way. ]